“I don’t know about that. But I love you so much I’d do anything to make you happy.” He bent and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Being with you every day makes me happy.”
He sat down on the bed beside her as the midwife placed his daughter in Flora’s eager arms.
“I hope you didn’t waste your time while I was working hard to bring these two into the world. Tell me the names you have selected.”
Just then there was a knock at the door and Connor’s head poked round the door. As he saw his father and Flora with the babes the concern on his face vanished.
“Come and meet your brother and sister,” Dougray called.
When Connor reached his side he handed the young man his newborn son.
“You’re part of this family,” Flora said. “What do you think we should name them? Your father seems to be tongue tied.”
Connor held the wee baby as if he might crush it. “He’s so tiny.” He looked at Flora. “I can truly suggest his name?” She nodded. Connor thought on it for a while. “He has your fair hair, Flora, but I think he’s going to grow up to be big and strong like me. I think he should be called Finlay.”
Flora smiled. “That is a very apt name for him, it means white warrior.”
Meanwhile Dougray had scooped his daughter into his arms and she settled happily against his chest. “Then we shall name my daughter, Fiona, my white princess.”
Mary, Angus, and Stuart joined them all and the room reverberated with the sounds of happiness.
It wasn’t until Dougray noticed Flora could barely keep her eyes open that he organized the wet nurse and midwife to take the babes and he shooed everyone out of the room.
He clambered onto the bed beside her and gently pulled her into his arms. “Sleep, my beauty. You’ve earned it. I’m so proud of you. You were so brave and determined.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead.
Her eyes fluttered close as sleep beckoned but he heard her soft words. “Thank you for being brave enough to love me. You have given me the dream we talked about all those years ago. I have you by my side, the love of my life, and now I have a baby. My babies. Our babies! Even if I cannot have any more children I am more than content.”
He snuggled down and felt his eyes flutter closed too. He was tired but happy. So happy he thought his heart would burst. But before sleep and dreams of his family consumed him, he thanked God for putting a woman like Flora in this world. A woman who proved that with faith, and a lot of courage, love will truly conquer all.
THE END
ABOUT BRON
USA Today bestselling author, Bronwen Evans grew up loving books. She writes both historical and contemporary sexy romances for the modern woman who likes intelligent, spirited heroines, and compassionate alpha heroes. Evans is a three-time winner of the RomCon Readers’ Crown and has been nominated for a RT Reviewers’ Choice Award. She lives in Hawke’s Bay, New Zealand with her dogs Brandy and Duke.
You can keep up with Bronwen’s news by visiting her website
and get a FREE book by signing up to her newsletter
Or Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/bronwenevansauthor
Or Twitter: https://twitter.com/bronwenevans_NZ
DUKE IN SEARCH OF A DUCHESS
SEPTEMBER
JENNIFER ASHLEY
PREFACE
The meticulous Duke of Ashford is dismayed when his children inform him they’ve asked the young widow next door to find Ashford a new wife. Ashford can’t think of a more appalling assistant than Helena Courtland, gossipy busybody he steadfastly avoids. But Helena sweeps into his home and his life before he can stop her, turning Ash’s precisely ordered world into a chaotic whirlwind.
CHAPTER 1
PRECISION. Nothing wrong with it.
Ash allowed his walking stick a single swing as he left St. James’s Palace at exactly seven o’clock in the evening and strode up St. James’s Street in the cool September dusk. He bypassed the temples to backroom politics and ruinous games—White’s, Brooke’s, Boodle’s, et cetera—and continued to Piccadilly, crossing the thoroughfare and along to the green space of Berkeley Square.
He walked not only for the exercise but because he knew precisely how long it would take him to reach his front door. No would-be pickpocket or robber accosted him along the way, because none would dream of waylaying Augustine Ferrand, the Duke of Ashford. Even the underworld of London had heard of Ash, and stayed away.
At half past seven on the dot, he entered his domain, and his valet, Edwards, took his hat, coat, and stick.
A meal waited upstairs in the dining room. Ash consumed it in silence, as usual, reading his evening correspondence and his stack of newspapers. The footmen served fish, soup, meat, and greens with flawless efficiency. The butler poured a red wine for the beginning of the meal and a sweet white for its end. Ash would take brandy later, but only after another order of business.
At twenty-five minutes past eight, Ash pushed back his chair, left his papers and letters for Edwards to carry to the library, and climbed the stairs to the nursery.
A chink opened in Ash’s armor when he entered—after tapping politely—to find his oldest son, Lewis, Marquess of Wilsdon, ten years old, standing in the middle of the room.
Ash’s immediate thought, unbidden: He looks so like his mother.
Olivia, gentle, beautiful, of the silver laughter, gone forever. Lily, the youngest, had her laugh. She’d be the mirror of Olivia in a few years.
Ash forced the chink closed. Memories only gutted.
To hide his sudden falter, he pulled out his gold pocket watch. It read the same as the mantel clock, which had chimed twice as he’d entered. “Half past eight. Why are you all not in bed?”
Ash was surprised, not angry. Lewis had adopted Ash’s meticulous schedule without protest and made certain his sisters followed it as well.
The sisters in question, Evie and Lily, peeked out from behind Lewis’s nightshirted back. “Good evening, Papa,” Lily said.
The fog that perpetually surrounded Ash’s life cleared the slightest bit at the sight of his lovely daughters.
At half past eight every evening, Ash entered the nursery, kissed his children good night, and sat between their beds to read a chapter from whatever book they were perusing together. Currently it was The Life and Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, though Ash tended to leave out the more frightening bits. He did not want delicate Evie to have nightmares.
The nanny, chosen for her neat habits and her willingness—indeed, eagerness—to follow Ash’s rules for his offspring, stood rigidly near the bookcase, hands folded. She did not look approving, but she did not intervene, which was interesting. Lewis’s will had obviously prevailed.
“What is this?” Ash asked in more concern. “Are you well?”
“Your Grace,” Lewis said formally. “My sisters and I convened a council.” He stumbled a little over the word convened, but Ash kept his face straight.
“And what did this council discuss?”
Ash expected Lewis, who was growing at an astonishing rate, to ask for his own bedchamber, or for the more adventurous parts of the stories to be left in, or perhaps beefsteak instead of nursery fare. Natural, Ash supposed. He gave Lewis an encouraging look, ready to consider his son’s demands.
Lewis cleared his throat. “It has come to our attention that you, sir, perhaps are … well, perhaps …” He flushed and flicked his gaze away.