“I hope ye don’t mind me offering ye a wee word of advice, milord,” Darby said suddenly.
“Advice?” What possible advice could this ancient coachman have for him?
“Aye.” Darby sent him a sidelong glance before turning his rheumy eyes back to his plodding cattle. “I know ye aren’t sitting out here just to watch the dog. Yer in trouble with yer lady, ain’t ye?”
Ash forced his brows up into his haughtiest expression, the one that usually shriveled encroaching mushrooms. He was not about to discuss his marriage with this old man. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, don’t get all stiff with me, young lord. I may be only a coachman, but I’ve learned a thing or two about the fairer sex. I should ’ave. I’ve been married over fifty years.”
“My felicitations.” Ash gritted his teeth. It looked like, short of leaping from the coach box or opting to join Jess inside, he was doomed to hear the fellow’s advice.
“’ere’s the thing, milord. Women ain’t the same as men.”
“Ah.”
Darby wheezed with laughter. “Well, of course ye know that. Ye’ve eyes in yer head.” He went so far as to waggle his brows in a knowing way. “They’ve got curves where we don’t, eh?”
“Mr. Darby, I fail to see the point of this conversation. Perhaps you should attend to your horses. We are approaching London, and traffic is increasing.”
Not that he was really concerned. The horses showed every sign of plodding along at their steady, excruciatingly slow pace until Judgment Day.
“The point, milord, is that it’s not just their lovely curves that are different. They’re different up here, too.” Darby pointed to his head in case Ash missed his meaning. “They think different.” He leaned closer, his horses all but forgotten. “They want soft words and kisses and cuddling afore they’ll let us men get down to the interesting part.” He shrugged. “Whores are different—it’s all business to them, o’ course. But wives—they want love.”
Husbands want love, too.
No. Ridiculous. He wanted an heir and a spare, that was all.
Darby jerked his head back toward the coach’s body. “Ye should be in there with yer wife, milord. Yer both still young. Ye should be billing and cooing and making the coach rock.” He winked. “It’s still a ways to Lunnon. Ye could have yer heir growing in yer lady wife afore we get to Piccadilly.”
Oh, damn. His cock was enthusiastically urging him to follow Darby’s advice, but what his cock—and perhaps even his heart—wanted, his brain knew was a very bad idea. He reminded his unruly organ that it was too soon. He had to wait to be certain the naked footman’s seed wasn’t already planted in Jess’s womb. “You presume too much.”
Darby turned his attention back to his arthritic cattle. “Aye, I do. And I’ll presume a bit more and tell ye that it’s a very bad idea to leave a woman alone with only ’er thoughts for company. Women stew and fret and make mountains out o’ molehills until what we think was a little mistake turns into a killing offense.” He snorted. “Don’t be surprised if ye get yer ’ead bitten off when she comes out of that carriage. It’ll be like letting a tiger out of its cage. I’d stand back, if I were ye.”
Jess did have a prodigious temper, but Ash had done nothing to anger her—well, not recently. It was partly to avoid doing so that he was sharing this chilly coach box with Darby and subjecting himself to the man’s unwelcome advice. “Er, thank you. I’ll consider what you say.”
Darby laughed. “Oh, no ye won’t. Ye young fellows are all the same. Ye think ye know the way of it, and no old graybeard can tell ye differently.” He shot Ash a glance before turning back to his driving. “Now that my son’s older, ’e’ll sometimes admit that I’m right—after ’e’s ignored my advice and suffered the consequences, o’ course.”
There didn’t seem to be a reply to that, so Ash merely grunted in a noncommittal fashion and looked out over the passing fields again. Except there weren’t empty fields any more, but houses. They were clearly getting closer to Town.
Perhaps he should join Jess. It seemed highly unlikely that anyone would recognize him, but if the newspapers were to be believed, London was chockful of gossips. A dog Fluff’s size riding on the coach box was certain to draw attention, and of course when they pulled up in front of Greycliffe House, anyone might guess who he was— and wonder why he wasn’t sitting inside. When they saw Jess emerge . . .
There was already far too much speculation about his marriage.
“Perhaps I will join Lady Ashton, if you truly think you can manage the dog.”
Darby waggled his brows and grinned broadly at him, revealing several missing teeth. “Shall I drive around until ye tell me to stop, milord?”
“That will not be necessary.”
“Yer sure?”
“Quite.” He would not wish to lose his virginity rolling down London’s streets in a hired coach even if he were free to do so, which he wasn’t. He must not forget the naked footman.
The old man’s face fell. “There’s plenty o’ time for a quick bit o’ sport, even with the kissing and the cuddling”—he shrugged—“but suit yerself. I swear I’ll never understand ye nobs.”
Darby brought the coach to a stop, and Ash climbed down. “Stay with Darby, Fluff.”
Fluff barked and beat his tail on the seat, clearly happy to remain where he was. He seemed like an intelligent dog. Hopefully he could control himself if he caught sight of a cat or some other animal and not leap off the coach box in pursuit.
Ash pulled open the door. Jess was so lost in her sketchbook, she didn’t hear him. She looked perfectly content to be drawing in solitude. Well, it was too late to change his mind—and he must remember the gossips.
“I’ve decided to—”
“Ack!” Her head snapped up, her eyes widened, and then she slammed her sketchbook shut. “Oh. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Clearly.” He climbed in. As soon as he pulled the door closed, the coach rolled back into motion and, off balance, he fell somewhat heavily onto the seat next to her.
“Are you all right?” she said as she scooted as far away from him as she could. She was almost plastered against the coach’s opposite wall.
“Yes.” He looked at the sketchbook on her lap. He could reach over and take it....
She shoved it into the space between her body and the wall.
He felt his face and the back of his neck tighten. What had she been sketching? Or rather, whom? Guilt was writ large on her face. “May I see?” He held out his hand.
She laughed weakly. “See what?”
“What you were drawing.”
“Drawing? Oh, I wasn’t drawing anything, really.”
“You seemed very intent on what you weren’t drawing when I came in.” He should let it go. She must have been sketching the naked footman. It would only hurt him to see what she’d drawn. Jess put her feelings into her art for the world to see. Her skill and, more, her courage in doing that had always shocked and awed him.
Seeing her feelings now would only depress him.
I don’t need her heart. Just her body. Just long enough to get my heir and spare.
He could not make himself believe that.
Oh, blast. If Kit really wanted to see her sketchbook, he would. She had no illusions that she could fight him off; he was far stronger than she. But he wouldn’t insist . . . would he?
Perhaps she could distract him. “How is Fluff managing?”
He was still staring at the spot where she’d shoved her drawings. She shifted closer to the wall.
She’d been sketching him, of course. She’d meant to draw him as he’d looked when he’d left with Fluff—tight lipped, jaw clenched. But somehow the picture had turned into how she’d imagined him above her on that damn bed the first night. She’d thought his face had been tense then, too, but not with anger. She wanted to believe there’d been desire in his eyes, and maybe even love.
She was an idiot. She would tear
the sheet out as soon as she was alone again, crumple it into a ball, and throw it into the nearest fire.
“Is he getting along with Darby?” she asked.
He frowned at her. “Is who getting along with Darby?”
“Fluff. Weren’t you listening?”
She had the worst luck. Last night it had been the damned Venus’s Love Notes. She’d seen Kit’s face when she’d stuffed them back into her valise. She’d been embarrassed, but to him she must have looked guilty. He’d scowled, glared at her bag, opened his mouth—and then shut it. His brow had bunched into a deep frown as they’d gone down to dinner in silence.
The question of what she was hiding had certainly sat at the table with them. She’d hardly been able to eat, waiting for him to ask it. But he hadn’t asked, not then, not when he’d walked her to her room, not when he’d come down for breakfast, not in the coach even though the bloody question had taken up so much room she could feel it pressing against her chest.
And then Fluff had started whining. She’d never wish her pet ill, but she’d been immensely relieved when Kit had taken the dog out to sit with the coachman, leaving her in blessed solitude.
“He’s fine. Darby thinks he has aspirations of being a coaching dog.”
She snorted. “I don’t think that will work. Even if I would give him up, which I won’t, he’s too large to sit on a coach box all day.”
She should have told Kit last night—there was too much pain between them to add to it with something as silly as a collection of Venus’s Love Notes—but she hadn’t been able to make herself do it. It was too embarrassing. And he’d be horrified if he knew she had his mother’s pamphlets in her possession. None of the brothers liked to admit the duchess was the ton’s matchmaker, and they certainly didn’t wish to acknowledge she was also the ton’s counselor on marital matters.
Back when Percy and Kit were fifteen or sixteen, Percy had found an edition of Venus’s Love Notes in his mother’s sitting room. Of course he’d had to torture Kit and his brothers with it, but before he could read the first word, Jack had tackled him. That had been a bit of luck, since Jack was four years younger. But then Ned had sat on him while Kit tore the paper up and stuffed the pieces into Percy’s mouth.
No, she could not tell Kit. She’d be happy to throw the papers, along with her sketch, into the first fire she came upon, but Roger wanted them back.
What the hell was Roger doing with copies of Venus’s Love Notes? Worse, why had he told her she should read them? She most certainly did not want to know her mother-in-law’s thoughts on marital love.
“I don’t think there’s much danger Fluff will run away to ride the highways and byways on the coachman’s box,” Kit said, “but he did seem content to remain where he was, so I felt it safe to leave him with Darby.”
Kit had been gone at least two hours. Surely it hadn’t taken him that long to reach this decision. “But why did you come inside now?”
Likely to quiz her.
His jaw hardened. Oh, damnation. He was going to ask about the damn sketchbook. Or the Love Notes. Could she pretend to swoon or have a fit of hysterics?
She had no idea how to do either of those things.
“We are approaching London. I felt I was a bit conspicuous sitting where I was. Gossips are everywhere, you know.”
Her stomach tightened. “I thought you said we could avoid the gabble-grinders.”
“I hope we can—which is why I removed myself from the coach box. Your dog is enough of an oddity.” He switched seats so he was facing her and stretched his legs out, brushing against her skirts.
Her heart, the stupid thing, fluttered in her chest. If she moved her right leg just slightly, it would be pressing up against his.
And Kit would just move away. The coach was confining, and he was a tall man. He meant nothing by their proximity and would be horrified if he could hear her treacherous heart beating faster.
He couldn’t hear it, could he?
“If I were driving the vehicle, that would be one thing. That might be considered somewhat dashing or dangerous. But sitting like a lump next to a dog and the coachman? No. Well, you can imagine what people would say, especially once it came out that you were with me.”
“Oh yes.” She could imagine all too well. Why hadn’t they gone to the castle instead? Well, it was too late now. But to think she’d have all the London women—and men, too—looking at her and talking about her . . .
Her stomach clenched into a hard knot. “Everyone would say you found me so abhorrent, you braved the weather and contact with servants and animals to avoid me.”
Kit frowned. “I believe you overstate the case, but yes, that would likely be the gist of it.” He cleared his throat. “But I wasn’t avoiding you, of course. I was just tending to your dog.”
No, he’d been doing both.
“I’m sorry about Fluff,” she said. “I had no idea he was prone to carriage sickness. I’ve never taken him anywhere in a closed coach like this—he’s only ever ridden in the back of the wagon. And I suspect the cook at the Singing Maid spoiled him dreadfully, so he ate far more than he should have. How did you recognize the problem?”
Kit smiled. “Ned was afflicted with carriage sickness when he was a boy. Whenever we traveled together Father would have him sit with the coachman, until he was old enough to ride a horse. I just assumed your dog might be the same.”
“I didn’t know that about Ned.” As a child she’d played with Ned, but of course she’d never been in a carriage with him. She was just a servant’s daughter.
But she was in a carriage now with his brother, so close she could touch him without reaching. Alone, without even Fluff to chaperone them. Private. No one could see them.
Kit was so much larger than she. His hair was windblown; there was a slight shadow of stubble along his jaw. His right hand—he had shed his gloves—rested on the coach seat. It was broad and capable, with lovely long fingers that were so clever with a pencil . . . or, as she’d discovered the other night, with a woman’s body.
She took a deep breath. His scent—a mix of cologne and soap and him—warmed her. She wanted to feel his touch again....
“Why should you have? I think the only ones who knew Ned got queasy were my parents, Jack, and me. Ned wasn’t proud of it. I’m afraid it was just one more thing for him to worry about.”
Ned had always been the worrier of the brothers, the one who spoke the word of caution when they were climbing trees or sledding or doing anything that carried the slightest risk.
She could use a word of caution right now. Her fingers itched to touch Kit’s knee, to slide up his leg—
He would only swat her hand away. He would have nothing to do with her until he knew she wasn’t carrying Roger’s child.
Which was a good thing. She didn’t want to be just the mother of Kit’s sons. She wanted a true marriage; she wanted Kit to love her and, perhaps even more, trust her. Respect her. Attacking him in the carriage would only confirm his opinion that she was no better than she should be.
But she still wanted to touch his knee.
Zeus, Kit’s nearness and his scent were muddling her thoughts and eroding her self-control. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap and searched for a conversational topic that had nothing to do with Kit’s knee.
“It must have been horrible for Ned when Cicely died.”
Ned and Cicely had married about three years after Kit left her at the manor. Kit hadn’t written to tell her about the wedding or about Cicely’s subsequent pregnancy and death. She’d learned everything she knew from the newspapers and from Dennis Walker, who got some information from Kit’s letters on estate business.
And this was the man she was struggling not to throw herself at?
She welcomed the spurt of anger.
It would be one thing if she were some London lady, but she’d grown up with Ned and Cicely. True, she’d thought Cicely an annoying, spineless, mewling ninnyhammer, but th
at hadn’t meant she didn’t mourn her passing. And she’d been very sad for Ned. She’d only hoped he’d soon realize he’d been . . . well, not lucky precisely, but that he still had hope for a happy future. She could not imagine being compelled to live one’s life with a person as meek and helpless as Cicely.
But then, there was no accounting for taste when one’s heart was involved, was there? She could hardly fault Ned for loving Cicely when she was stupid enough to love his brother.
Kit grunted. “Yes. It did rather reinforce his tendency to fret about everything.”
She tightened her laced fingers to keep them from touching him and drew in a sustaining breath—and with it another lungful of Kit’s scent.
Oh, God. It would be a very good thing if they arrived at Greycliffe House soon. Perhaps she should open a window. The cold air might clear her head. She fumbled with the latch.
“Here, let me help you with that.”
“No, I can do it. I—oh!”
Kit reached over so his arm pressed up against hers as his fingers brushed hers aside. His scent enveloped her completely, making her feel a little giddy, as if she’d had one glass of wine too many.
His face was so achingly familiar with its high cheekbones, strong chin, and gray eyes fringed with long, dark lashes. She wanted to trace the tiny scar on his temple that he’d got when he was twelve and jumped out of a tree. Well, he’d said he jumped; she’d thought Percy had pushed him, so she’d pushed Percy into a large, fresh pile of horse droppings.
But there were lines there, too, that hadn’t been there eight years ago—lines across his forehead, at the corners of his eyes and mouth. He was older, the boy in him harder to see.
Or perhaps she was fooling herself, and the person she’d dreamt of no longer existed. Eight years was a long time.
She watched his capable fingers force the latch open. She must look older as well. She bit her lip. Of course she did. Years were never kind to a woman’s face; he must think her a complete quiz, especially compared to the beautiful women of the ton.
Loving Lord Ash Page 13