A Mother For His Family. Susanne Dietze

      “Say yes, please.” Gemma brushed rain from the epaulettes of her spencer.

      Helena sighed and nodded. The gentleman’s arms went underneath her, swooping her from the ground. He’d carried her out of the ha-ha before she realized her face pressed against his spice-and-starch-scented lapels. A rather nice smell.

      She jerked her head back. How improper to notice such a thing.

      The gentleman peeked at her. “How did you fall down there?” There it was again. Doon. Would Helena speak like that soon, too?

      “Clumsiness, I fear.”

      “No doubt the boys were with you.” With steady steps, he marched to a black, white-socked gelding grazing a few yards distant. She might have been a sack of corn seed for all the intimacy of the act. “I’ll put you on the horse, if you dinnae mind.”

      What she minded was encountering him in this sorry state, but ah well. She’d left her pride back in London. “Thank you for your assistance.”

      With no noticeable difficulty, he adjusted her in his arms and hoisted her into the saddle. She landed square on the horse’s back, although it was an uncomfortable fit, sitting sideways on the standard saddle. It was far more suitable, however, than being carried in his arms all the way back to the house.

      Although he had been everything proper. Even now, he looked away when she adjusted her sullied gown and cloak over her legs. It proved no easy task, for the drenched muslin of her gown clung to her damp undergarments, which stuck to her limbs, revealing the curves of her legs. And her cloak did not reach her ankles.

      Mama would swoon at the sight.

      Her rescuer removed his blue coat and held it up to her. It was on her tongue to refuse, but his expression brooked no argument. His eyes were soft, though. And such a nice shade of green, like the underside of a new leaf.

      She unclasped her cloak and draped it over her legs like a blanket. Then she pulled his wool coat over her shoulders, at once enveloped in welcome warmth and his spicy smell.

      “Thank you.” Did he realize she meant it for more than his coat?

      He nodded, then turned to Gemma. “Are you able to walk back, Mrs. Knox?”

      “Oh, yes.” She tucked her hand into his elbow. “What an exciting day.”

      Did Helena imagine it, or did the gentleman glance at her and smile? The evidence vanished as if washed by the raindrops pelting from the leaden sky. With a click of his tongue, he urged the horse to a walk.

      “In my haste, I did not wait for a proper introduction.” He tilted his head to Gemma. “Perhaps you would be so kind, ma’am?”

      Gemma’s hand flew to her face. “I beg your pardon. In all the activity, I forgot.”

      She then spoke his name, but Helena had guessed it the moment he appeared. How many landed neighbors of a certain age did Tavin and Gemma possess? His name was familiar to her. She had spent the past two weeks clinging to it like the rail of a rotting bridge over a turbulent river. Clutching it because, while she didn’t quite trust its safety, it was the one hope she had to get to the other side.

      He was John Gordon, the Lord Ardoch. The stranger she had come here to marry.

      * * *

      In less than an hour John Gordon, Lord Ardoch, had returned home, changed into dry clothes and ridden back to his neighbor Knox’s house, and been shown with all haste into the blue-papered drawing room. Not one of his London cohorts in Parliament would dare call him inefficient, and if ever a matter demanded expediency, this was it. The task ahead was critical.

      Unfortunately, it was also distasteful. Not the marriage, exactly, but the other part. Coming to terms with Lady Helena Stanhope’s father.

      “And the deed can be accomplished by when?” The powerful Duke of Kelworth stopped pacing a trail into the thick Aubusson rug and leveled John with a glare. Other men quaked under such a stare during parliamentary discussions at Westminster. But not John, which perhaps accounted for Kelworth’s bristling manner toward him.

      His future father-in-law. He stifled a grin. His peers in Parliament would drop a collective jaw when they found out John had married Kelworth’s daughter. Romeo and Juliet made a less surprising match.

      “I must post the Banns first, Your Grace.” John sipped his coffee. Bitter, as he liked it.

      “That will take too long.” Kelworth shoved thinning blond hair from his broad brow in an impatient gesture. “This is Scotland. Marriages are performed by blacksmiths and butchers. Can’t the deed be done today?”

      The deed, as if his daughter’s marriage to him was naught but a transaction. Most dukes expected a better match for their eldest daughter than John, true. No doubt Kelworth would have preferred a Tory, too.

      “It could, but your daughter deserves better, and I’ve my own bairns to consider. A wedding in the kirk is best for everyone. I’ll make special arrangements for all the Banns to be read at once during divine services this Sunday, and we can be married Monday.” He set his coffee on the filigreed table. “By this time next week, it will be over.”

      For better or for worse.

      A pinprick of guilt needled John. He was betraying his late wife’s wishes by marrying again—she’d never said those precise words, but he’d understood her meaning. Catriona would understand him marrying this way, though, wouldn’t she? Because it was not for love?

      A brief knock on the door drew their gazes. The butler opened the door, admitting a rush of cool from the hall and a wide-eyed Lady Helena. “Forgive my intrusion.”

      John hopped to his feet. Kelworth stood, too. “No intrusion, daughter. The matter is settled. Ardoch is on his way out.”

      “I should like an audience with him before he leaves.” Her words were for her father, but her clear gaze fixed on John.

      “Well, then.” Kelworth started to sit down.

      “A private one.” Her thumbs fidgeted.

      “I should be honored, Lady Helena.” John was eight-and-twenty, no green lad, but the idea of being alone with Lady Helena sent his heart thunking in his chest.

      Kelworth’s brows met in a fierce line and his face purpled, like he had choice words to sputter. Instead he succumbed to a fit of coughing.

      John stepped forward. “Your Grace?”

      Helena rushed toward him, wincing with each step. “Papa—”

      “I’m well. Don’t fuss.” A few more coughs, and Kelworth’s coloring returned to its normal hue. He stepped away from Helena’s outstretched hand, avoiding both of their gazes. “Five minutes.”

      The moment the door shut behind Kelworth with a soft click, Helena hobbled toward John. He hastened to her side, arm extended. “Mayhap you shouldn’t be walking yet.” His wife would have stayed in bed for a week or more after taking a fall. But Helena was not Catriona, was she?

      He shoved the dangerous thought aside and assisted Helena into the fireside chair vacated by her father.

      “I’m already much better. ’twas just a twist.” She’d changed clothing since her tumble into the ha-ha, and her high-neck gown of white covered her, throat to wrist. She looked the model of modesty.

      Something they both knew to be an overstatement.

      He pitied her and her mistaken choice to trust the wrong gentleman, and it was clear from her demeanor that she regretted it. But here she was, paying the price, without tears or wailing, and he couldn’t help but admire her resolve. He took the seat beside her.

      “How may I put you at ease?”

      “You already have, more than you know. Agreeing to a, er, convenient marriage to me, sight unseen?”

      In