The Naked Laird
Page 10
“Yes, of course, milord. It’s just that Lady Ashton is a little busy at the moment.” Charlie nudged Ralph toward the staircase. “I’m sure—”
Bloody hell! He could guess what Jess was busy with. He lunged forward and grabbed Ralph’s arm before the man could escape. “On second thought, I shall announce myself. You may attend to my horse, sir.”
Ralph stared at Ash’s hand as if it belonged to Death.
“But, milord,” Charlie sputtered, “please. You will truly be much more comfortable in the parlor while Ralph fetches Lady Ashton.” He smiled nervously. “I’ll bring you a nice bottle of brandy.”
“No.” He knew what he would see upstairs, but he needed to see it. He needed to feel the pain to remember why he could not let Jess stay in his heart. “Where is she?”
Charlie and Ralph looked at each other again, their shoulders slumping as they realized the futility of resisting him.
“The studio, milord,” Charlie said.
There hadn’t been a studio when he’d lived here. “Where?”
“Top floor,” Ralph said. “First door on the left.”
Where the nursery had been. Damn.
He dropped his hold on Ralph and started up the stairs.
Jessica, Marchioness of Ashton, mixed more brown into the white paint on her palette. She could not get Roger’s skin color right today. She swiped her brush with the new tint over his stomach.
No, that was wrong, too.
“You really should talk about it, you know.”
Jess glanced up from her easel to glare at Roger, reclining naked on a red chaise longue. “Talk about what? ”
Roger just lifted one of his eyebrows.
He knew, of course. She’d been in a foul mood since before Valentine’s Day. It was a bad time every year, but this year had been by far the worst. Her fit of the dismals had lasted over a month.
She dropped her eyes back to her canvas. “There’s nothing to say.”
Blast it, she did not care what Kit did. If he wanted to fornicate with Ellie—
No, she wasn’t blue-deviled just because her husband had likely been committing adultery with their childhood friend during his mother’s annual house party. Ellie still lived at the vicarage. If Kit wanted to have immoral relations with her, he could do so anytime he liked. Hell, if even half the rumors were true, the rakish Marquis of Ashton had visited countless beds in the eight years of his marriage, yet he’d never—not once—visited Jess’s.
Which was fine with her. He’d never pretended to love her, so why wouldn’t he flit from one willing female to the next?
The problem this year was Kit had just turned thirty. He would want to start his nursery soon, so he would have to divorce her. Finally, her marriage would be over—and that was what was causing her stupid heart to feel as if it were made of lead.
She frowned at her palette. Painting and drawing had always been her escape. She just needed to focus. She’d feel better eventually. Not happy—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt really happy—but at least not so morose.
Hmm. Roger’s skin was closer to olive. Maybe she should try a touch of yellow? She mixed in just a little ...
Oh, blast, now the color looked like what her dog hacked up after eating grass.
Roger snorted, shifting position slightly. “There’s plenty to say, as well you know.”
“Don’t be an ass. And keep still. I’m never going to get this painting right if you fidget.” She started over, mixing brown paint into white again.
Most people would say she’d landed on her feet. She’d had a roof—a very comfortable roof—over her head and food on the table for eight years, as well as plenty of paint and canvas and brushes. For someone who was little better than a servant, it was a dream come true.
And she was little better than a servant. She was the daughter of an Irish groom and his seamstress wife, for God’s sake, and Kit was the Marquis of Ashton and would one day be the Duke of Greycliffe. The whole thing had been madness from the moment she’d fallen in love with him all those years ago.
That was the real problem—the fact that she did indeed love her husband. She’d tried not to, but she’d never been able to weed the emotion out of her heart. It was like thistle; its roots ran deep, spreading into every corner of her life.
“If you want me to be still,” Roger said, “you’d best put more coals on the brazier. I don’t know why you insist on painting me without a stitch of clothing when the snow has barely melted from the fields.” Roger leered at her. “Just can’t resist my manly physique, can you?”
She slammed down her brush, causing a bit of brown paint to spatter over her palette. “Don’t flatter yourself. A still life of a dead bird would be far more tempting—and easier to paint. Damn it, why can’t you be as pale as a proper Englishman?”
“Blame my Italian mother.”
“Your poor mother.” She started for the coal bin. “She—ack!” Oh, hell, she’d forgotten Kit, her enormous black dog, was stretched out at her feet. She tripped on him, pitched forward, and went crashing to the floor.
Kit’s deep, loud bark almost drowned out Roger’s cursing. They’d both leapt up and were now staring down at her.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course. I’m fine.” Her lace cap had been knocked askew, and a large quantity of her straight, thick hair had escaped its pins—it was hard enough to keep it under control in the best of circumstances.
She sat up and ripped off the cap, letting her hair tumble down her back. She clearly wasn’t going to get any good painting done today. She might as well give up. Maybe if she went for a long walk, the cold air would shock some sense into her.
Kit licked her face, and she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his long, black coat. He’d been her one loyal companion since she’d got him as a puppy, a few years after she’d come to the manor. “Oh, you big fluff. I’m sorry I tripped on you. Are you all right?”
He barked again.
“Not in my ear, you silly dog! You’ll deafen me.”
“Here, let me help you up.” Roger extended his hand.
His male bit was dangling right at her eye level.
She admired all aspects of the human body, but this poor part was ungainly and, well, ugly. It really was best hidden by a fig leaf or a pair of well-fitted pantaloons. And it wasn’t only Roger’s that was unattractive; she’d painted enough of the male servants to know the organ’s homeliness was universal.
Percy’s had been—
Ugh! She would not think about Percy.
But the rest of Roger was lovely. He had long limbs, broad shoulders, and well-defined muscles. He was by far her favorite model.
She let him haul her to her feet.
“You’re certain you’re all right?” he asked.
“Yes, of course.” She tugged on her hand, but he didn’t relinquish it.
“I was afraid you’d hurt yourself.”
She made a face at him. “The only thing hurt is my pride.” She tugged again.
“Well, that’s good.” He finally let her go, but only so he could grab her shoulders. He shook her a little. “Jess, you know you can’t keep living this way.”
“Living what way?” She dropped her eyes to his collarbone. She’d likely mixed too much brown into the white paint. Perhaps if she—
“You know. Married, but not married.”
Her eyes snapped back up to scowl at him. Blast it, she knew everyone in the house worried about her, but until now everyone had been kind enough to hold his tongue. Why was Roger bringing the subject up when he knew she was so terribly out of sorts?
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She put her hands on his chest and pushed, but his grip on her shoulders only tightened.
“In the four years I’ve been here, I’ve never seen you really happy, Jess. Dennis and I were just discussing it last night.”
Dennis Walker was the estate manager and Roger’s lover.
His mouth was set in an unpleasantly mulish line. “But you don’t have a husband.”
“I do have a husband.” That was the whole problem.
“But not in your bed.”
A hot, odd yearning exploded in her stomach. “Damn it, Roger, didn’t you hear me? I do not wish to talk about my marriage.”
Roger ignored her. “Every year, when the marquis’s birthday approaches, you get quieter and quieter. This year has been the worst. Valentine’s Day is more than a month gone, and you’re still dragging around as if it were yesterday.”
“You are mistaken.”
Roger lifted his damn eyebrow again.
“And even if you’re not, it will pass.”
He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Until it comes again next year and the year after and the year after that. Your life is drifting away, Jess. Is that really what you want?”
“No, of course not.” Damnation, her voice broke. She bit the inside of her cheek and willed herself not to cry. She was tired, that was all. She hadn’t been sleeping well lately.
“Dennis and I think it’s time you faced your husband.”
Dennis and he had been far too busy about her business. “No.”
“I don’t know what he did—”
“He didn’t do anything.” Her predicament was her own fault. She should never have let things with Percy go so far. She just hadn’t been thinking clearly.
Why Kit had offered for her ... She’d never understood that, but she definitely should not have accepted.
“—but he should settle things now. And if he won’t come to the manor, you need to go to him.”
She stared at Roger. Go to Kit? Go to Greycliffe Castle and see the duke and the duchess and Ellie and Kit’s brothers and perhaps Percy?
She was going to throw up.
“You can do it, Jess. You have to.”
“No, I...”
But things couldn’t get any worse than they were, could they? It was just a matter of time. Kit was going to divorce her anyway. Why wait?
She squeezed her eyes shut, took a deep breath, and then nodded. “All right.”
Roger grinned. “That’s the spirit.” He threw his arms around her, apparently forgetting he was naked, and hugged her.
She hugged him back, since leaving her hands on his chest was uncomfortable and letting them dangle risked encountering portions of his anatomy she’d rather avoid. And she did love him. He was the brother she’d never had. He was funny and kind and maddening and bossy.
And he had terrible timing.
The door flew open right at that moment, and she jerked her head around to see who’d come all the way up to the studio.
Oh, bloody, bloody hell.
She stared directly into her husband’s furious eyes.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A native of Washington, DC, Sally MacKenzie still lives in suburban Maryland with her transplanted upstate New Yorker husband. She’s written federal regulations, school newsletters, auction programs, class plays, and swim league guidance, but it wasn’t until the first of her four sons headed off to college that she tried her hand at romance. She can be reached by e-mail at write sally@comcast.net or by snail mail at P.O. Box 2453, Kensington, MD 20891.
Please visit her home in cyberspace at www.sallymackenzie.net.
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DON’T MISS A CHANCE TO GET NAKED!
All seven books in Sally MacKenzie’s sexy Regency romance series are available now in both Zebra mass-market paperback and eBook format.
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Copyright © 2009 by Sally MacKenzie
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ISBN: 978-1-4201-3397-4
First Electronic Edition: November 2013