He heard the soft rustle of cloth behind him as Jess removed her coat and bonnet, and his cock throbbed.
No, he didn’t want to throttle her. He wanted to strip her out of her dress and stays and shift, lay her on that bed that was just a few steps away, and bury himself deep inside her.
If only he’d opened the door eight years ago when they’d stopped at the inn on the way to the manor. He’d heard the latch rattle. It had taken all his control—well, and the bottle of brandy he’d consumed—to keep him sprawled in his chair. If he’d let her in, hauled her into his bed...
No. She’d been with Percy. She might have had Percy’s get growing in her womb.
She was his wife. He had the right to her body. She’d come here and bade him close the door so they could be alone. She was asking him to take her.
He pressed his forehead harder against the door. No, she wasn’t. He didn’t know why she was here, but it wasn’t for that. And even if it were for that, he couldn’t give in to his urges. Just like the last time they were in an inn together, she might be carrying another man’s child.
“Are you ever going to come away from the door?”
Control. He needed control. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“I do not see the need for discussion, madam.” He turned to face her. Zeus, why the hell did she have to be so beautiful? “There is nothing to say.”
He’d always loved how her dark hair contrasted with her pale skin and how her eyebrows tilted up at the ends. And she had such lovely cheekbones and a straight nose that was perhaps too strong for beauty but which fit her face perfectly....
Blast it, she was a Siren. He’d caught her twice in the arms of a naked man, and yet he still wanted her.
Her jaw flexed. “There is much to say.” She glanced down to pat her dog and then met his eyes again. “You arrived at a very awkward moment.”
God give him strength. “At least this time your legs weren’t spread for the fellow. I count myself fortunate to have missed that sight.”
He thought she flushed, though it was hard to know for certain in the flickering candlelight.
“Roger is a friend. He poses for me when I wish to paint the male form.”
Ah, yes. Painting the male form, just as she’d been supposedly painting Percy. “He’s your friend, is he? Your very special friend, no doubt.”
Her dog did not care for his tone. The animal growled.
“Hush, Kit. Lord Ashton is just barking; he won’t bite. Go lie down by the fire.”
He half wished she was wrong about that, but she wasn’t. Even her extreme provocation could not move him to violence. If only the damn footman were here. He’d very much enjoy beating him to a pulp.
He watched the dog amble over to stretch out on the hearth. “Why the hell did you name him after me?” And to use his Christian name . . . Jess had been the only one ever to call him Kit. Even his parents used his title. Hearing her say it now, and to an animal—
He’d thought she couldn’t hurt him any more, but she kept finding new ways to turn the knife in his gut.
She ignored his question. “Yes, Roger is a very special friend, Lord Ashton. I love him . . . as a brother.”
Zeus! “It is a very good thing you have no brothers then, madam. He was naked, for God’s sake.”
“Of course he was naked. I was painting him.”
“You were embracing him.” Did she think him a complete dolt? Perhaps she did. He’d married her after he’d caught her with her skirts around her ears and Percy between her thighs. She likely thought he would forgive her any sin. Well, she was very much mistaken.
“No. He was embracing me.”
“Oh, really? It looked to me as if you were an enthusiastic participant. Your arms were around the man.”
“Yes, but that was only so I wouldn’t—” She bit her lip, grasped her hands in front of her, and actually glared at him. “Roger was only hugging me because I’d agreed to finally seek you out to discuss the state of our marriage. There was nothing at all salacious about it.”
Their marriage. Yes. Their nonexistent marriage that he was going to put an end to. She was trying to distract him, pretending she’d been thinking of seeing him. Hell, her constant lies were as bad as her whoring.
He forced down his rage. He would not lose control. He would treat her to an icy silence.
His mouth had other ideas. “Just as there was nothing salacious about your encounter with Percy?”
He most definitely should not have drunk so much brandy on an empty stomach.
“Yes. No.” At least she had the grace to look guilty. “Nothing actually happened with Percy.”
A red haze bloomed in front of his eyes. He clenched his fists, digging his fingernails into his flesh. “Forgive me for doubting you on that, madam. I was there, if you will remember. I saw him swiving you.”
His stomach twisted, threatening to rid itself of the brandy he’d drunk. He swallowed determinedly. He would not so embarrass himself before this jade.
The jade had the gall to scowl at him. “No, you didn’t. I stopped him before it came to that.”
“He said he’d had you.” Percy had got up and offered them—him and Morton, one of Mama’s guests, and Alfred, a footman—their turn with her since he was done.
Oh, God. His stomach rebelled again. That had been the worst few minutes of his life. He’d wanted to think it was rape, but Jess had not been struggling, and when he’d accused Percy of violence, she hadn’t disputed the man’s assertion that she’d been a willing participant.
He shoved the memory away.
“He was lying. I . . . he . . .” Jess was definitely flushing now, as well she might. “I stopped him.”
How stupid did she think he was? He might be a virgin, completely inexperienced with women, but he knew copulation when he saw it. He’d grown up in the country. He’d observed enough animals busy about the business.
“Percy was naked and between your thighs. I think we both know how the thing is done.”
“But it wasn’t done. I said I stopped him before he”—she looked away—“before it came to that.”
She’d said that at the time. He hadn’t believed her then, and he didn’t believe her now. There was no way in hell a man in Percy’s position would stop. And that wasn’t all.
“Jesus, Jess. Your poor father wasn’t even cold in his grave.” O’Brien, her father and their head groom, the best horseman in the county, had broken his neck going over a jump just days before.
She narrowed her eyes. “I know that. Why do you think I—” She pressed her lips tightly together.
Zeus, had she been holding on to her virginity so as not to embarrass her father? He’d heard she was a bit of a flirt and that some of the footmen and male guests had stolen kisses, but he’d never completely believed the whisperings—she’d certainly never flirted with him—and even so, he’d never thought she’d go beyond kisses.
He was a naive idiot.
“I’m surprised you knew about my father,” she said now.
Did she sound hurt? “Of course I knew. My father told me as soon as I got home.”
“Oh? I thought—” She bit her lip again. “Never mind.”
“You thought what?”
“That you would have come to see me.” Her voice was a bit shrill; her dog lifted his head at the sound and gave a muted woof. “Though of course you were much too busy, and I was only a groom’s daughter.”
He felt a twinge of guilt. He’d wanted to seek her out. He’d been shocked by her father’s death, and he knew—or he’d thought—she’d be distraught. Her mother had died when she was very young, before she’d come to the castle, and she’d always been very close to her father.
But Mama had been having one of her matchmaking house parties, and Lady Charlotte, the daughter of the Duke of Delton, had stuck to him like a burr. It hadn’t been until the next afternoon that he’d been able to free himself of her dogged pursuit
and slip off to the cottage he and Jess used as a studio, and then Morton, who fancied himself an artist, had invited himself along. To make matters even worse, Alfred happened upon them just as Ash was opening the cottage door. Jess and Percy had had quite the audience.
Oh, God. Every time he remembered that scene, his stomach twisted.
There’d been no hope of hushing up the scandal. Morton might not have mentioned it—Jess was only a groom’s daughter—but Alfred would have spread the tale far and wide. The footman was as bad as the worst London gossip. Ash had made it clear he was not to breathe a word of what he’d seen, but he wasn’t certain the man could hold his tongue for long.
Not that he should have cared. Jess deserved everything she got. But . . .
If word had got round, she would not have been able to find a husband or get a position, even if Mama would give her a reference, which he hadn’t been entirely sure she would. Jess would have been alone and unprotected.
Which had been no reason for him to sacrifice himself to save her, damn it.
“I did come see you—and look what I saw you doing.”
She flinched as if he’d hit her—and then her jaw hardened.
“It was more than a day after you arrived home.” She looked over at her dog again. “Not that it mattered.”
“I had responsibilities.” He didn’t need to explain himself to her.
“Yes. Of course. Your mother’s guests.”
Good God, was she trying to make him think that her spreading her legs for Percy was somehow his fault?
He should have washed his hands of her, but she was his friend and, yes, he’d loved her. She’d looked defiant and angry that day, but also lost, standing there with her hair falling out of its pins and her clothes awry. And he’d seen something he’d never seen before in her eyes—fear and despair. He’d offered for her without thinking.
And see where it had got him? Married to a woman who was no better than a whore. Was there a man within a ten-mile radius of the manor that she hadn’t graced with her favors?
“Why did you do it, Jess? Why did you let Percy touch you?”
She flushed. “I thought Percy loved me.”
“Percy?” He laughed. “Come, madam, you must know Percy loves no one but himself.”
She did know it.
No, that wasn’t true. She’d thought Percy cared for her. It might not have been love, but she would have sworn it was more than lust, though he did lust after her as well. He’d been pursuing her since she’d turned fifteen and grown breasts.
She looked at the tall, angry man still standing by the door. It had never mattered if Percy had loved her or not. She had always loved Kit. She’d thought—or perhaps she’d only hoped—that he’d felt something for her, too, something maybe not quite love but more than friendship.
But she’d never had the courage to find out. She hadn’t wanted to risk losing his friendship. If she’d flirted with Kit and he’d repulsed her, she’d be left with nothing.
Apparently she’d always been afraid to risk too much with him.
And then her father had died, and she’d panicked. Could Kit understand that?
No. Her husband was the Marquis of Ashton and would someday be the Duke of Greycliffe. He had wealth and property and prestige and a family who loved him. His position in the world was assured. He likely had never had to worry about anything.
She was the only spot of tarnish on his silver spoon.
But he had married her. She might have made a mistake with Percy—she had made a mistake—but Kit had not been compelled to offer himself as a sacrifice. It was his fault they were wed.
Well, and hers, too. She should have told him no. But she’d been desperate, with her father dead and no family to turn to, no way to earn her living. And she’d wanted Kit. She’d thought their friendship and her love could trump her lack of social standing.
She’d thought she could persuade him to love her.
Roger had said he already did, but Roger was mistaken. Lord Ashton did not look at all amorous at the moment. He looked disdainful and angry.
Well, she was stuck here, and she’d promised Roger—and herself—that she would try to reach a bargain with the marquis. She clasped her hands together—she would keep a tight rein on her temper and her unruly tongue—and took a deep breath. Best to start with an apology. “Lord Ashton, I deeply regret the scene with Percy you saw so many years ago.”
He snorted. “And do you also regret what happened with your footman just a few hours ago?”
Could the bloody man be more supercilious? He looked like he had a poker up his arse.
“Damnation, Kit. How many times do I have to say it? Nothing happened with Roger!”
All right, perhaps she wasn’t going to be able to control her temper. Unlike Kit. His expression hadn’t changed. The blasted man never lost control—
Except when he’d seen her with Percy, and again today with Roger. Then there’d been a crack in his almighty restraint. Maybe he did feel something for her besides his current disgust.
And maybe fairies painted the grass with frost in the nighttime.
“You can say it as many times as you wish, madam. Repetition will not make it true.”
If he called her madam once more, she would kick him in the shins.
“Why the hell did you marry me, Kit, if you find me so revolting? You weren’t the one who compromised me—not that a servant can really be compromised. And I certainly didn’t expect you to offer for me.”
Blast, she hadn’t meant to say that, either.
Kit’s brows shot up and then slammed down again. He looked away. “I don’t think you’re revolting.” His voice was strained. He shrugged. “But I’ll admit offering for you was a mistake.”
Pain lanced through her. So he agreed . . .
And he was looking down his aristocratic nose at her again, blast it all. She was tired of it.
“It’s not as if you’ve been a saint either, you know. I’ve read the newspapers and heard all the rumors.”
He looked surprised. “And what do they say?”
He must know very well what they said. “They go on and on about your countless amatory exploits, of course.” Some had even suggested Kit loved men as well as women, but she’d discounted those stories. Roger or Dennis would have told her if that were the case. “And they claim you’ve had a long-standing liaison with Ellie.”
She was very happy she’d been able to say Ellie’s name without her voice breaking.
Kit snorted. “That’s ridiculous. There is nothing between Ellie and me.”
Oh! He was either an excellent actor or what he said was true—at least now, because she believed him. She started to smile—
Wait. Ellie wasn’t the only woman who he’d been linked to. He’d consorted with many ladies, some as highborn as he . . .
“Between you and someone else then? Is that why you want to end our marriage now—because you’re in love?” Oh, God, yet another thing she hadn’t meant to say, but the notion had just popped into her head. It made perfect sense. It hadn’t been his birthday, but his heart that had sent him riding to the manor.
She’d thought her own heart couldn’t get any heavier, but she’d been mistaken.
His face twisted with distaste. “I do not believe in love.”
It would be sadly ironic if the Duchess of Love’s oldest son truly did not believe in love, but Jess was happy to hear it hadn’t been that emotion that had sent him journeying to the manor.
Perhaps there was still hope for her marriage.
“Jess,” he said, finally coming away from the door, “let’s not argue. You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to throw you out on the street. I’ll make arrangements—settle some money on you. You won’t go hungry or homeless.”
He would, too. He’d find her a nice little cottage and likely keep her in paint and brushes as well. It was what she wanted, wasn’t it? To be left alone to paint.
; No. She’d tried over the years to convince herself that was indeed all she wanted, but now, having seen Kit again . . . Roger was right—she needed to decide if she still loved her husband, and if he could be persuaded to love her.
She took a deep breath and grasped her courage with both hands. “I have a proposal for you.”
His eyebrows rose. “A proposal? What—”
Someone knocked on the door. Kit looked at her. “Is that whoever brought you to the inn checking to see if I’ve murdered you?”
She’d wondered when Kit would realize he was stuck with her, at least for the night. “Oh, no. Roger left after he dropped me off. I don’t know who that could be.”
Good God. He stared at Jess. She was here until the morning. Here in his room. In his bedroom.
Surely the inn had another chamber available.
The idiot in the corridor knocked again, blast it. Ash turned, grabbed the handle, and flung the door open.
Winthrop stood there, his hand raised to knock once more.
Good. He could ask the fellow about procuring a room for Jess.
The innkeeper was looking her up and down as if she were a clod of horse dung someone had tracked into his inn. “Milord, would ye like me to have this woman removed?”
Jess made a small, pained sound. Anger surged through Ash.
“‘This woman,’ Winthrop, is my wife, the Marchioness of Ashton, as well you know. You will show her the proper respect.”
Winthrop’s eyes widened and he ducked his head, bowing in a disgustingly fawning manner. “My apologies, milord. I thought—”
“Don’t.” Ash looked over at Jess. “Have you had your supper yet, madam?”
Jess smiled at him—the bright smile she used to give him when she was a girl—and shook her head. “No, my lord.”
He hadn’t managed to choke down a single bite in the common room, but now he found he was famished—but not for Winthrop’s stringy beef. Perhaps the kitchen could do better with something else. “Send up some roast duck, bread, and vegetables, Winthrop, and a bottle of Madeira.”
Loving Lord Ash Page 5