Loving Lord Ash Page 8

  God, the bloody succubus. If she did that, he’d not be able to help himself. He’d have her on her back and his cock deep in her body in a trice, pumping his seed into her sweet, warm depths.

  That would be a fatal mistake.

  He left his drawers firmly on his nether regions and turned abruptly toward the bed. “I’ll take the side nearest the door.”

  “Oh.” She stopped, looking momentarily disconcerted. “All right.”

  It was a reasonably sized bed. If they each stayed to their respective side, there would be plenty of space between them—and at the next inn he would see that they had separate bedchambers.

  “Shall I snuff the candle?”

  “Yes.” Jess pulled back the covers on her side of the bed and smiled. “Good night, Kit. Thank you again for not embarrassing me in front of Winthrop.”

  He frowned. “I would never do that.” They might have their problems—obviously they did have their problems—but he would never air his dirty linen in public. “Good night, Jess.” He leaned over and doused the light.

  He’d no sooner plunged the room into darkness—except for the dim light of the hearth fire—than he heard Jess gasp and make an odd squeaking sound.

  He turned quickly. “Are you all ri—ack!”

  It was anyone’s guess when Winthrop had last tightened the ropes that supported the mattress. It hadn’t been anytime soon. The thing sagged horribly. Ash slid down the steep slope to the center, coming up against Jess’s soft body.

  He put out a hand to push himself away and instead wrapped his fingers around one of her warm, firm breasts.

  He was in serious trouble.

  Chapter Six

  In love, expect the unexpected.

  —Venus’s Love Notes

  Oh! Kit’s body was heavy on hers, pressing her more deeply into the sagging mattress. She’d put up her hands when she’d sensed him sliding toward her, and now they were splayed across his chest. His hard, naked chest with its dusting of soft hair.

  All she could see was him above her, his broad shoulders and strong jaw and thin, sculpted lips, all shadowy in the darkened bed. She was surrounded by him, by his heat and his smell, and it was wonderful.

  And then his large hand brushed against her breast, and heat flooded her, extinguishing all rational thought. Her nipples tightened into hard nubs. She held her breath, hoping he would touch her there, but his fingers glided past, moving down her side instead.

  He was torturing her. She wanted to run her hands over his shoulders and back, to slide her fingers under his drawers, to find his lovely, long, heavy cock—it must be as beautiful as the rest of him—but she couldn’t move. His weight held her captive.

  Her mind—a tiny thread of sanity—struggled to be heard over the need humming through her body. Whether Kit meant it or not, this was a test. He thought she’d entertained countless men in her bed. If she gave in to the wanton abandon her treacherous body was urging, it would just confirm his belief that she was no better than a whore.

  His fingers were now trailing across her hip. She pressed her lips together, but a small moan still slipped out.

  Closer. Closer.

  She should push him away. If he lost control and gave her a child, he would wonder forever if the babe was Roger’s . . . unless she bled. Then he would know she was still a virgin.

  But what if she didn’t bleed? She’d heard sometimes women who rode horses broke their maidenhead before marriage.

  She’d ridden hard, and sometimes astride.

  His fingers dipped between her legs, and she couldn’t stop herself. She moaned again and pressed against his hand. Her damn shift was very much in the way.

  “You’re damp.”

  His voice had an odd note of wonder in it—or perhaps she wasn’t hearing him clearly. The desire raging through her drowned out everything, even common sense. It had definitely killed her ability to have any sort of coherent conversation. “Uh.”

  He moved his fingers, exploring her through the fabric, rubbing, pressing, all with a gentle, maddening touch.

  She should stop him. Nothing good could come of going down this road.

  Her body insisted something very good indeed was just around the corner, coming closer with each brush of his fingers.

  Kit put his mouth over her nipple.

  “Oh! Oh, Kit!” She threaded her fingers through his hair to hold him close as he sucked on the hard point. Exquisite sensation shot down from her breast to the place between her legs where his finger was still playing.

  She gave up trying for any semblance of control. She panted and moaned, her hips twisting and arching, no longer caring what he thought of her. Everything in her strained toward the place he was taking her—

  Kit’s finger moved once more, and waves of pleasure rushed from the little point between her legs through her womb to her breasts. She tightened her grip on him; he was her anchor in a world suddenly convulsing.

  And then the storm passed. Every muscle in her body relaxed, and she pressed a kiss on Kit’s shoulder. “Mmm. That was wonderful.” She dropped her head back and smiled at him. She loved him so much.

  He did not smile back. She couldn’t see his expression clearly in the bed’s shadows, but she could feel his tension.

  Of course. He’d brought her this wonderful release, but he hadn’t found any himself. His cock was still hard and stiff against her leg. If only she was truly as experienced as he thought her.

  But they loved each other. The years of separation were over. He could tell her what he wanted, how she could help him. He could teach her; she was eager to learn.

  She reached up to trace his brows with her finger but he reared away, lurching out of the bed.

  She struggled to sit. “What is it, Kit? What’s the matter?”

  Stupid question. One look at his drawers made it abundantly clear what the matter was. He must be very uncomfortable.

  “I see why you are so popular, madam.”

  “Popular?” What was he talking about? She most certainly wasn’t popular. Hadn’t she told him already that the local people shunned her?

  “Yes.” His expression was as hard and stiff as his cock, his voice harsh and condescending. “You are clearly highly accomplished in the bedroom arts. If it happens that you do not retain your position as marchioness, you should be able to command an excellent living as a courtesan.”

  He hadn’t touched her, but she felt as if he’d slammed his fist into her stomach. She gasped for breath. “Damn you, Kit.” She grabbed for something to throw at him; all she had at hand was a pillow. She flung it at him, wishing it were something far harder. “Go to hell.”

  Jess had finally stopped crying.

  Ash shifted on the floor where he’d stretched out by the fire. Jess’s dog blocked most of the heat, but he’d wrapped himself in his greatcoat. He was warm enough. That wasn’t what was keeping him awake.

  Jess had sobbed for at least half an hour and then whimpered for another thirty minutes. Or maybe it had been an hour. It had seemed like forever. He had never seen her cry before. Never. Cicely and Ellie cried—well, Cicely had cried at anything—but not Jess.

  He’d tried to apologize twice, but she’d snarled at him and refused to listen to a single word. He couldn’t really blame her.

  He shifted again, trying to find a comfortable position. The floor was bloody hard.

  He should never have said what he had. It had been insulting and cruel and beneath him. And it had cheapened the experience. Just thinking about how she’d shuddered and whimpered and moaned as he’d touched her made his cock harden again. He’d always assumed the act was enjoyable because of the physical release it would give him, but he’d been wrong. Or partly wrong. He shifted yet again. He definitely would have liked to have found his own release.

  Oh, Zeus. Now her dog was whining and twitching as if he were chasing rabbits in his sleep. Ash moved farther away from him and from the fire.

  He’d always
known Jess was passionate. She’d been so intense about her art, and she’d ridden like the wind, taking jumps fearlessly, racing anyone foolish enough to challenge her. But he’d never guessed she’d be so explosive in bed. Seeing her overcome by his inexperienced touches—it had made him feel powerful, almost like a god.

  He frowned up at the ceiling. He’d heard whores were accomplished actresses, especially if they thought it would get them a bigger purse or a secure position as a mistress, but he’d swear on his life that Jess hadn’t been acting.

  Perhaps she merely had a hot nature, requiring regular carnal intercourse to remain content, and hadn’t been able to help herself with Percy and the footman and all the others. If that were the case, once she had him near at hand to attend to her needs, she should be faithful.

  Zeus, he might need to attend to his own needs with his hand. But if his cock survived the next month or two, he would be delighted to give Jess all the carnal exercise she required.

  He could not think of that now, though, or he would never get to sleep. He turned over again and began to count sheep. They all bore a striking resemblance to a large, bearlike dog.

  When Ash woke the next morning, he saw Jess had managed to scramble into her clothing by herself. In fact, she had her cloak on and was tying her bonnet.

  Her dog barked and got up, almost stepping on Ash’s hand. He snatched it out of the way just in time and pushed himself to a sitting position. Damnation, his body ached in every place but his groin this morning. “I’ll take your dog out for you, Jess.”

  Her face was pale, with dark shadows under her eyes. She addressed a point somewhere over his head.

  “Thank you, Lord Ashton, but that will not be necessary.”

  So they were back to Lord Ashton. No surprise there. It would likely take a good long while before he could work his way back into her good graces. “Jess, about last night—”

  “Please!” She put up a hand as if to ward him off, her cheeks as red as they’d been white a moment before. “Let us not speak of last night. I apologize for my unseemly behavior. I—”

  It was his turn to interrupt. “No, Jess, I am the one who must apologize.” He got to his feet, though he had to use a chair to help himself up. He was too old to be sleeping on floors. “I should never have said those things to you.”

  “But you thought them.”

  Even Jess’s dog gave Ash an accusatory look.

  Damn dog. Didn’t he have any loyalty to his sex?

  Jess still would not look at him. “There’s no point in delaying the inevitable, Lord Ashton. You were correct—our marriage is beyond mending. I’ll go back to the manor, and you can go on to London to start divorce proceedings.”

  No! Panic gripped his throat. He could not let Jess go now. She might be right about their marriage, but he wasn’t ready to concede that. He certainly felt far more, ah, emotion for her than he had for that barmaid last night or any other woman he’d ever encountered.

  He crossed the room in two strides and gripped her shoulders. “Jess.”

  Her dog growled low in his throat.

  “Quiet, sir. I put up with you snorting and snuffling and blocking the fire all night; you can allow me a moment with your mistress, who, I might add, is my wife.”

  The dog thought about that for a moment and then sneezed and went back to lie down by the fire.

  “Traitor.” Jess only muttered the word, though, and without heat. She seemed to be darting glances at his shoulders and chest....

  Ah, that’s right. He’d left his greatcoat on the floor, so all he had on was his drawers. At least he was still too worried about her leaving for his cock to misbehave. But if she truly had a hot nature, perhaps his near nakedness would help convince her to stay.

  That, and a sincere apology. He did owe her that. “Jess, I truly am sorry for what I said to you last night. I was . . .” She had experience; she must know how it was with men. “. . . frustrated, and I took it out on you.”

  Her face flushed, but she managed to tear her eyes away from his chest to meet his gaze. “I would have . . .” She cleared her throat. “If you’d told me what you wanted. . . .” She looked down again and whispered to his chest, “I would have done whatever it was. You just had to tell me.”

  Oh, damn. His cock jumped up, ready to tell her exactly what it wanted. He moved his hips back slightly. Much as he’d like to hope otherwise, this was not the time for such activities.

  Perhaps tonight he could ask her to—

  No. No matter what Jess had been to other men, she was his wife. He could not use her as a light-skirt.

  “Come with me to London, Jess. Please? You were right. We should give ourselves some time together. We were friends once. Perhaps we can be friends again.” And lovers. His cock was rather insistent about that. “Surely it would be better for both of us if we can find a way to make our marriage work.”

  She scowled at him. “I will not be insulted again. If I agree to come with you, you must swear you won’t call me a wh-whore.”

  Hearing her say that ugly word tore at his gut. He gripped her shoulders a little more tightly. He didn’t know what she was, but he was willing to grant that she wasn’t that.

  “I promise.” He owed it to her to be honest. “But I can’t promise I won’t lose my temper again.”

  She frowned. “You didn’t used to have a temper.” She smiled a little. “Except for the time you and Percy got into that fight over the snow fort.”

  “Oh, I got angry all right. I just tried not to show it.” A duke should always be in command of himself, and one day he would be duke. But no one had ever made him as angry as Jess had when he’d seen her with Percy and then with the naked footman. Usually when he was angry, he felt cold, but with Jess—Zeus! With her he’d felt a hot, stomach-churning fury.

  That damn footman was lucky he was still breathing.

  “So will you come, Jess? I’m sure I won’t be so, er, difficult once we have better accommodations.” And surely once he wasn’t so tired, he wouldn’t have to keep fighting the urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her—and then take her back to that dreadful, sagging mattress and do what he hadn’t done with her last night.

  She hesitated, and then nodded. “Very well.”

  His arms wanted to pull her close, but he forced himself to release her and step back. He shouldn’t push his luck. And he wasn’t completely certain this was luck; he just wasn’t ready any longer to cut off all hope of salvaging their marriage. “I’d better get dressed.”

  “Yes.” She’d tilted her head and was studying him, especially his arms and chest. Was there lust in her eyes, perhaps?

  No, they were narrowed in her painterly expression.

  “Is there a studio in your London house?”

  He pulled on his breeches. “Yes, or at least there was. I haven’t used it for years—I haven’t been to London for years—but I can’t imagine my parents would have done away with it. It’s up near the old schoolroom.” Of course, once Mama finally had a grandchild, the studio might get sacrificed.

  “Will you pose for me?” She flushed.

  Now he felt as if he were flushing, and of course it made him think of that damn footman. The words were out before he could stop himself. “Naked?”

  She nodded. “And clothed. We could do clothed first, if you prefer, but I should like to . . . that is, you really do have classical proportions. Er, or at least I think you do. I don’t know for certain, of course, since I haven’t actually seen”—she gestured toward his groin—“everything.”

  He wanted to show her everything, but it was too soon for that.

  He smiled as he sat down to pull on his stockings and boots. She was nervous. “Very well, if you’ll pose for me.” He looked up. “Naked.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “You draw buildings.”

  He certainly preferred drawing buildings. Their straight lines and angles were very satisfying. But he drew other things, too, though perhaps no
t so much recently. “I used to draw figures. I believe I was drawing a heron when I first met you, wasn’t I?”

  Her eyes widened as if she was surprised he remembered. Of course he did. How could he not? He’d been sitting by the river, sketching, when a girl he’d never seen before had come running over the grass.

  Everyone else, even his family, treated him with a certain amount of deference due his rank, but not this girl. He was mildly insulted and intrigued.

  And annoyed. She’d scared away his heron.

  She’d stopped by his side and stared at his drawing. And then she’d looked directly into his eyes.

  He’d felt as if he’d taken a punch to the gut. Her eyes—a violet shade he’d never seen before—were full of intelligence and wonder. It felt silly to think it, but she’d seemed to vibrate with life, and all her attention and energy had been focused completely on him.

  He was used to people pretending an interest in his drawings. Well, not pretending exactly. His parents, his brothers, the vicar, Cicely and Ellie and even Percy acknowledged he could draw, and his parents were clearly proud of his talent. But none of them really understood. They didn’t feel the passion—the magic—of capturing angle and light and shade, of making a scene with volume and depth appear on a flat, blank paper.

  Jess understood, and she’d wanted him to teach her how to do it right then.

  He pulled his shirt on over his head. The times they’d spent drawing and painting together in the cottage were some of his fondest memories. Or had been. Seeing her there with Percy had rather soured things.

  Jess shrugged. “I suppose I do have the straight lines you favor in your architectural designs, don’t I?”

  He picked up his cravat and tied it. Was she serious? She wasn’t buxom, true. In fact, many would call her thin—and her outdated frock certainly didn’t help matters—but he’d had his fingers on her soft breast and slender waist and swelling hip.

  “I believe I discovered last night that you have delightful curves, my dear marchioness.”