“Oh.”
Now he’d managed to get her to blush. He walked closer. He felt different, more . . . alive. The stuffy old Marquis of Ashton had given way to Kit, a man unencumbered by title and expectations. “So will you pose for me?”
She backed up a step and bumped into the bed. “If you wish.”
He grasped the bedpost and leaned in so he had her trapped.
“Dressed only in your lovely long, dark hair.” He wished she wasn’t wearing her damn bonnet.
“I have never posed before,” she said. Her voice sounded a bit breathless.
“Nor have I.”
“You will be drawing, remember. You won’t be able to”—she frowned at him—“you won’t want to do anything else.”
“No?” Oh, he would definitely want to do something else. It was true an artist saw his subject differently, with his eyes more than with his heart, but he didn’t plan to draw Jess until he could see her as his wife. As his lover. “Perhaps you are right. So do we have an agreement?”
“Yes.” She extended her hand.
He took it, but he used it to pull her toward him. He intended to seal this bargain with a kiss. He had to dip his head to avoid her blasted bonnet, but he managed to find her mouth and brush her lips with his.
He felt the contact like lightning flashing through him to lodge in his heart . . . and another prominent organ. He heard her quick intake of breath—or maybe it was his breath he heard—and leaned forward to take a deeper taste....
And then her damn dog barked.
“Oh!” She jerked back out of reach. “What is it, Kit?”
He would tell her. He—
Blast it, she was talking to the dog. It had got up and was now whining, its nose against the door.
“Oh, you poor thing.” She slipped around him to go to her pet. “You need to go outside, don’t you?”
Jess slid to the far side of the wagon’s seat, putting as much space as possible between her and Kit, as her dog stretched out among their valises in the back. Kit didn’t appear to notice; he was too annoyed at having to travel in the wagon.
“We’ll be lucky if we make it a mile in this thing,” he said as he gave poor Chester the signal to start. “How did you manage with it all these years?”
“It was fine for my purposes.”
The old horse looked back, clearly irritated at being asked to pull a heavier load than usual, but at Kit’s insistence, he blew out a long-suffering breath and grudgingly ambled into motion.
“I’ll engage a coach and coachman when we get to the next town. I’m sure the inn there will have them for hire.”
“Quite likely.” And then she would have to share a confined, private space with him. She’d prefer keeping to the wagon. Now she only worried about having her teeth jolted from her head. In the coach, she’d have to worry about her heart.
Thank God for the canine Kit. She could use him as a furry shield against the human Kit’s blandishments. If he kissed her again like he had in the inn bedroom, she was afraid she’d do anything he wanted.
And what would be the matter with that? He was her husband.
But he didn’t trust her, and he certainly didn’t love her.
“I should have seen you had a decent carriage. I don’t know why Walker didn’t mention it in his letters to me.”
“He didn’t mention it because we didn’t need it. I told you I never went visiting.”
She’d kissed men before without love. Years ago, when she was a girl, out of curiosity she’d let men steal a few kisses, but those had been no more than a furtive mashing together of lips, disappointing and slightly disgusting. Kit’s kiss had been completely different. His mouth had barely touched hers yet, like a spark falling into a pile of dry leaves, it had lit a smoldering fire that was threatening to consume her and all her common sense.
And last night . . . oh, God.
She’d never felt anything like what she’d felt last night. Yes, she’d had that encounter with Percy, but that had been rough and cold and unpleasant.
She shifted on the hard wagon seat, but she couldn’t escape that memory.
She’d been so stupid. When Percy had appeared at the cottage, he’d seemed like the answer to a prayer she hadn’t yet thought to address to the Almighty.
With her father gone, she could no longer stay at the castle, even if the duchess would let her. But what could she do? Where would she go? No one would hire a female groom, and no one wanted a female painter, especially one who didn’t paint flattering portraits. She could read and write, add and subtract, but she hadn’t the patience to be a governess, and most employers wouldn’t want a governess who wasn’t from the gentry.
Even the lowest scullery maid had more useful skills than she did.
She’d known Kit was coming for his mother’s house party. The hope of seeing him had been the only thing keeping the panic that fluttered in her breast from spreading its wings and stealing her fragile composure.
And then Kit had not come. She’d heard he’d arrived at the castle, but an entire day passed—it had felt like years—and he hadn’t come to see her.
Of course he hadn’t. She heard the whispering. Everyone said he was going to marry the beautiful Lady Charlotte. He had more important things to concern himself with than the feelings of a groom’s daughter.
So when Percy had appeared, she’d seen opportunity. He’d been sniffing around her skirts for years. She’d thought he’d be willing to marry her.
Ha! How naive.
Percy had offered to pose for her. She hadn’t realized he’d meant to shed his clothing until he was halfway out of his pantaloons. She should have stopped him—she’d smelled alcohol on his breath and of course any idiot knew what he was doing was so far beyond accepted behavior the sun should turn red and swoon from the sky—but her damn curiosity had got the better of her. She was an artist and yet she’d never seen a naked man. And she’d thought Percy wouldn’t expose himself like that if he didn’t mean marriage. He was wild, but she hadn’t thought him that far beyond the pale.
He’d looked better with clothes on. His chest was flat and pasty; his legs, spindly and covered in curly, black hair. And his male bit—it was small and droopy and snakelike until she’d stared at it. Then it had grown, swelling and stiffening until it stood straight out from his body.
Oh, God. She’d actually asked him if he was in pain. He’d laughed and said yes, and she was the one who could ease his suffering.
She’d still thought he’d meant marriage when he’d pulled her into his arms. She’d wanted to push him away, but she’d reminded herself she needed a roof over her head.
He’d held her so tightly she’d been barely able to breathe. He’d covered her mouth with his and thrust his tongue between her teeth, making her gag. And then he’d jerked her bodice down, pinched her breasts, and pushed her onto the couch, pulling her skirts up and shoving himself between her legs.
She’d just thought that was the way of it. Men satisfied themselves and women endured.
But last night . . .
She clenched her teeth harder as a very sensitive part of her shivered at the memory. It had been wonderful—until Kit had called her a whore.
Her stomach knotted. She’d never thought . . . but perhaps she hadn’t been so different from a whore that day with Percy. She’d been desperate enough to let him take what he wanted in exchange for marriage. And if Kit hadn’t offered for her, she might very well have had to work on her back to keep a roof over her head and food in her belly.
“You didn’t even visit the vicar and his wife?”
Kit’s voice interrupted her ugly memories.
“No.”
“Why not?” He looked genuinely puzzled. “I thought it was a vicar’s duty to minister to his flock.”
Oh, yes, the vicar had wished to minister to her in exactly the same way Kit had “ministered” to so many ladies of the ton.
She frowned. But if Kit was a ra
ke, shouldn’t he have been able to tell last night that she had no bedroom experience? And when he’d been helping her out of her gown, he’d been so clumsy and slow. One would think a man as rakish as the Marquis of Ashton was reputed to be would have expert fingers.
He did have expert fingers, but with more intimate skills than unbuttoning frocks. His touch—
She could not think about what he’d done to her in bed last night. It would be far safer to think about the disagreeable vicar. “Have you ever met the man?”
“Of course I have. Reverend Clintfield has been the vicar for ages.”
“Had been the vicar. He retired shortly after I arrived. Reverend Pierson has the living now.”
Kit’s cheeks turned red from more than the cold air. “Oh, yes, that’s right. Now I remember. Is the new fellow not satisfactory?”
“Oh, I’m sure everyone else finds him admirable. He’s a very saintly man, far too principled to have anything to do with as great a sinner as I.”
Unless she was willing to sin with the vicar, which she wasn’t, as she’d told him in so many words the one time he’d called at the manor.
They hit a particularly nasty rut, and she was thrown up against Kit. He put his arm round her to steady her.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. Of course.”
As soon as he removed his arm, she scooted back to her side of the seat and found a secure handhold. She was not going to go flying into him again if she could prevent it.
Oh, God. She’d felt like a loose woman after Kit had gone to lie down on the floor with her dog last night. Perhaps it was her lowborn nature coming out. Perhaps that was why Kit thought her accomplished. Likely proper society ladies didn’t feel such wild, physical needs.
She had no idea how proper lowborn ladies behaved either. Her mother had died when she was very young; she’d only hazy memories of a black-haired, green-eyed woman with an Irish brogue and a warm hug. Had her mother felt the hot, embarrassing things Jess felt?
Perhaps.
When her father had heard the rumors that she’d let a few men kiss her, he’d sat her down and, with much hemming and hawing, had told her that women had needs—that she was likely a lusty girl like her mama—but that she should never let a man, especially one with a title, take her virtue unless he first gave her a wedding ring. She’d remembered his words that dreadful day in the cottage and had stopped Percy just in time.
Well, it would have been much better if she’d stopped him before he’d got between her legs. As much as she hated to admit it, she understood why Kit had such a hard time believing her protestations of innocence.
“Hallooo!”
She snapped her head up to see who was calling to them. This could not be good—she couldn’t think of a single person she’d wish Kit to meet.
Oh, blast. It was George Huntington, the worst of the local men. He was one of Percy’s friends and had made her life hell her first few years at the manor. Fortunately, he was usually in London now, but she’d had to apply her knee forcibly to his groin just a few days ago when she’d encountered him in the village.
“Well, look who’s here,” Huntington said, drawing level with them and reining in his horse. He was wearing his usual unattractive sneer. “So this is why you turned me down last week, Jess. You’d rather entertain a farmer than the future Squire Huntington.” Clearly, he was looking at the wagon and not at Kit.
She looked at Kit. His jaw had tensed as he struggled to control his temper. He wasn’t going to try to fight, was he? She didn’t want him getting hurt.
She could handle Huntington.
“I’m surprised you are out riding at all, Mr. Huntington. I must remember, if I’m ever so unlucky as to be subjected to your attentions again, to use more force in discouraging you.”
She was happy to see the worm turn a little green and shift in his saddle. She’d thought she’d used plenty of force. He’d grabbed his privates and fallen to the ground cursing in a most satisfactory fashion.
“Did this fellow insult you, Jess?” Kit’s voice was icy, a distinct thread of danger in it.
Mr. Huntington’s color went from green to white.
It was surprisingly pleasant to have a man defend her, not that it was necessary. “Yes, but I dealt with the situation. Let’s drive on. Good day, Mr. Huntington.”
Huntington did not care to be dismissed so cavalierly. His anger trumped his good sense, as usual, and he grabbed Chester’s bridle before Kit could put him back in motion.
“On second thought, I’m not surprised you’d prefer this pretty farmer to me. After all, he’s of your class, isn’t he? You must feel right at home in the hay.” He turned to Kit. “I hope the jade hasn’t misled you, my friend. She may call herself Lady Ashton, but she’s really just an Irish strumpet.”
She was going to jump out of the wagon and strangle the bloody miscreant. “And you are a despicable, lying toad.”
He sniffed. “I was prepared to offer you some excellent carnal exercise, Jess, but you have lost your chance at that.” He looked back at Kit. “I hope you didn’t pay too much for her. You’ve likely discovered what my friend, Sir Percy, says—she isn’t worth more than a farthing or two.”
Chapter Seven
Gossip often lies.
—Venus’s Love Notes
A red haze shimmered in front of Ash’s eyes. He was going to murder the blackguard. “You—”
Jess touched his arm. “Don’t,” she whispered. Her brow was tented in what looked like worry.
“Don’t what?” He struggled to keep his voice down. At least the fool was beginning to look somewhat concerned. “He just called you a strumpet.” He wouldn’t point out all the other ugly things Huntington had said. They didn’t bear thinking of, let alone repeating. And then to have mentioned Percy as well—
He was going to haul the vile wretch off his horse and grind his fist, if not his heel, into his ugly face.
“I know. He’s not the first to do so.”
Damn! Guilt punched him in the gut. “I apologized for—”
“I didn’t mean you.” She leaned closer. “He’s reputed to be excellent with his fists.”
“Good.” He turned his attention back to Huntington and raised his voice. “Then I won’t feel bad when I darken his daylights and smash his damn nose.” There was no fun in pummeling a man who couldn’t defend himself; in fact, honor would demand he show some mercy. But if the fellow fought back, he needn’t strive for restraint.
The blackguard’s expression was suddenly markedly less cocky. “Good God, man. There’s no reason to shed blood over a common whore.”
Jess moaned, though she muffled the sound almost immediately.
Bloody hell, his head was going to explode with anger. He struggled to maintain some control. “You are speaking of my wife, sirrah.”
“Wife?” Huntington’s voice actually squeaked.
Jess put her hand on his arm. “Please, let’s just leave.”
“What do you mean ‘wife’?” Huntington said. “She’s not your wife; she’s Ashton’s.” His eyes widened. “Did she actually get you to marry her? That makes her a bigamist.”
Perhaps the man was too stupid to fight. It wouldn’t be sporting to drub a half-wit. “I am Ashton, you fool.”
“But Ashton never comes to Blackweith. He’s abandoned his wife. Everyone knows that.”
Hell, he had abandoned Jess. He’d never considered how that would affect her status in the community—well, he’d thought she was too busy working her way through the neighborhood men to care about anything else—but he should have considered it. He should never have left her exposed to such insults.
“Well, he is here now, Mr. Huntington,” Jess said. “If you will be so kind as to let go of our horse, we can be on our way.”
The blockhead narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know that I believe you, Jess. Why would the Marquis of Ashton be driving your old wagon?”
The frayed t
hread of Ash’s patience snapped. “Good God, man. No one cares what you believe, though I’ll be happy to leave the imprint of my signet ring on your forehead, if that will help convince you.”
Huntington must have believed he’d do exactly that, because he finally let go of their horse’s bridle and backed his own horse away. “I was just trying to look out for Jess’s welfare.”
“Lady Ashton to you, sirrah.” By God, he wanted to bash the fellow’s brains out.
“But, er, Lady Ashton and I are friends. We just had a slight misunderstanding.”
Jess snorted. “Friends? A slight misunderstanding? I sincerely detest you, sir. You’ve been spreading nasty rumors about me since I arrived at the manor, besides subjecting me to your very unwelcome advances.”
Huntington laughed. “Oh, come, Jess—”
“Lady Ashton. Do I have to pound that into your thick skull, Huntington? Are you that slow a learner?” Zeus, how he wanted to feel the satisfying crunch of the miscreant’s nose under his fist.
Huntington smiled weakly and ran a finger around his cravat. “Come, Lady Ashton, I will admit to a little flirtation, but it was all in fun.”
“Oh, yes,” Jess said. “I had great fun thrusting my knee into a rather sensitive part of your anatomy the other day to deter your ‘little flirtation,’ and I thoroughly enjoyed hearing you scream as you fell to the ground. Watching you writhe in the dirt was highly entertaining as well.”
“Heh.” Huntington was looking a bit nauseous. “You have such a delightful sense of humor, Je—” He paused and looked at Ash. “Lady Ashton.”
“I am not joking.”
Damnation! “I regret dueling is illegal, Huntington,” Ash said, “but I shall take great enjoyment in thrashing you soundly should you ever annoy my wife again. Do I make myself clear?”
“Oh, well, I’m sure there’s no need—”
“Do I make myself clear?”
The man straightened, backing his horse farther from the wagon. “Yes, quite clear. There is no need to make such a point of it. I can see Lady Ashton prefers we not continue our friendship now that you have returned, my lord.”
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