At least he hoped it wasn’t notorious. Surely even if he hadn’t heard anything, Mama or Father would have, if there was anything to hear.
“Except Helena, my sometimes maid.” Jess’s jaw hardened. “So will you swear to keep mum or not?”
Clearly, if he wished to get the story from her, he would have to promise not to report his staff to the proper authorities. “Very well. I will keep your confidence and not have anyone arrested, but I reserve the right to fire the lot of them without references.”
Jess sighed and nodded. “Well, I do hope you won’t act so rashly, but all right, I accept that condition. I think most of the men will be leaving the manor now anyway.” She took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. “The reason I was so safe at Blackweith Manor was. . . .” She flushed again.
The secret must be extremely embarrassing.
“Was because none of the men had amorous feelings for me.” The words tumbled out in a rush.
Ash stared at her. “I’m sure you mistake the matter. They may not have acted on their feelings, but they had them. Any man would. You are very beautiful.”
Her flush deepened, and he thought he saw happiness spark in her eyes, but the expression was gone before he could be certain. “No, I am not mistaken. I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that the men at the manor don’t have those feelings for me. They don’t have those feelings for any women.”
What? “You aren’t making any sense. Do you mean they’re all monks?” Celibacy wasn’t illegal, though it was damn uncomfortable—he could vouch for the truth of that.
“Damnation, Kit!” She looked rather harried. “You aren’t usually so slow witted. No, they aren’t monks. They just don’t do . . . that with women. They, ah, prefer”—she swallowed—“each other.”
They preferred each other? That would mean . . .
“Good God—you were living in a house of sodomites!”
“Shh. Don’t shout.” She looked around, but they were still alone—except for the birds and the squirrels.
“That’s disgusting.” To think she’d been surrounded by . . . That she’d been exposed to . . . That he’d just been talking to . . .
So that’s what the fellows who’d answered the door when he’d arrived at the manor had been doing.
“It was not disgusting at all. Dennis made certain everyone was discreet, so I was never put to the blush.” She sniffed. “I don’t know what you are so scandalized about. I think your orgies must be far more disgusting.”
“My orgies?” Now what nonsense was she spouting?
“Oh, yes.” She poked him in the chest. “I may have been living in the country all these years, but I read the newspapers—at least until I couldn’t bear to read about your raking any longer. But I needn’t have worried I’d miss any details. The local gabble-grinders, including that fool Huntington, were always kind enough to see I was kept abreast of your shameful activities.”
She’d mentioned rumors before, but he’d been too angry about the naked footman to give her words much thought. “You can’t believe everything you read in the gossip columns, Jess, or hear from prattle boxes, especially that bounder Huntington.”
“Oh? So you haven’t littered the countryside with broken hearts”—she curled her lip—“or by-blows?”
“I have not.” This was the perfect time to confess that not only had he never attended an orgy or fathered a child, he’d never even—
“There you are!”
What the hell—? He looked in the direction of the sound.
Blast! Jack was striding down the path toward them.
“Sorry to intrude,” Jack said, “but Mama sent me to fetch Jess. The dressmaker has arrived.”
“And why are you Mama’s errand boy? Couldn’t she have sent William or Richard or another of the footmen?” He tried to swallow his annoyance, but Jack’s elevated eyebrows and quickly suppressed grin indicated he hadn’t been entirely successful. “I’m surprised she could pry you away from Frances.”
That had probably been uncalled for, but he was feeling distinctly out of sorts. He’d been on the verge of confessing his darkest secret, for God’s sake.
“She did ask William first, but he had to help Richard haul the dressmaker’s bolts of fabric upstairs, and”—Jack cleared his throat and glanced from Ash to Jess—“for some reason Mama felt a family member might have more success dragging you back to the house. I had the misfortune of being the one closest at hand.” He raised one eyebrow and said blandly, “Frances is still asleep.”
Bloody hell. Which likely meant Jack had kept her busy all night. Why did his brothers have to be happily, actively married? “Can’t the damn dressmaker wait?”
“Apparently there is much to be accomplished and little time. Mama seems to feel your wardrobe is in dire need of refurbishing, Jess.”
Jess laughed. “She is right about that. I suppose I had better come along then.”
There was no point in arguing. The moment was lost anyway. He certainly wasn’t about to confess in Jack’s hearing.
He offered Jess his arm and listened to her chat with his brother about Frances and London and the infernal Season and Ellie’s interesting condition as they walked back to Greycliffe House.
The dressmaker, a plump woman of indeterminate age, clapped when Jess entered the sitting room. “Ooo, Your Grace, she is très, très jolie! The black hair, the violet eyes, the white skin—” She clasped her hands to her bosom, apparently overcome with delight.
Ellie giggled. “Oh, Jess, if you could see your face!”
Jess hoped she didn’t look quite as incredulous as she felt. “I’m not usually greeted with such enthusiasm.” She glanced at the sitting room sofa; bolts of fabric were spread out like a rainbow. She felt a thread of excitement.
The duchess was chuckling, too. “Do come in, my dear. This is Madame Celeste. She can be a bit French at times, but she is quite right—you are lovely.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Kit’s mother was smiling at her, looking sincerely delighted—and not looking at her stomach. Jess smiled back.
“But the dress—” Madame Celeste twisted her face as if in pain. “The dress, she is une disgrace.” She turned to the duchess. “How is eet, Your Grace, that tous your belles-filles, they wear such horrible rags? Your sons, do they like to regardez such . . .” Words failed; madame simply pointed at Jess’s frock.
Jess would agree it wasn’t stylish or even especially presentable. It was . . . she thought back. Yes, it was one of the dresses she’d had made years ago, shortly after Helena arrived at the manor. Helena was a passable needlewoman when her roses weren’t demanding her attention.
“I believe my sons fall in love with the person, not the presentation, Madame Celeste. But I agree my daughters-in-law have had unfortunate wardrobes. Unless . . .” The duchess looked again at Jess. “I do not mean to be insulting. Do you like that dress, dear?”
“Oh, no, Your Grace. It’s ugly and old and worn. I would be delighted to have a new one.”
“A new one?” Madame Celeste looked at the duchess. “Many, many new ones, yes?”
“Of course,” the duchess said. “Morning dresses and walking dresses and ball gowns and riding habits—everything.”
“Magnifique! We begin then. Raise your arms, madame, s’il vous plaît, so I can take the measurements.”
Ellie laughed again as Jess dutifully raised her arms. “You look as if your eyes are going to pop out of your head, Jess.”
“I feel as if they are going to. I don’t suppose there’s any point in suggesting a bit of restraint?”
“None at all.” The duchess patted her shoulder. “You’ll see. You will need everything Madame Celeste makes—isn’t that right, Ellie?”
Madame tightened her measuring tape around Jess’s bust, calling off the number for her assistants to record.
“Yes. I couldn’t believe it either, Jess, but I’ve worn almost all my new things, and I’ve only been here a
few weeks. People in London change their clothes three or four times a day.”
Was Ellie teasing her? “That seems like a colossal waste of time.”
Madame Celeste paused before she snaked the tape around Jess’s waist. “Non, non, madame. You must be à la mode. Eet is très important. Everyone, they will look at you. They will wish to see the mysterious Lady Ashton, no? It is all they talk about.”
Good God! That was alarming, but perhaps the dressmaker was simply exaggerating. “What do you mean?” Jess looked from Madame Celeste to Ellie to the duchess.
The seamstress abruptly filled her mouth with pins; Ellie studied her fingernails.
“People do like to speculate about Ash,” the duchess said. “I suppose it’s because he’ll be the next Duke of Greycliffe.”
Madame Celeste choked, and Jess was afraid she’d swallowed one of the pins.
“What do they speculate about exactly?” For once she hoped it was Kit’s many indiscretions.
The duchess smiled kindly. “Well, Madame is correct—they do wonder about you, especially in the last few days. Lady Heldon has been telling anyone who would listen that she saw you and Ash together at that inn in the country.” She frowned. “I do wish I hadn’t invited her to the last house party. I had no idea she was quite so objectionable.”
Jess took a deep breath, causing Madame Celeste some consternation.
“Non, non. Breathe, madame. The measurements, they must be correct.”
She forced herself to exhale.
Oh, God. And now she’d be dropped in the middle of the ton to be mocked and gossiped about. She had no experience whatsoever with society ballrooms, and what little contact she’d had with the male members of the aristocracy had not been good.
She suddenly knew how the Christians must have felt when facing the lions in the Roman Colosseum.
She felt a soft touch on her arm and blinked. The duchess was looking at her, her eyes full of concern.
“Don’t worry, Jess,” she said. “Ash will be by your side. We all will.”
She swallowed. Perhaps Kit’s mother didn’t think she was a dirty little servant girl after all.
But she was a dirty little servant girl. She was an Irish groom’s daughter. That fact would just make the ton’s gossip all the more delectable.
“Of course we will.” Ellie smiled and put her hand over her belly, an action she was prone to these days. “Well, I’ll be at your side in my thoughts. I wish I could go to the parties with you, but I tire so easily now and Ned wants to be certain I take care of myself.” Her lips twisted. “He’s naturally a little overprotective after what happened with Cicely.”
“I do think Ned is handling his concern better now,” the duchess said. “He’s been limiting his warnings to a half dozen or so a day.”
Ellie laughed. “Well, he shares rather more of them with me, but yes, he’s trying very hard to remain calm. Still, it will be a tremendous relief once the baby’s born, and Ned sees all is well.”
“We’ll all be relieved.” The duchess grinned. “And delighted. Have I said how much the duke and I are looking forward to greeting our first grandchild?”
Ellie rolled her eyes playfully. “I believe you might have mentioned it once or twice.”
If only things had been different between Kit and me . . .
No, there was no point in regretting the past. And the future was far from determined. If Kit couldn’t bring himself to forgive her and trust her, there would be no babies in her future.
A large pit opened where her stomach should be.
No! Not having babies was fine. She had her art; she had that plan with Roger. And really, she did trust Kit to keep his word and provide for her if he divorced her. She was no longer worried about having a roof over her head.
She might not have love, but she’d have friendship, at least Roger’s and Dennis’s. Everyone else, including the duchess and Kit’s brothers and Frances and likely even Ellie, would give her the cut direct, but that was better than living with a husband who despised and distrusted her, wasn’t it?
Yes. It must be.
If she didn’t love Kit, she might be able to manage being his wife. It would be a business arrangement, a marriage of convenience. But she did love him. She couldn’t treat him like a polite stranger whose only interest was the use of her body for procreative purposes. And that wouldn’t even be the worst of it. Any children they had would be swept up into Kit’s loving family while she stood on the sidelines, tolerated, perhaps, but, especially if Kit did not respect her, not embraced. And then her children would come to see her as a necessary embarrassment—or perhaps not even necessary.
Madame Celeste was now holding lengths of fabric under Jess’s chin. “What do you think, Your Grace? The deep colors, no?”
“Definitely.”
She should look—she was the artist. She could tell if a color was right for her.
At the moment she didn’t care. They could drape her in black bombazine, and she wouldn’t bat an eye. In fact, she wished they would. Funeral garments matched her mood.
“That shade of blue is perfect on you, Jess,” Ellie said. “When you walk into a room, everyone’s eyes will follow you.”
The duchess nodded. “Yes, indeed.”
All three women beamed at her.
Oh, God.
“I believe Jess and I need a moment alone,” she heard the duchess say from what seemed like a long distance. “If you’ll excuse us?”
Kit’s mother led her out the door and across the corridor to a smaller room, where she gently pushed her to sit before sitting beside her.
“I seem to be making a habit of this,” the duchess said, smiling. “Frances was also quite distressed when Madame Celeste was measuring her for new dresses. Perhaps I should change mantua makers.”
“Oh, no, it’s not Madame Celeste.” But Kit’s mother knew that. She was the Duchess of Love, the ton’s matchmaker. She knew London society as well as anyone. “Your Grace, I can’t . . . you know I can’t . . . it would be a disaster for me to . . .”
The duchess’s fingers covered Jess’s where they were clawing at her dress. “Breathe, Jess. Relax.”
That was a good idea. She tried it. It worked—until she let the notion of ballrooms creep back into her thoughts. “Ohhh.”
Her Grace clasped both Jess’s hands in a strong grip, shaking them a little. “It will be all right.”
She didn’t understand. She couldn’t. She was a duchess, for God’s sake. “I’m a groom’s daughter.”
“Yes, you are, but you are not just any groom’s daughter. Your father was very well respected, you know, and much in demand. He had a special talent with horses—everyone said so. The duke had to go to some trouble to hire him, as I remember. You must try to take pride in that.”
“Ah.” Yes, Papa had been good with horses, and perhaps a few of the older men might remember him. But society in general? The gossipy women and disdainful fops? No.
The duchess squeezed her hands. “I must beg your forgiveness, Jess. Eight years ago I was distracted by the house party and didn’t properly convey how saddened the duke and I were by your father’s death. I had meant to discuss things with you once our guests left, but then suddenly you were married and gone.” She dropped Jess’s hands and looked away. “It was a very . . . confusing time.”
“Yes, it was.” Confusing was one way to describe it. Disastrous was another.
“Did . . .” The duchess looked down. Her fingers pleated her skirt as if she was the one discomposed. “Ash didn’t do anything he shouldn’t have, did he?”
Besides marry her? “No.”
Kit’s mother met her gaze, a shadow of desperation in her eyes. “Then he didn’t, ah, force himself on you?”
“No!”
The duchess’s shoulders slumped with relief. “I thought not, but the circumstances were so odd, the duke and I did wonder.” Her voice strengthened. “Then was Percy to blame?”
Jess stared at Kit’s mother. She must look terribly guilty, but if the woman didn’t know the details of that dreadful scene in the studio, Jess certainly was not going to tell her.
“It wouldn’t be surprising. I saw how Percy and Ash were both in love with you growing up, and Percy has taken every opportunity since your marriage to cause trouble for Ash. I think he must still be jealous.”
“Ah.” Percy in love with her? Why did anyone think that? Percy could have married her if he’d wanted. Kit had just about demanded the worm offer for her in the studio that day. But instead Percy had stomped all over her . . . reputation. Not her heart. He’d never had her heart.
And Kit? If he’d loved her once—and she doubted the duchess was correct about that, too—his love had died in that damn studio.
“Oh, I don’t think Percy could be jealous.”
“Hmm.”
Oh, hell. Now the duchess was looking thoughtful, as if she was devising some unpleasant—unpleasant for Jess, at least—scheme.
“You know you are certain to encounter Percy at the various society events. He is invited everywhere.”
Another reason this was all a terrible mistake. “I’ve already encountered Percy, Your Grace. I spoke to him in Hyde Park this morning when I took Fluff for his walk.”
“Did you?” The duchess smiled and sat back. “That’s good, then. The first meeting is often the most diff icult.”
If only that were the case. “I think Percy intends to make all our meetings diff icult, Your Grace, and busy himself spreading unpleasant lies about me.” Dear God, she hadn’t considered that the duke and duchess would hear Percy’s calumnies, but of course they would. “And I do assure you they are lies.”
The duchess nodded. “It is good to be prepared. I had thought his affection for Miss Wharton would have softened him, but perhaps I was mistaken. Well, we shall hope for the best and prepare for the worst. And you, my dear, must hold your head high and ignore him.”
Loving Lord Ash Page 22