Embracing Ashberry by Serenity Everton Page B

walked his sister into the church,
unashamed at the tears pooling in his eyes as he left her to
Edward’s care. The next day, he presented Ellie with her own
betrothal ring, a beautifully wrought piece of gold featuring an
exquisite pear-shaped diamond with two deep green emeralds on each
side.
    “The emeralds remind me of your eyes,” he
whispered, holding the back of her head and kissing each temple.
Her hands trembled, as they always did, when his fingers touched
her, but as he slipped the ring onto her finger both smiled.
Ashberry tenderly brushed each perfect nail with his thumb.
    Ellie’s father was adjusting to the fact
that she would marry, though he and her mother still weren’t
speaking. He had told her two days earlier in a resigned tone that
when she needed to leave Ashberry, she could go to Rose Hill in
Cornwall or return to the London house. In a voice just as
dispassionate, he informed her that Edward would continue managing
her trust, with her allowance delivered quarterly. Ellie swallowed
heavily and nodded, accepting finally that her father could not see
past society’s mores and his own prejudices to welcome his daughter
as she was.
    “I will write to you, Papa,” she promised,
“And tell you how we manage.” Together they entered the Whitney
library to sign the marriage settlements that, as promised, he left
to Lady Whitney and the family’s solicitor. Ellie signed her name
with only a slight shake to the pen. Ashberry’s eyes met hers,
unwaveringly, while Ellie’s father signed his name alongside the
large, bold penmanship of the marquess.
    Later, Ashberry held her hand on his arm and
assured her that he would provide for all her desires—he had not
been bluffing during that painful encounter with her father. “Your
dowry, Ellie,” he had told her tenderly, “And its income, you do
not need. Spend as you please and send your bills to me—save your
allowance, or advise your brother to invest it, for our sons and
daughters.” At her surprised look, his voice had deepened even
further. “I wish more than anything to care for you,” he had
murmured, brushing the back of his hand against her cheek.
“Providing for you myself is simply the most material way of doing
so.”
    Ashberry had kept his word about seeing her
each day, though some days he did not see her until dusk. They did
drive in the park occasionally, typically on Saturdays, and he now
stopped to allow Ellie to discuss her upcoming nuptials with the
few society matrons who remained in London.
    More often, he would arrive at Ashberry
House as evening came, where he was admitted to the drawing room to
sit and chat with Ellie or discuss wedding arrangements with her
mother and his aunt before the dinner hour. Occasionally, he would
be permitted to draw her out of doors through the frozen garden and
sit with her in the conservatory, affording them a few minutes of
private conservation though both knew they were never truly out of
sight of the staff.
    The conversations varied, from the political
to mundane preparations for their new life. Upon hearing that Ellie
did not have her own maid, Ashberry hired one for his new wife, a
young woman named Wendy who had served Caroline before her wedding.
She was already installed at Ashberry House, having never left
after Caroline married but helping instead to prepare the new
marchioness’ apartment.
    Murmurs of war against France were already
being heard at Westminster and both young lady and lord read the
stories of French refugees published in the London papers. “What
would we fight for?” Ellie asked one day, her voice morose at the
devastation of the life she remembered in France.
    “I don’t know,” the marquess answered
honestly, his heart aching for her pain. “The nobility has been
forced to flee for only their lives, as what they knew of rank and
privilege are gone.” He had sighed and squeezed her hand before
adding, “War will not restore the lives lost or the