Loving Lord Ash Read online

  “Lord Ashton would never turn you out.” Dennis sounded shocked. “I’m sure he’ll find some place for you to stay.” He frowned and looked at Roger. “Though not at the manor. I suppose there will be some changes here.”

  “Exactly,” she said. “Things won’t be as comfortable for anyone at Blackweith if the marquis starts taking an active interest in it.”

  Dennis rubbed the space between his eyebrows, a sure sign he was upset. “It’s true the marquis was quite displeased with me.”

  “He shouldn’t hold you accountable for what he perceives to be my sins,” Roger said, his voice now rough with anger.

  Dennis shook his head. “I’m the estate manager. I’m sure he thinks I shouldn’t let such things go on. Well, I know he feels that way. He told me years ago to keep an eye on Jess and tell him if she was engaging in assignations.”

  “See?” Roger said, looking at Jess. “The marquis is jealous.”

  She couldn’t let herself believe that. “He’s just interested in protecting the succession.”

  Dennis pinched the bridge of his nose. “And he was most displeased that no one was at the door when he arrived.” He looked miserable. “It did make the manor appear poorly managed.”

  “Damnation.” Roger sighed. “I suppose Charlie was on duty.”

  Dennis nodded. “But he was off with Ralph.”

  “You know those two have no sense and less control.”

  “Yes, but they’re young. I was hoping . . .” Dennis let out a long breath. “But now everything will come tumbling down. If the marquis finds out exactly what’s been going on here, we may all be let go . . . or worse.”

  Even Roger was looking glum now.

  “But if you marry me, Roger, you can hide in plain sight. You can return to London and your place in society. Then you can take on Dennis as your secretary or valet or something. You could even hire the rest of the men. No one need know how things really are.”

  “I would not risk having Charlie or Ralph in London,” Roger said.

  “But you could employ Archie and Barnabas and Walter and Philip and any number of the others.”

  Roger looked at Dennis.

  “It might not be a bad idea,” Dennis said, somewhat hopefully.

  “And what would everyone say when there were no children, Jess?” Roger raised his brows. “Or were you hoping I’d manage to give you a child or two?”

  “No, of course not.” She hadn’t thought of children.

  No, she had thought of children—Kit’s children. Warmth curled around her heart....

  Zeus! Kit was going to divorce her. There would be no children, ever. “I have my painting to keep me busy. Children would be a distraction.”

  “But won’t people wonder?” Dennis asked. “Roger will be expected to get an heir.”

  “You’ve heard the rumors. Everyone assumes I’m barren, since I’ve supposedly had relations with hundreds of men and never conceived.”

  “Bloody gossip.” Roger didn’t bother to protest that no one believed it, because they all knew everyone did.

  Her dog, perhaps hearing the distress in her voice, crawled out from under the bed. He leaned against her, and she laid a hand on his head, taking comfort from his solid, furry presence. At least she had one friend who would stand by her. “So, Roger, will you marry me?”

  He looked at her for a long moment and then nodded. “Assuming your husband doesn’t throw up any legal barriers to our nuptials, yes, I’ll consider it—on one condition.”

  Her heart plummeted. Blast it, she should be happy. This was the solution to her problem. She forced her lips into a smile. “Why would Lord Ashton object?”

  “Because, as I said, he loves you.”

  “He does not.”

  If only Roger were right . . .

  But he wasn’t. If Kit had ever felt anything remotely like love for her, she’d killed it when she’d made her ill-considered decision to encourage Percy.

  “And you love him.”

  “No, I—”

  He pointed at her sketchbook. “If I did look inside this, I think I’d find the truth of it.”

  She bit her lip. She could lie, but her pencil could not. “So what’s your condition?”

  “That you spend six months in his company.”

  “What?” Kit wouldn’t spend six minutes—six seconds—with her. “Are you mad?”

  Kit—her dog, Kit—whined and looked up at her. She stroked his ears and took a deep breath, swallowing panic.

  Roger caught her gaze with his. “Jess, you’ve loved this man your whole life. You can’t give him up without at least trying to mend matters.”

  She shook her head. “It’s too late.” Perhaps if Kit hadn’t walked into the studio when he had—but there was no changing that.

  “It’s not too late.” Roger crossed his arms and leaned back against the mantel. “Why do you think he’s here?”

  “You heard him. To tell me he’s going to begin divorce proceedings.”

  “He could have done that via the post—isn’t that right, Dennis?”

  Dennis nodded. “Yes. Now that you mention it, that’s what I would have expected.”

  “Exactly.” Roger lifted one blasted eyebrow. “Do you want to know why I think he’s here?”

  Oh, splendid. Now Roger wished to play guessing games. “If I say no, you’ll tell me anyway.”

  He grinned. “I think he wants an heir.”

  Her dog whined again as she stiffened. An heir. Oh, God. A baby. Kit’s. Warmth spread round her heart again—and round a point rather lower in her body.

  Fool! She was letting her dreams lead her to false hope. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “He needs an heir and a spare, doesn’t he? And you are his wife.”

  “His discarded, detested wife.”

  Roger actually rolled his eyes. “Not detested.”

  “He hates me.” She saw Kit’s beautiful gray eyes again, hard with disgust, as he looked on her in Roger’s arms.

  “Sometimes what looks like hate is just frustrated desire.”

  “And sometimes what looks like hate is just gut-twisting loathing.”

  “But it’s passion. Don’t you see? If your husband didn’t care for you, he wouldn’t be so angry.”

  Roger was purposely being obtuse. “He’ll be angry enough to slam the door in my face if I follow him to the White Stag. He certainly won’t want to . . . that is, there is no way he’d want to . . .” She swallowed. Damnation, the warmth had moved to her cheeks now.

  “Not right away, of course. You heard him—he thinks there’s a chance you might be increasing. He’ll want to wait until he can be certain any child you carry is his. But that is to your advantage. It gives you time to get to know him again and to be certain how you feel.” Roger shrugged. “A man can change a lot in eight years. You’ve likely changed, too.”

  “Yes.” That was her way out. “He’s changed. I’ve changed. As I said, it’s too late.”

  Roger came over to grip her shoulders. “That’s fear talking.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but . . . Roger was right. She was afraid.

  “Don’t let fear determine your life, Jess. Go talk to your husband.”

  “He won’t want to see me.”

  “Make him see you. Make him hear you. Bargain with him. I think he’ll listen to you. A divorce is long and expensive and very, very messy. You’ll be a social outcast—”

  “I already am that.”

  “—but so will he, if to a lesser extent. It’s in his best interest to make a marriage with you work.” His grip tightened. “What do you have to lose?”

  What did she have to lose? She’d already lost everything.

  “And if you find he doesn’t love you—or if you discover you don’t love him any longer—then we can discuss a sham marriage.”

  “All right.” She’d never let fear rule her before, had she? Well, perhaps she had in these last years, but she didn
’t like that thought. Not at all. “I’ll go.”

  When Roger pulled the horse to a stop outside the White Stag half an hour later, Jess clutched the side of the wagon. She looked at the light spilling out of the inn’s windows.

  Kit was inside.

  Her stomach churned with a mixture of excitement and dread.

  Dread won. “This is a bad idea.”

  “No, it’s not.” Roger climbed down and came around to her side. “Pluck up your courage, Jess.” He grinned as he offered her his hand. “The marquis doesn’t stand a chance. I know all too well how stubborn you can be when you decide on something.”

  But this was Kit. No one had ever mattered as much to her, and failure had never been so frightening. “But what if he refuses to see me?”

  “He won’t, but if he does, you must dig in your heels and refuse to be refused. Camp outside his door. Follow him when he leaves. Demand his attention.”

  She let Roger help her down, and her dog leapt down to stand beside her; she put her hand on his big furry head to steady herself. Roger was correct. She did have a backbone—she just needed to find it.

  He took her valise out of the back of the wagon. She had only one small bag. Most of her things were old and paint spattered, so she’d left them behind.

  “Stop worrying. Believe in yourself, for God’s sake. You always have before.” Roger clasped her arm briefly. “Remember, you hold the winning card in this game. The marquis wants an heir, and you are his most expedient path to that goal.”

  “I don’t know. . . .” Panic clawed at her throat again.

  “It’s only to give you time, Jess. To give you both time to get to know each other again. You are doing Lord Ashton a favor, too.”

  She swallowed, forcing the panic down, and nodded. Yes, it was time to settle this, if only so she could finally move on with her life.

  She might have been in love with a phantasm all these years.

  And she hadn’t been the only one at fault. Kit had chosen to marry her. He’d offered, even if it had been only a charitable impulse. Not all marriages were built on love. They could have worked out an arrangement if he had been willing to try.

  He should not have abandoned her. He bore some responsibility for their current situation. “You’re right.”

  Roger grinned. “Of course I’m right. Now here is your bag. I’d walk you to the door, but I don’t believe my presence will help your case.”

  She took her valise and frowned. “Have you decided what you are going to do?”

  “Yes. I’m going back to London. That way if you do wish to discuss a liaison later, I’ll have resumed my place as Baron Trendal.”

  She smiled, glad to feel happy about some decision, even though it wasn’t her own. “Your mother and brother will be delighted to see you.”

  “Yes, I think they will be. And, Jess,” he said as she turned to go into the White Stag.

  “What?”

  “I put something in your bag.”

  Damnation, Roger had a very amused expression. Surely he wasn’t pulling some prank? He did have an odd sense of humor, but this was not the time for foolishness. “What is it?”

  “I thought you might need some help with Lord Ashton, so I’m loaning you my favorite advice sheets. Please take good care of them—I want them back.”

  “Yes, of course.” Advice sheets? How ridiculous. She would put them away in a safe place and try to be convincingly appreciative when she returned them.

  “Oh, and I wouldn’t let Lord Ashton see any of them if I were you.”

  “Very well.” There was little chance of that, especially as she had no intention of consulting them.

  He grinned as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. “And remember when you deal with old Winthrop, or anyone else who may try to keep you from your husband, you are the Marchioness of Ashton, a very important, very exalted personage.”

  The discarded Marchioness of Ashton. “And I have a very large dog.”

  He nodded, and his grin widened. “But when you are with Lord Ashton, you are just his wife.” He leaned toward her, all humor dropping from his voice. “Jess, you’ve been in limbo for eight years. This is your chance to settle things. Don’t let anything or anyone stop you.”

  She had been like a leaf spinning in an eddy, caught by her connection to Kit from moving downstream. Even her art had suffered. Her pictures felt flat—pretty enough, but lacking much emotion. “Yes. I shall try.”

  Roger gave her a quick hug, and then climbed back into the wagon. “Good luck.”

  She waved as he drove away, and then she looked down at her dog. There was no turning back now.

  “Come, Kit. It’s time to see if your namesake will listen to me.”

  When she opened the inn door, Mr. Winthrop did not look happy to see her. “Lady Ashton!” He frowned at her dog and then at her valise. “Where is your maid?”

  She was not going to get into a discussion of the proprieties. “Where is my husband?”

  The innkeeper sniffed as if he smelled something unpleasant. He’d never liked her—well, none of the local people had. “I’m not certain that is any of your concern, madam.”

  Her temper came to her rescue. She leaned forward as menacingly as she could—and it helped that Kit growled low in his throat and bared his teeth slightly. He was the best of animals, quite gentle unless he sensed that she was threatened.

  “I am still Lady Ashton, sirrah, so I believe the location of Lord Ashton is very much my concern.”

  “Ah.” Winthrop stepped back. “Er.” He looked at her dog and paled. “Very well. If you must know, he’s upstairs in number ten.” And then he managed to leer at her. “Though I’m not certain he’s alone.”

  Oh, God. She did not want to walk in on Kit in bed with a whore. That would surely kill her.

  But she had no choice in the matter. Roger had left. She was stuck here. “Thank you. I shall go up directly.”

  “Perhaps it would be better if I go up first and tell His Lordship ye’re here.”

  Perhaps it would be better, but she’d promised Roger she would not let anyone stop her, and Mr. Winthrop looked like he would do exactly that. “That won’t be necessary.”

  She started up the stairs before she could lose her nerve.

  The last time she’d been in an inn with Kit was on their wedding night. He’d been taking her to the manor. She’d ridden alone in the carriage all day, but she’d kept her spirits up thinking she could make things right with him once they stopped for the night. She’d got ready for bed, leaving off her nightgown, and waited for him to come to her. When he hadn’t, she’d gone to him—and found his door locked.

  She’d been young. She’d allowed her anger to carry her down the stairs in the morning and back out to the carriage. When Kit had deposited her at the manor that afternoon, she’d not said a word.

  Nor had he.

  She’d thought he’d come back the next day.

  The next week.

  The next month.

  He hadn’t.

  Well, this time things would be different. They had to be. This was her last chance. If Kit didn’t listen to her now, he never would.

  Her feet felt like lead, but she kept her chin up. She couldn’t retreat even if she wanted to; she would not give Winthrop that satisfaction.

  And, in any event, her dog was behind her, blocking her escape.

  She reached the landing and turned right. Number ten was at the end of the longest corridor she’d ever encountered, but she forced herself to keep walking.

  What if Kit was with a whore?

  Perhaps that would be a good thing. It should cure her of this infatuation with Kit, and she would be able to tell Roger tomorrow that she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was ready—anxious!—to be done with the marquis. They could begin to make plans. It would be a while before she was free to actually marry, of course, but it would be best for Dennis and the other men to know that they would eventu
ally have a place to live.

  She stopped in front of number ten. “This is it, Kit.” She was talking to her dog—and perhaps her husband. She raised her hand to knock.

  Chapter Four

  Sometimes opportunity’s knock

  sounds most unpleasant.

  —Venus’s Love Notes

  Ash was halfway through the brandy bottle when some idiot knocked on his door.

  Maybe if he ignored the nodcock, he’d go away. Or she’d go away. Surely that barmaid hadn’t been so bold as to come to his room? He took another swallow of brandy.

  The cabbage-head knocked again.

  Damnation, was the fellow—or female—going to keep at it all night? Clearly there was only one way to deal with the fool. He lurched to his feet—and steadied himself on his chair as the room spun round.

  Perhaps he should have eaten something after all.

  Too late for that now. He lurched over to the door and flung it open.

  Good God!

  He felt his jaw drop, but he was powerless to stop it. His eyes were likely starting from their sockets as well.

  Jess stood in the corridor with her valise and her bearlike dog.

  “Good evening, Lord Ashton. May I come in?”

  Jess wanted to come into his bedchamber? His cock leapt with joy.

  He should never have drunk so much brandy. “No.”

  She looked momentarily nonplussed, but then her expression hardened as it had so many times when they were children and Percy or Jack had told her she couldn’t do something.

  “Nonsense. We have things to discuss.” She brushed past him.

  He should have blocked her way, but surprise delayed him and then her dog stepped on his foot.

  Pain paralyzed him. Black specks danced before his eyes; he couldn’t even find the breath to curse.

  “I suggest you close the door, my lord, unless you wish to treat the entire inn to our discussion.”

  Yes. Close the door. He pushed it shut and leaned his forehead against it, striving for control. He’d never done a woman injury, but Jess’s pert tone made him want to wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze. As soon as he got over the pain of having his foot mashed, that is. Her dog must weigh over ten stone.