by The Bargain
One chestnut eyebrow quirked as he threw her a mock glare. "I think I've taught you too much for your own good, you imp!"
"Mmm, perhaps," she mused, "but then again, perhaps not." She reached out and began playing with the hair that curled around his ear and at the nape of his neck.
Brett growled and turned to pull her into his arms. "Meaning?" he queried, his mouth hovering inches above hers.
"Meaning," she whispered with a smile suddenly gone shy, "that my husband has spent these past weeks showing me the thousand-and-one ways he knows to please me... but what he hasn't done is show me ways I might please him."
"Little innocent," he breathed, "and, yes, I can still call you that, though you've shared my bed all these weeks and borne me a child, so don't look so surprised. But don't you know that you have ways to pleasure me that have nothing so much to do with what you do, as with what you are? My God, Ashleigh, all I need do is watch you come into a room or walk across a floor and I find myself unable to think clearly! To begin with, your natural, unpracticed beauty alone is a potent aphrodisiac for me. Beyond that, however, are the myriad things you do unconsciously every day that have me trembling like a schoolboy for you. There's the unconscious grace of your walk, the musical lilt of your laughter, the way you sometimes turn your head... and your smile!" He closed his eyes and drew in a ragged breath. "Sweet merciful Heaven, there have been times when your smile alone could drive me mad with longing!"
Ashleigh watched his face through all of this with a growing look of rapt wonder. "Do I do all that?" she questioned softly.
He let out his breath and shook his head. "That and more, you angelic, enticing, tempting little witch!" And then his head lowered, and his mouth captured hers in a kiss that was achingly sweet, plying the honey from her lips as he moved his own over them in lazy, unhurried circles, touching his tongue to the corners of her mouth, grazing her teeth with it, sipping at the nectar between.
Ashleigh felt the familiar curling in the pit of her stomach, the sweet lassitude invading her limbs; her arms stole unthinkingly around his neck as she kissed him back with all the burgeoning eagerness of love awakened and fulfilled. He was her first love and her last; he was all things to her, and she knew she could never get enough of him; he was her present, her past and her future, and she loved him with every fiber in her body... and in her soul.
"Brett," she whispered breathlessly, when their lips at last parted, "oh, Brett, it's the same with me! I...I find I want you almost all the time, because I love you all the time, and more and more each day! It's all mixed up together—loving you, wanting you. Is it that way for you, too?"
He withdrew slightly, but kept her in the circle of his arms as he looked down into her flushed, upturned face. The turquoise eyes were very serious as he answered her. "It is," he said solemnly. "And there are those about us—men, I'm speaking of, specifically—who would say this cannot be so, that for a woman it is natural that love should govern and intertwine with everything she thinks and feels and does, but that for a man, love is separate from the rest of him, his sexuality included. My friend, Byron, is such a man. He once told me... let's see, how did it go? 'Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 'tis a woman's whole existence.'"
Ashleigh pondered the quoted lines a moment. "He wrote that somewhere?"
"Or was planning to," Brett told her. "I could never be sure with George as to whether he was quoting from things he'd already written or merely trying out on me some tidbits he was storing for future use."
"But... oh, Brett, how sad... that he should feel that way, I mean."
He nodded. "Yes, but not only feel that way himself—he believed what he felt to be true of all men!" He chuckled, then bent to place a soft kiss on her nose. "And I, poor, misguided fool that I was, readily concurred with him at the time!"
Ashleigh sent him a soft, radiant smile. "But not now."
"No," he said, smiling tenderly back at her. "Not since the moment I began to fall in love with you. And when I took you to my bed and suddenly found myself enjoying your untutored, innocent body in a thousand ways better than anything I'd tasted before, at first I couldn't fathom what was happening to me."
He gave her a brief, apologetic smile. "There'd been scores of women in my life before, all of them worldly wise and, ah, well practiced in the arts of love. And yet they'd failed to bring a fraction of the satisfaction you've brought to my bed, sweet, darling wife." Another kiss on the nose.
"For the longest time it puzzled me, for you see, I'd begun to love you—I realize now—long before I knew it consciously."
"You thought you hated me," she said soberly.
A brief look of pain crossed the turquoise eyes. "And put you through hell until I got it all sorted out. Ah, Ashleigh, can you ever forgive me?"
"I forgave you long ago, my darling," she whispered as her fingers came up to still his lips.
Brett closed his eyes and put his hand over hers, pressing her fingertips to his lips. "I'll never hurt you again, Ashleigh, I swear it. God, I love you!"
This time, when he pulled her to him, the kiss was fervent and passionate, his mouth and body telling her what he felt, where words left off. His mouth slashed across hers again and again while his arms crushed her to him fiercely, and Ashleigh responded in kind. They fell along the carriage's seat, molded to each other, their hunger building, building into a white-hot heat that wiped all else from their minds.
And then the carriage stopped.
"Brett! Ashleigh! Are you two asleep in there?"
"It's your mother!" Ashleigh managed to exclaim in a shaky voice.
Brett muttered an expletive under his breath and pulled them into a sitting position.
"Ashleigh, I say, are you awake? Miss Simms says Marileigh's hungry. She wants feeding," Mary's voice told them.
"I—I'll be right with you, Mary," Ashleigh called as she did what she could to rearrange her disheveled appearance. She glanced at Brett, who was leaning back against the seat, attempting to control his ragged breathing. "I suppose I'd better join them." She smiled ruefully.
"Indeed," he murmured, cocking an eyebrow at her as he managed a grin. "Our daughter will have her due now, the unmannered little vixen, but, lest my wife misunderstand, I want her to know I intend to have mine not more than ten minutes after we reach the Hall. Is that clear, Your Grace?"
Ashleigh grinned, then blushed as she caught sight of the bulge that had not yet subsided beneath his fawn-colored breeches. "Perfectly, Your Grace. My husband will have his due."
And an hour later, amid the bustle and excitement of baggage being unloaded, greetings from the staff, and delighted chatter from the children, the duke and his duchess disappeared to their rooms, and he did.
* * * * *
Their presence at Ravensford Hall was greeted with hearty good cheer on the part of the staff; from the Busbys to the stable help, the servants at the duke's country seat had grown exceedingly fond of Ashleigh, and during the time of the duke and duchess's estrangement—well-known to them through the servants' ubiquitous and well functioning grapevine—most had privately hoped the marriage might be repaired. Moreover, members of the older staff, such as the Busbys and a few others who had been around when Brett was a small boy, were both astounded and delighted to see that Mary, the former viscountess, had returned with the obvious blessings of her son. She, like Ashleigh, had been a favorite of theirs before she left, and to a person, they had always believed her innocent of the charges the senior Westmonts had levied against her.
Little Marileigh quickly became the adored darling of all, and while there were some initially raised eyebrows at the horde of foreign-accented children who descended on them with this visit, the near-perfect manners and discipline with which the contessa had imbued her charges soon manifested itself, relieving the servants' fears and bringing smiles to their faces as the old house echoed with childish laughter and youthful energies.
And finally there were the changes i
n the master; there was no containing their gasps of dawning delight as they quickly became aware that His Grace had become a different person. And when they saw the soft looks of love exchanged between the duke and his radiant little duchess, the unspoken but patently visible chords of mutual adoration between them, they readily guessed at the source.
"I knew that sweet little thing was someone special the first day she came, Henry," said Hettie Busby to her husband the day after the entourage had arrived, "but I never guessed she had it in her to tame the likes of His Grace. Beyond hope, I thought he was. But she just went on being herself, Lord love her, and even that hard case was forced to come 'round."
And Henry had grinned at her, saying, "Oh, 'Is Grace 'as tumbled 'ard, 'e 'as, Lor' love 'im. An' a more deservin' man I've never known. Near thirty years since I seen 'im 'appy like 'e is now!"
But there was one person at Ravensford Hall who was far from happy over these latest events. Less than a day after they arrived, Lady Margaret appropriated a handful of servants and made an exit; bag and baggage, and in tight-lipped silence, she withdrew from the Hall to live in the dowager's cottage by the lake, sending only the briefest note to her grandnephew on the matter, wherein she curtly informed him that she would be sending her lady's maid to deal with Mr. Jameson regarding any of her future needs.
Ashleigh expressed dismay at the unbending attitude of Lady Margaret, and Brett shrugged, saying it was to have been expected, but Mary viewed the retreating back of her old antagonist in thoughtful silence, a pondering look in her eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Weeks passed, the warming weather and soft rains of spring melding into the sunshine of early summer. Crocuses and daffodils bloomed, leading the way for the thousands of roses that grew in the gardens at Ravensford Hall.
Life among the estate's inhabitants settled into a comfortable routine. Mary busied herself with the children, as did Ashleigh, although, since Marileigh spent more of her time awake and was not sleeping as much during the days as she had when she was younger, most of Ashleigh's daytime hours were devoted to her own child.
The nights, however, were reserved for Brett. The duke found his days consumed by the demands of his estates—neglected to some extent during the time of his confinement—so Ashleigh and he, to their chagrin, had found themselves spending most of their days apart. This had quickly elicited a pact between them: No matter what the business at hand, no matter how pressing the domestic scene around them, once the dinner hour passed, they would repair to their private chamber and see no one but each other—until well after breakfast. And if Her Grace seemed a bit eager to get through the evening feeding of their daughter, or if His Grace appeared to rush his consumption of the evening meal, no one remarked upon it; indeed, there was little reaction, save for an occasional shared wink or a smile as members of their household watched those two hold hands and ascend the stairs together, their eyes only on each other.
One morning in early June was to see an exception to all this. Ashleigh was about to send for the maid to remove the breakfast tray from the master bedchamber—she and Brett took of that repast in private, since breakfast, for them, was usually a sharing of far more than mere food—when Brett emerged from their dressing room with a grin on his face.
"How soon can you feed Marileigh and be dressed—in riding clothes?" he asked.
Ashleigh put down the hairbrush she'd been wielding, hoping to put some order into the tangled mass of curls that hung down her back before summoning the maid. "Oh, I should think—riding clothes!"
"Yes. I'm off to the stables now, and I'd like you to meet me there in an hour... that is, unless you've something better to do than accompany me on a ride—and then a picnic."
"A... picnic! Oh, Brett, do you really mean it?" She whirled sharply to face him, the brush flying out of her hand.
"Yes, I mean it," he chuckled, then opened his arms wide to catch her as she threw herself into them with a cry of delight.
"Oh, I cannot believe it!" she enthused as she clung to his neck and placed little kisses all over his laughing face. "We're to have some hours together today, then?"
Laughing and swooping her up off the floor as he swung her around, Brett answered, "The entire day, love, if you like."
"Ohhh, I like!"
He released his hold enough to let her slide down the front of him until she reached the floor; then he sucked in his breath. All she wore was a semitransparent chemise, and he'd just felt enough of the ripe curves beneath it, seen enough of the twin, rose-tipped peaks and a triangular shadow below, to become distracted.
"But if you don't hurry into something... more decorous," he breathed, his hands spanning her tiny waist and itching to travel, "the picnic will be postponed... indefinitely!"
Ashleigh felt a familiar hardness pressing against her belly, and her breathing diminished almost to nothing. She looked up, and the message in his eyes made her knees go weak. "I... a picnic could be used to accomplish more than... the partaking of food, Your Grace... if its site were to be completely private, that is."
A moment of silence followed, and then a deep rumble of laughter from her husband's chest. "In that case, Your Grace, I accept. A picnic it shall be, in the most private of places. I know just the spot!"
* * * * *
An hour later, a groom led Raven and Irish Night to where the duke and duchess waited outside the stables. As it was a warm morning, Brett wore only a white lawn shirt, minus any jabot or stock, with dove-gray breeches fitted into his shiny black riding boots. Ashleigh had donned a light blue linen riding habit, but shunned the small, feathered hat Madame Gautier had made to go with it, opting to tie her curls at the nape of her neck with a narrow blue ribbon instead.
After they were mounted, Brett dismissed the groom, then turned in his saddle to Ashleigh. "Irish Night's well behaved over fences now. I tested her yesterday afternoon, just to confirm what Old Henry told me. He completed her training himself while we were away, you know. The old curmudgeon had the impudence to wink at me, if you can imagine it, and calmly inform me he'd thought it would be only a matter of time before I brought 'Er Grace' back home, at which time he'd assumed you'd be needing a safe mount to ride."
Ashleigh laughed. "Why, that old rascal! I had no idea he was such a romantic! But Hettie tells me he is a bit superstitious. Her version of the story is that he was merely hopeful I'd return and, not wishing to give the, ah, 'spirits of safe returns,' I believe she called them, any wrong ideas, he insisted on behaving as if I were coming back any day. She says if there was any hope of dissuading him of his 'un-Christian, heathen notions' before, it's lost now."
Brett laughed too, then headed Raven out of the stable's courtyard with Ashleigh following. It warmed him to think of how fond the servants here at the Hall had grown of Ashleigh—and those in London, too. He reflected back to an evening a year ago when he'd struck a "bargain" over a tiny, blue-eyed waif he'd later made a duchess, and found himself grinning.
The woman riding beside him, he mused as he looked at the perfect, delicate profile of his wife, had proven more of a bargain than any of them had ever suspected. She was a born lady, dignified and regal in her bearing, and able to pass the true test of her station: she commanded the love and respect of those beneath her as well as those of her own class, effortlessly putting at ease all those around her. Why, even that old harridan, Margaret, was beginning to come around. She'd shocked them all just the other day by inviting Ashleigh to tea, whereupon she'd presented the new mother with a beautiful silver cup she'd had engraved for Marileigh, saying the birth of a new Westmont was worthy of a healing of their differences. And by the time the tea was over, she was clearly trying to become Ashleigh's friend. Such was the power to charm, of his lady wife!
Brett laughed at himself with a sudden realization. He hadn't made her a duchess! She had come to him already formed in that mold; he'd only set to rights what fate had seen misplaced. And thank God he had, he reminded himself so
berly. Thank God he had!
"I'll race you to that copse of trees over there," said Ashleigh, breaking his reverie.
"You think you have a prayer of winning, do you?"
She eyed the picnic hamper he had fastened to Raven's saddle, then saucily ran her gaze over his form. "Raven may be the more powerful horse, but he's carrying more weight. I refer not only to our victuals, but to a certain... ah, good-sized... muscular male body. I may win, Your Grace."
Brett drew his mount even with hers. "Oh, and what will Her Grace have as a prize if she wins?"
A slow grin emerged on Ashleigh's face. "She would have you agree to... an experiment I have in mind."
A chestnut eyebrow shot upward. "Without knowing its nature in advance?"
She shrugged, the grin still in place. "'Tis only if she wins, Your Grace."
It was Brett's turn to grin. "And if I win?"
"You've only to name your prize now."
He shook his head, his eyes meeting hers with a look of amused mischief. "I think I'll name it later."
A frown and then a pout.
"'Tis only if I win," he mimicked, grinning at her again. "Now, shall we race? Begin on the count of three. One... two..."
They took off in unison, their superbly bred horses eager to flex their muscles, each game for the win. Out of the corner of her eye Ashleigh saw Raven beside her, but beginning to nose ahead, and she leaned forward, bending low over Irish Night's neck to urge her on. The little filly responded with an additional burst of speed and began to draw ahead of the stallion.
"That's it," Ashleigh crooned to the filly. "Good girl, we can do it!" She crouched even lower, a tricky thing on a sidesaddle, but she wished to provide as little wind resistance as possible, for Brett had just asked the stallion for more speed and was getting it, the powerful horse closing the gap between them.
Continuing to murmur words of encouragement to the filly, Ashleigh let her have her head. It was just what the game little horse wanted. She shot out ahead of Raven by more than a length, and a quick glance over her shoulder told Ashleigh this came as a total surprise to Brett. But then she saw her husband hunch forward and ask the stallion for more, and she had no time to do anything but see to her mount; Irish Night, who had somehow understood Raven's challenge, was lengthening her strides even more in an all-out effort to win.