Loving Lord Ash

by Sally MacKenzie

  “Walker, I expect a footman on duty at the main door at all times, especially if it is unlocked. There was no one there when I arrived.”

  “Yes, my lord. I shall discuss the matter with Charlie.”

  It was odd that Walker referred to the fellow by his first name, but he was beginning to think there was a great deal that was odd about the management of Blackweith Manor. Well, he couldn’t worry about that now. He’d put this house in order once he’d dealt with the disorder of his marriage.

  “And be sure he and the other man—Ralph, I believe it was—understand the importance of looking presentable. I don’t know what they were doing, but they were both adjusting their livery when they finally appeared in the entryway.”

  Did Walker blush?

  “Yes, my lord. Indeed. I will be certain to speak to them.”

  The White Stag was like any other inn. It was dark and smelled of cooking, stale ale, and smoke.

  Winthrop, the innkeeper, looked up as Ash entered. His eyes widened. “Milord, we haven’t seen ye in many a year.”

  In eight years, to be precise. He’d deposited Jess at Blackweith Manor and then spent the night here, alone, before returning to Greycliffe Castle.

  He didn’t want to think about that night. He’d been furious with Jess and with himself. Desire had cramped his loins; desolation had echoed in his soul.

  He’d felt much as he did now.

  “I need a room for the night.”

  “Not staying at the manor, then, milord?”

  He just looked at Winthrop. He bloody wouldn’t be standing here if he were staying at the manor.

  Winthrop comprehended. The man’s face paled slightly. “Right, then. Would ye be wishing to go up straightaway, milord?”

  Yes.

  No. He was going to find an accommodating serving girl, wasn’t he? He was going to lose his damn virginity.

  “I’ll take a glass of ale and something to eat in the common room.”

  Winthrop nodded. “Very good, milord. I’ll just have your bag taken up, shall I?”

  “Thank you.”

  The common room was crowded, but there was one empty table in the far corner by the window. Ash made his way to it, ignoring all the stares and whispers. Damnation. He’d hoped no one would recognize him, but of course everyone did. He might not have been here for eight years, but Jess’s scandalous goings on had kept him present in people’s minds.

  He gestured for the barmaid’s attention, not that he needed to do so. She was staring at him like everyone else.

  He watched her approach. She had blond hair and large breasts and a saucy swing to her generous hips. She was nothing like Jess.

  Thank God.

  “What can I get ye, milord?” She leaned forward so he could admire her breasts more thoroughly and gave him a suggestive smile.

  Good. This would be easier than he’d thought. She was clearly expecting to be invited into his bed. He wouldn’t have to spell it out.

  If only she didn’t smell quite so much of onions and garlic.

  “I’ll have a glass of ale and some roast beef.”

  “And would ye like some of Cook’s trifle, too?” Her pink tongue peeked out to slowly wet her lips. “Or would ye rather have something else for dessert?”

  This was quite bold.

  But boldness was a good thing. He forced himself to smile. He should say yes. He cleared his throat. “I’ll, er, think about it.”

  Her brows rose in surprise.

  “To see if I’m still hungry.” Oh, God, he hadn’t said that, had he?

  She stared at him a moment longer, clearly puzzled, and then shrugged. “I’ll just be getting yer food then.”

  He watched her swing her hips back to the kitchen. All the other men watched, too, and then turned to look at him before resuming their conversations.

  He looked out the window. It was too dark now to see anything but his own reflection.

  If he took this woman up to his room, everyone would know it. He would shame Jess—

  He clenched his fists. Hell, she’d shamed him. He’d only be giving her exactly what she deserved.

  The thought did not make him happy.

  He looked down at the scarred table. The lump in his stomach was just nerves. He was the only thirty-year-old male virgin in England, if not the world. Once he got this girl into bed, nature would take its course. He would enjoy the experience, just like all men did. He certainly had dreamt of it often enough.

  And always with Jess.

  Blast it, he was not going to be having sexual congress with Jess ever, and he did not wish to go to his grave a virgin. He couldn’t. It was his duty to get an heir.

  At least it looked as if his brother Ned would marry Ellie, so the burden wasn’t entirely on him any longer.

  The barmaid was back. He’d swear she’d tugged her bodice lower; he could almost see her nipples. Her breasts were huge white globes, like engorged cow udders.

  True, he’d never particularly admired large-breasted women, but that was not the point here. The point was to rid himself of his lamentable virginity.

  She leaned over to deposit his plate and mug. Now her breasts reminded him of someone’s buttocks.

  That was not what he was supposed to be thinking.

  He took a large swallow of ale. Courage. Determination. “What is your name?”

  “Nan, milord.” She batted her eyelashes. “I’ve a few minutes. Would ye like me to sit with ye while ye eat?”

  His stomach twisted. “I don’t want to keep you from your work.”

  Idiot! He was supposed to say yes. Yes, please.

  She shrugged and her breasts threatened to hit him in the nose. “Fanny will wait on the other lads for a while.”

  He looked over toward the kitchen. An older woman was watching them. She smiled and waggled her brows. Oh, damn. Clearly there was no such thing as privacy at the White Stag. He might as well jump onto the table and announce his plans.

  Well, there was nothing for it. “Very well. I could stand to have—”

  She plopped down on the bench next to him.

  “—some company.”

  She pressed up against his side. The smell of onions and garlic—and, sadly, body odor—was overwhelming.

  He stuck his fork in his beef. He should eat. He hadn’t had any food since he’d broken his fast this morning.

  The meat was tough and stringy. The inn hadn’t been known for its cuisine eight years ago, and it appeared the cooking had not improved.

  “Have ye come to fetch Lady Ashton, then, milord?”

  He put his fork down. He had no appetite at all. “No.”

  He did not wish to discuss Jess.

  The girl nodded. “That’s what we figured.” She looked at him from under her lashes. “Ye know we’re jealous of yer lady, milord. She has all those handsome men around her at the manor. She must be sorely tempted.” She batted her lashes. “Not that ye aren’t as handsome as any of them, o’ course, but ye’ve been away.” She looked down and put her hand on his thigh, quite close to his cock—his sadly flaccid cock, completely unmoved by her nearness. “Ye must know people say she’s had no trouble keeping warm at night.”

  The image of that bloody footman, Bagley, slammed into his mind, quickly followed by the vision of Jess with her hair hanging down her back . . .

  That image caused his cock to stir.

  He shifted so Nan’s hand slipped off his leg. “I do not discuss my wife.”

  The girl’s lower lip jutted out. “I only wanted to offer ye some comfort, milord. Ye must be lonely.”

  He was lonely. Terribly lonely.

  He looked over the room. The men, who’d all been watching as avidly as any London gossip, returned their attention to their meals.

  He should take Nan up to his room. Jess deserved it.

  But Nan didn’t deserve to be used in such a fashion. She should be taken in love or at least in lust, not in anger. Not because he wished to
hurt his wife.

  And in any event, the question was academic. It would not just be Jess who would be mortified if he brought this girl to his bed. His cock was clearly unwilling to rise to the occasion unless Jess was involved. It now lay between his thighs as if dead.

  He felt dead. All he wanted to do was take a bottle of brandy upstairs and get blindingly, numbingly drunk.

  “Thank you, Nan, but I find I am not feeling quite the thing. I believe I’ll retire for the night.”

  She smiled hopefully.

  “Alone.”

  Chapter Three

  Fear is rarely a good companion.

  —Venus’s Love Notes

  “It’s over, blast it. It’s finally over. I’m bloody happy it’s over.” Jess threw her private sketchbook, the one she used for the drawings only she would see, at the fire, but the pages caught the air, and the book fluttered to the floor, inches short of her target.

  Roger, leaning against the mantel, bent over and picked it up.

  “Give me that.” She almost stepped on Kit’s tail in her hurry to grab the book, but Roger held it over his head.

  “No. You’ve been drawing in this for as long as I’ve known you, Jess. It must be important, since you never show it to anyone. I will not let you consign it to the flames.”

  The book was full of pictures of Kit. She stretched to grab it from him. “Don’t you dare look inside.”

  “Of course I won’t.” Roger’s expression was a mixture of disgust and pity. “You know me better than that.”

  She did know him better. What was the matter with her? She pushed her hair off her face. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re merely feeling a trifle overset,” Dennis said, pausing in his pacing by the door.

  They were in her bedroom, which looked like a whirlwind had hit it. Her valise was open on her bed, and everything she owned was strewn about. She had pulled things out of drawers, then put them back, then pulled them out again, all while arguing with—and sometimes shouting at—Roger and Dennis.

  Her maid, Dennis’s older sister Helena, had fled an hour ago, unable to stand the battle raging around her. Kit was hiding under the bed—all of him but his tail.

  “A trifle overset?” Roger snorted. “She’s dicked in the nob.” He glared at her. “Get back to packing, Jess. You need to go after your husband tonight if you want to have any hope of saving your marriage.”

  Roger was the bedlamite here. “Didn’t you hear Lord Ashton? It’s already too late. He wants nothing more to do with me.”

  Kit was going to divorce her. She was going to lose him forever. Oh, God. Pain lanced through her, so intense she could barely breathe.

  “Of course I heard him,” Roger said. “Surely you weren’t surprised? Zeus, Jess, I was stark naked, and you had your arms around me. Of course he said he’s washed his hands of you.”

  “But it meant nothing.” She dragged her hair out of her face again and tried to breathe. “It was completely innocent.”

  Why the hell had Kit arrived at that precise moment? Damnation, she really did have the world’s worst luck. The time with Percy, that, she’d admit, hadn’t been innocent. Stupid, desperate, but not innocent. But this time—

  Oh, what did it matter? Kit would never believe her. He would divorce her, and Roger . . .

  “You should not lose your position over it, Roger. You were only trying to help, and now Lord Ashton is throwing you out of the house.”

  “But not until tomorrow,” Dennis said.

  “And Roger should be happy for that?”

  “Jess,” Roger said, “I am happy. I’m damned relieved. For a moment there, I was certain your husband was going to tear my head—and other precious parts—from my body.”

  “Yes.” Dennis gripped the doorjamb. “I was terrified Lord Ashton would do Roger an injury.”

  Of course Dennis would worry about Roger. They were like an old married couple.

  “Oh, you needn’t have been concerned. Lord Ashton doesn’t fight.” She’d flown to Kit’s defense on more than one occasion when they were children and Percy had been teasing Kit, not that he’d ever thanked her for her efforts. And the time she’d seen Percy and Kit actually come to blows, Percy had bloodied Kit’s nose.

  If she were being truthful, she’d admit she’d always admired how calm, rational, and controlled Kit was, but his lack of reaction was also infuriating. If he’d railed at her when he’d found her with Percy, she would have yelled back, and perhaps they would have settled what was between them.

  Who the hell was she trying to fool? There was nothing between them—the feelings were all on her side. A marquis couldn’t love a groom’s daughter.

  But they had been friends once.

  “I’m sure with enough provocation Lord Ashton would fight—and he was extremely provoked today.” Roger grinned. “I’d wager my next quarter’s wages—if I were going to get any wages next quarter—that he’d strip to advantage.”

  “Oh, yes.” Dennis sounded far too enthusiastic. “He’s one of those tall, wiry men who are often surprisingly strong. And well muscled.”

  “Mmm.” Roger nodded. “Lean and long. And controlled— don’t forget how angry he was. I wouldn’t mind watching him go a few rounds.”

  Were these two lusting after her husband? “Well, you’re both wrong. I told you the marquis doesn’t fight. I doubt he knows how to.”

  Roger raised a brow. “When have you seen Lord Ashton fight?”

  “A few years ago.” Why were they looking at her that way? “When we were children.”

  Roger snorted. “Children? Come, Jess. Your husband is not a child any longer.” He grinned lasciviously. “I suspect you’d find him most, ah, inspiring if you were to paint him without his shirt and pantaloons.”

  An odd, embarrassing heat bloomed in her gut. Her skin—her breasts—suddenly felt overly sensitive.

  And then a thin finger of panic curled around her heart. She could not let herself think of Kit that way. If she did, the emptiness in her life would swallow her.

  “He was only angry because he thought you’d cuckolded him, Roger. You hurt his pride. Hopefully he’ll reconsider by tomorrow and let you stay on.”

  Roger gave her a long look. “You don’t believe that, do you?”

  “What do you mean? Of course I believe it. It’s the truth.”

  “No, it’s not. I wouldn’t have thought it, since he’s stayed away so long, but your husband loves you, Jess.”

  Hope fluttered momentarily in her breast.

  She squashed it. Roger couldn’t know. She’d never told him about Percy. She’d never discussed the details with Dennis, either. “No, he doesn’t. Trust me, our marriage was a mistake Lord Ashton regretted the moment the offer left his lips.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes again. Where was the blasted cord she used to tie it back? Her pins had fallen all over the floor.

  Ah, there it was. She stepped over Kit’s tail and snatched it off her pillow.

  “I think Roger’s right,” Dennis said. He almost always thought Roger was right. “The marquis has very strong feelings for you, Jess.”

  “Yes. Hatred and disgust.”

  “No,” Roger said. “Love and passion.”

  What was the matter with the man? He wasn’t usually as thick as a post. “Damnation, Roger. You can’t know what Lord Ashton is feeling. You aren’t . . . that is, you don’t . . .”

  She jerked her hair back and tied it with the cord. Roger wasn’t the least bit interested in women. When she was painting him, his male bit was floppy and small. But let Dennis walk into the room, and it sprang up, growing to twice its size. It was very annoying if that happened to be the part of him she was painting at the time.

  And it wasn’t just Roger and Dennis; all the men at the manor were that way. Dennis had explained things in a rather roundabout fashion when she’d arrived.

  At first she was shocked, but she soon realized the situation was very much to her advantage. Th
e men were polite, neat, and orderly, and she never had to repulse an improper advance. She felt safe. Yes, the neighbors talked, but they’d talk even if she had only female servants. There was no avoiding the fact that she was the Marquis of Ashton’s discarded bride.

  Well, all right, the neighbors wouldn’t say quite the same things if her servants were all female. Everyone thought she had a male harem at the manor. It was annoying, but there was nothing to be done about it. She certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone what was really going on. Men of Dennis’s and Roger’s ilk weren’t safe in society if their true interests were known.

  “I may not be attracted to women,” Roger was saying, “but I still understand love and passion.” His gaze rested on Dennis.

  She wished Kit would look at her that way.

  And then he looked back at her. “Trust me, Jess. Lord Ashton loves you rather desperately.”

  “No, he doesn’t.” Roger was at heart a starry-eyed romantic who, like the ancient Roman poet Virgil, thought love conquered all. Ha! If she went to Kit now and threw herself at his feet, he’d just kick her in the teeth.

  It was over. Hell, it had never begun. She needed to move on, to make plans. First she’d need a place to live, but where could she go?

  She studied Roger. He had his hands on his hips and a look of extreme exasperation on his face.

  Hmm. Kit was tossing him out, too. It was unlikely he’d find a situation like the one at Blackweith, but if he went back to London, his mother would be after him to take a wife. He was actually a baron, and his mother understandably thought he should be busy getting an heir, even though he had a perfectly pleasant younger brother to inherit and ensure that the title continued. It was one of the reasons he’d left Town—that, and the fear that his, er, special interests would be discovered.

  A sham marriage might be the perfect solution to both their problems.

  “Roger, will you marry me?”

  Roger’s eyebrows shot up. “What? Are you daft?”

  “No. Think about it.” It was a good idea. Not a great one, but at least it would keep her from sleeping in the hedgerows. And she did like Roger. “Once Ash divorces me, I’ll be more of an outcast than I am already. I won’t even have a roof over my head.”