Loving Lord Ash Page 7

  “Blast it, Kit. If you are going to continue to insult me, our deal is off.”

  He looked at her, his face expressionless, and then nodded. “I apologize. You are quite right. Since we have agreed to try this, we should give our plan the best chance of success, which is why I do not wish to return to the manor. Forgive me, but I prefer not to test your willpower so quickly.” He reached for the brandy bottle.

  If only Kit knew he was more likely to be the target of the staff’s amorous attentions than she was. “May I have a glass as well?”

  His brows went up. “Do you drink brandy?”

  “Occasionally.” She and Roger and Dennis sometimes shared a bottle in the evenings.

  He poured her a glass. She took it and looked around. The room had hardly enough space for the table and the bed....

  Oh, damn. Where were they going to sleep?

  She wouldn’t think about that now.

  “Then if we’re not returning to the manor, where do you propose we do go? To Greycliffe Castle to live with your mother and father?”

  Kit scowled as he sipped his brandy and leaned back against the bedpost, focusing her attention on the bed again.

  The bed that suddenly looked very small.

  Something hot and needy shivered low in her stomach.

  “Yes, that’s what I had thought,” Kit said, “but now that you put it that way, I can see it is perhaps not the best idea.”

  She nodded. “And Percy’s estate is nearby.” The thought of Percy cooled any misplaced ardor she might be feeling. She did not wish to see Percy ever again.

  Kit’s thunderous expression indicated he agreed with her. “True. And Percy has been short of funds recently, so he might be rusticating.” He shook his head. “I think our only choice is to go up to the London house.”

  “London?” Good God. She’d never been to Town—and she never wanted to go. “Are you mad? What about the ton? What about all those dreadful gossips?” Perhaps it would be better to go to the castle. It was a big place with extensive grounds. Maybe they could avoid the duke and duchess most of the time.

  But could she avoid Percy? Given the opportunity, he was sure to make a nuisance of himself.

  “I grant you it is not ideal, but we won’t be going to any society events. If we’re careful, we should be able to elude the gabble-grinders.” He smiled. “And I confess I wouldn’t mind seeing some of the sights, especially the new building that’s been going on.”

  Kit had always loved architecture; he’d even named his horse after the famous British architect Inigo Jones. “Have you designed anything recently?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing of import. It is only a hobby after all.”

  “But you used to enjoy it so much.” She’d marveled at how he could create such detailed structures using only his imagination; she needed to look at a model when she painted. “Remember when you built that snow castle Ellie and Cicely and I played in until Percy decided to attack it?”

  Kit had actually lost his temper that time. He’d pushed Percy, and the two of them had fallen to the ground, rolling around and swinging at each other and knocking down the castle walls. Cicely had cried, of course; she was always crying. Ellie had been sad, too, but Jess had laughed. She’d grown bored playing pampered princesses and had been on the verge of dropping snow down Cicely’s back, so the fight was a welcome diversion.

  “Yes, I remember. I built a fort at this year’s Valentine’s Day party, too; it’s so seldom we get snow that packs down well.”

  Ah, yes. The Valentine’s Day party to which she was never invited. Not that she wanted to be, of course. Percy would be there—he was Ned’s brother-in-law—and she didn’t wish to spend even a moment struggling to be polite to him.

  She took another swallow of brandy, but its warmth didn’t quite melt the cold knot in her stomach.

  “Does the manor have a serviceable traveling coach?” Kit asked.

  “No.”

  He frowned. “How do you travel?”

  “I don’t.” Did he think she went tooling around the countryside? “I’ve had no reason to undertake a long journey.”

  She might be happy enough to miss the duchess’s house parties, but she hadn’t been invited to Ned’s and Cicely’s wedding either. She’d admit to having shed a few tears over that. Not that she’d truly cared to see them marry. Cicely had been an annoying milksop and Percy’s sister as well, but being excluded from such an important event underlined the fact that she was not and never would be part of Kit’s family.

  “The wagon was good enough for getting to Sunday services.”

  “But for getting to London . . .” Kit shook his head.

  “What? You don’t think it will suit your consequence for the Marquis of Ashton to arrive in Town in such a plebeian conveyance?”

  He looked at her sourly. “I don’t think it will suit my comfort. London is several days’ travel, as well you know, and while the roads must be better than when I came here, they will still be rutted and likely muddy. Does the wagon have any springs whatsoever?”

  “N-no.”

  “Then you have to admit every inch of our persons would ache if we were to attempt the journey in it.”

  There was no point in arguing the obvious, so she merely nodded.

  “I will arrange for a suitable coach when we get to the next inn. The White Stag clearly doesn’t have any for hire.” He looked over at her small valise. “Is this all you brought?”

  “It was all I could carry.” Especially as she was half expecting him to toss her out on her arse. “But I don’t have anything suitable for London anyway.”

  Did Kit look a little guilty? He shouldn’t. What use would she have had for fancy dresses at the manor?

  “Well, since we’ll be avoiding the social whirl,” he said, “it shouldn’t matter too much, but I’ll have Jack point us to a good mantua maker once we get to London.”

  So it was decided. He was going to take Jess to London. They were going to see if they could salvage their marriage. If they could be friends and then lovers.

  It was a good thing the room was shadowy, because that thought was having the predictable effect on his anatomy.

  “I assume your maid will come as well?”

  Jess shook her head. The candlelight gleamed on her hair. He’d like to see it down again, and run his hands through it....

  “Oh, no. She won’t leave her roses.”

  “Roses? We’ve just had a blizzard, and the manor doesn’t have a hothouse. There can’t be any roses.”

  Jess laughed. God, how he’d missed that sound.

  “True, there aren’t any flowers yet, but the plants must be watched and tended and coddled so they will produce the very best blooms when the time comes.”

  She had a dimple in her right cheek that peeked out when she found something ridiculous.

  “I begin to think the manor is a very odd household.”

  Damnation. He hadn’t meant to make her flush and look away.

  He hadn’t wanted to make her sign the blasted paper that was in his pocket, either. He wanted to believe her when she said she wasn’t increasing, though if she’d been busy with the naked footman just today, she couldn’t yet know if she was or not. He had to protect the succession.

  “N-no. The house runs quite well. Mr. Walker does an excellent job of overseeing things.”

  He took leave to doubt that, given the very peculiar behavior of the butler or whoever that was who was supposed to be answering the door. Not to mention Roger, the notorious footman.

  No, he would not think about that rogue. Jess was correct. They would not make any progress if he kept holding her past over her head, and he definitely wanted to make progress. Once he was certain she wasn’t carrying another man’s child, he’d like to make very certain she was carrying his.

  Bloody hell. If he kept thinking like that, he’d never be able to get an heir. His cock and ballocks would have exploded long before he had the o
pportunity to give it a go, poor virgin that he was. It was rather amusing that she thought he had a past.

  He saw that she’d finished her brandy, so he swallowed the last of his. “I suppose we’d best get ready to retire. I don’t believe either of us wishes to stay at this miserable inn any longer than necessary.”

  “Yes.” Jess stood up and looked at her valise.

  “I shall go into the corridor to give you some privacy, shall I?” Of course the room was too small to offer a dressing room or even a screen.

  “Thank you.”

  He stepped into the hallway and pulled the door closed behind him. Blast, this was a bad idea. Nan, the barmaid, was coming toward him, arms wrapped around a thick-set fellow he recognized from the common room.

  “Did yer lady toss ye out then, milord?” She grinned at him. “I’m sure Alf here won’t mind sharing if ye want to come with us.”

  Alf looked distinctly alarmed at that thought.

  “No, thank you. I was just going to”—what would be a good excuse?—“I’m just going to stretch my legs before retiring.”

  Nan looked skeptical. “Ye’ll need yer overcoat, milord, and yer hat. It’s cold outside.”

  Very true, but it was too late for that.

  “Ah, but I enjoy a good brisk walk.” And he set off briskly down the corridor.

  Winthrop looked up as he came down the stairs, but had the good sense not to say a word. Ash stepped out into the night.

  Nan was right—it was bloody cold.

  He managed one quick trip around the inn yard and a visit to the stable to check on his horse, contentedly eating his head off, before heading back inside. Surely he’d given Jess adequate time to change.

  She was still fully dressed when he reentered their room, though her dress was oddly twisted and she looked furious.

  “What the hell have you been doing?” He blew on his hands. Here he’d been a gentleman and frozen his arse off, and she’d been twiddling her thumbs.

  “What does it look like I’ve been doing? I can’t get the blasted dress off.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I forgot it buttons up the back. You’ll have to help me.”

  “Ah.” Undress Jess? It was a wonder his blasted cock didn’t poke a hole through his pantaloons. He took a breath, swallowed, and tried not to sound like a lust-crazed madman. “Of course.”

  “Thank you.” She blushed and turned away from him.

  He stared at the long row of cloth-covered buttons. Good God, there must be a hundred of the tiny things. His fingers suddenly felt as big as his cock and just as stiff. He swallowed again and stepped closer.

  Jess bent her head forward so he could reach the top button.

  Her neck was so slender and elegant. A few stray strands of hair had tumbled free of her coiffure to brush over her nape. They tickled his fingers as he reached for the buttons, sending lightning flashing through him to lodge in the obvious—far, far too obvious—place. He breathed in the scent of lavender and, yes, a hint of oil and turpentine and paint.

  Pure lust pulsed in his brain. He wanted to turn this into a seduction. The bed was just steps away. Jess was his wife.

  And she might also be carrying that footman’s child. There could be no thought of seduction until he knew she wasn’t enceinte.

  His cock had never ruled him before. He would not let it rule him now.

  His fat fingers fumbled with the first button. He tried to touch only fabric, but he could not avoid brushing against Jess’s soft, silky skin. He heard a sharp intake of breath. Had it been his or hers?

  He wanted to brush his lips where his fingers had been, to move them over the fine, downy hair of her neck past her delicate earlobe along the smooth line of her jaw. . . .

  “A-are you always this slow?” Jess sounded rather breathless.

  “Slow?” He beat back the fog of desire in an attempt to understand her words. “What do you mean?”

  “You haven’t managed to get the first button open. At this rate I’ll still be standing here come morning.”

  “The blasted things are too small. It’s not as if I make a habit of unbuttoning ladies’ gowns.”

  Jess looked over her shoulder at him. “Oh, no? Everyone says you do.”

  He was not about to tell her he was a virgin. Zeus, how embarrassing that would be! But he couldn’t let this story stand, either. With her own vast experience, she’d discover it was a lie in short order. “I don’t know who ‘everyone’ is, but they very much mistake the matter. Now stop squirming.”

  “I am not squirming,” she said, but she turned to look forward again.

  It took what seemed like an hour, but was probably only several minutes, to get the bloody buttons undone. One, unfortunately, did not survive the ordeal. It went flying off into the shadows.

  “I hope you didn’t need that.”

  Jess sighed as she held her dress to keep it from sliding to the ground. “They aren’t there for decoration, you know. I have another dress in my valise that I can wear tomorrow. I’ll sew the button back on when we get to London. Did you see where it went?”

  “I think it ended up under the table. I’ll look.”

  It took a little searching—the button was very small and the light was dim—but he finally found it. “Here it is. I’ll—” He turned and forgot what he was going to say.

  He just about forgot his name.

  Jess was standing in front of the fire by her snoring dog, spreading her dress over a chair. Her shift was either of very fine lawn or somewhat threadbare, because the firelight shone through, outlining her long legs and the curve of her hips very, very clearly. He even thought he caught a glimpse of a dark patch where her legs met....

  His nether organs were definitely going to explode.

  “If you’ll just loosen the ties on my stays,” she said, apparently oblivious to the view she was affording him, “I can take them off as well.” She smiled at him as she approached. “I’ve decided to sleep in my shift tonight; it will make getting dressed in the morning that much easier, and you won’t have to leave the room again while I get on my nightgown.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. At least now he couldn’t see her legs, though unfortunately their outline seemed to be burned into his memory.

  She presented him with her back again. Thank God the laces weren’t tangled or exceedingly tight, so he was able to make short work of them.

  And then she went back to the chair by the fire to lay her stays on top of her dress.

  He shouldn’t look. He knew he shouldn’t look, but he was only a poor, lustful man. His eyes followed her as iron shavings follow a magnet.

  She raised her arms to pluck out her hairpins, and he saw the outline of her small, soft breasts.

  “Which side of the bed do you want?”

  Oh, God. Her hair cascaded in silky strands down over her shoulders to her waist. He wanted to bury his face in it—

  “Kit!”

  “What?” He snapped his eyes back to her face; she was glaring at him.

  “What are you woolgathering about?”

  Fortunately it was a rhetorical question.

  “I said, which side of the bed do you want?”

  “Oh.” Bed. Jess. Together. “It makes no difference to me. You choose.”

  “Very well.”

  She gathered her hair up, thrusting her breasts against her shift. Ahh. Did she know what she was doing to him? Likely she did. She was a temptress, after all. She’d been to bed with many, many men.

  Somehow that thought wasn’t having its desired effect on his cock. Instead of shrinking in disgust, it was swelling with enthusiasm. Apparently, it would like to be one of the multitudes. If he gave it its head, it would drag him over to cup her lovely breasts, press her body against his, run his fingers through her long hair, and—

  “What are you waiting for?” she asked.

  “W-what?” She could not know what he was thinking, could she? Was that an invitati
on? He’d—

  He could not accept. He must remember the footman. A moment’s pleasure now would lead to a lifetime of doubt. No matter how much she pleaded, he would remain resolute.

  She was braiding her hair and staring at him. She did not look as though she was waiting to be ravished.

  “Why aren’t you getting ready for bed? Do you need help getting your coat off?”

  Of course. Bed. No, sleep. Only sleep. “No, thank you. When I travel, I make sure to wear only coats I can remove without assistance.” He shrugged out of the article of clothing in question and threw it over a chair. Then he shed his waistcoat and cravat.

  Should he stop there? He had only a limited number of shirts and pantaloons, and they were still a few days from London. He would much rather not sleep in his clothes, and he hadn’t brought a nightshirt. Hell, since he usually slept naked, he wasn’t entirely certain he still owned one.

  He looked at Jess. She’d turned away to stare into the fire as her fingers worked to finish plaiting her hair. There really was no need for false modesty. They were married, and Jess had seen innumerable men naked; she’d had her hands on that bloody footman. He would make the sensible choice to be comfortable.

  He removed his shirt and pantaloons; he had his hands on his drawers when she turned back to face him.

  “Are you finally—oh!” Her eyes widened and then traveled all over him from his shoulders to his chest to his stomach and hips. She examined his drawers rather too intently; he was not about to look to see what she might be viewing, but he’d wager that there was an impressive tent in the fabric.

  “Roger was right,” she breathed. “You do strip to advantage.”

  Damnation, she’d been discussing him with the footman?

  He should be angry or at least insulted, but the look of appreciation in Jess’s eyes drowned everything but an odd feeling of male pride and a roaring lust. His fingers itched to jerk down his drawers and show her his body in all its exuberant glory.

  He could not do that. Remember the footman. Remember the need to be certain any child she bore was his. Remember—

  She was walking toward him, looking very much as if she was going to touch him. All of him.