Loving Lord Ash

by Sally MacKenzie

  “Is something the matter?”

  He met her gaze in the mirror. Worry and uncertainty clouded her eyes.

  Kill suspicion before it kills your marriage.

  Those had been the hardest words to read in Mama’s handbook. He knew what Jess had done with Percy; he’d seen that with his own eyes. But it had happened eight years ago. All the other tales of Jess’s infidelities were hearsay, and some of the rumors had her consorting with the Blackweith staff. After meeting the footman—no, Lord Trendal—in the park, and hearing what Jess said was the truth of Blackweith Manor, he was willing to concede that those stories were false.

  He would try to trust her. He wouldn’t trust blindly—he’d keep a close eye on her—but he would try to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  “No, nothing’s the matter.” He fastened the clasp and rested his hands on her bare shoulders. Her skin was so soft. He swept his thumbs back and forth over it.

  He’d swear the wide expanse of her chest turned pink, making the white of the pearls more pronounced.

  “The n-necklace is beautiful,” she said, raising a hand to touch it. “I-I don’t know what to say.”

  He rather enjoyed seeing his independent, strong-willed wife at a loss for words.

  “Just say thank you.” He desperately wanted to kiss the curve of her neck, but that would be rushing his fences. She might interpret the pearls as a bribe to get into her good graces. He stepped back.

  “Thank you.” She looked at her reflection again. “It fills in the bare space quite nicely.” She smiled at him. “I feel less naked.” And then she blushed.

  He would like to see her naked, to sketch her wearing only the pearls....

  There was no point in following that line of thought.

  He pulled another, smaller jeweler’s bag out of his pocket. “And here are the matching earrings.”

  “Oh!” She took the bag and opened it. “They are beautiful, too.” She looked up at him. “But what is the occasion?”

  “Your entry into society.” Sometimes honesty really is the best policy. “And to mark our first public appearance as husband and wife.”

  She stared at him. “It is, isn’t it? Our first appearance as a married couple”—she pulled a face—“even though we’ve been married eight years.”

  “Yes. We didn’t start off well, did we?”

  She shook her head. “No, we didn’t. And it was my fault.”

  “It was my fault, too.”

  She was frowning again. “Percy—”

  He put his finger on her lips. “Let’s not talk about Percy now.” There was a limit to the subjects he could listen to. “Not before your first ball.”

  She nodded. “I do hope Percy’s not there tonight.”

  He hoped so, too, but he wouldn’t wager any money on Percy’s absence. “You can’t avoid meeting him at these things. He must go to them all, if just for the free food. He’s always short of blunt.”

  “But I wish I could avoid him.” She turned to put on the earrings. “I hate him.”

  Mama’s handbook said there was often a very fine line between love and hate, that passion of any sort begat passion. That had been true for him, though the love and hate he’d felt for Jess had existed together in a tight, messy knot.

  Would Jess’s hatred of Percy turn to love? Zeus, he hoped not, but it would be best to find out now before he let her back into his life.

  Hell, it was far too late for that. She’d been part of his life since she’d first arrived at the castle as a girl.

  He’d thought he could keep his feelings for her locked away, that he could keep their interactions superficial and physical. He’d thought the use of her body would be enough.

  He’d been a fool.

  And he was a fool now. He couldn’t allow himself to wallow in these maudlin thoughts. He needed an heir. He was married to Jess. If she would swear to be faithful to him until his second son was born, then that would have to be enough. It was the practical, sensible thing to do.

  Even if it felt like it would kill him.

  Jess waited to climb the stairs to Lord Palmerson’s town house while a battalion of servants carried an elderly couple in bath chairs up the steps. She had her hand on Kit’s arm, but it felt as if Kit himself was miles away. He’d been like this since just after he’d given her the pearl earrings. What had happened?

  Yes, she’d still been angry with him when they were in their bedroom getting ready for the ball. She’d spent the day reminding herself of what the duchess had said at breakfast—that she was as guilty of listening to rumors as Kit was. But the bed was right there, a silent reminder of his absence the night before.

  And then he’d been so kind. He’d complimented her and given her the beautiful pearls—she’d never had a gift so fine. He’d been friendly—more than friendly. He’d looked at her with what she would have sworn was desire—

  Of course! How stupid could she be? He’d given her jewelry, hadn’t he? That was the bribe men used to lure silly women into their beds.

  But Kit’s gift hadn’t felt like a bribe, and he hadn’t tried to seduce her, even though he’d made her want to be seduced. He hadn’t even kissed her.

  She was so confused. She hated feeling off balance and out of control.

  She looked up at him. His eyes were on the commotion with the bath chairs—the elderly man must be rather deaf, because he was shouting directions so loudly Dennis could probably hear him back at Blackweith Manor—but she doubted Kit actually heard or saw anything. His profile was set, his jaw hard. He looked angry and sullen, a man forced to offer her his escort.

  Damn it. Couldn’t he pull himself out of his funk? He knew she was nervous. She’d told him so.

  She welcomed the spurt of anger. She’d much rather feel angry than awkward.

  The duchess glanced at them and frowned. “Smile, Ash. You look like you’re going to a funeral.”

  “Your own,” Jack said. Frances, standing by his side, quickly muffled a surprised giggle. He tilted his head and looked Kit up and down, while Kit glared at him. “No, on second thought, not a funeral. A murder.”

  “You’re a blo—” Kit pressed his lips together.

  Jack laughed. “You’re here to calm the old cats, Ash, not stir them into a gossiping frenzy. If you walk into the ballroom looking like that, they’ll think you’re planning to poison Jess and drop her body in the Thames.”

  Jack’s eyes moved to regard her. “And frankly, Jess looks like she might do the same to you.”

  “Don’t be absurd.” Kit’s expression darkened even more.

  “Oh? I wouldn’t say I’m being absurd. What do you think, Jess? Doesn’t my brother’s scowling face make you shudder?”

  “Of course not.” But Jack was probably right about the gossips. She forced herself to smile at Kit. “You do look as though you’d like to be somewhere else, though.” She paused, and then said quietly, only for his ears, “And with someone else.”

  That got his attention. His gaze sharpened as if he were suddenly focusing on her instead of his black thoughts. “It’s true I’d rather be somewhere else—this infernal ball will be crowded and hot and full of the worst idiots—but if I have to suffer through it, and I realize I do, I wouldn’t want to be with anyone but you.”

  “There you are, Jess,” Jack said. “You are Ash’s chosen partner in hell.”

  “Damnation, Jack. That’s not what I meant.”

  “Well, that’s what you said.”

  “I did not, and you know it.”

  The duke turned around then. “Perhaps you two might stop squabbling before we enter the ballroom? There will be enough rude speculation without you adding to the spectacle.”

  Kit’s jaw hardened again, but Jack laughed.

  “Of course, Father,” Jack said. “We will be models of deportment.”

  The duke snorted. “I do not ask for miracles.”

  “Perhaps you should,” the duchess said. “The Alm
ighty might be feeling generous.” She took his arm. “Come along. They have finally managed to wrestle Lord and Lady Smittle into the house.” She paused on the first step and looked back. “Do try to smile, Ash. Jack is quite right. Everyone will think you are contemplating murder.”

  “I am.” He glared at his brother. “Jack’s.”

  “I should like to see you try,” Jack said, grinning.

  They made their way up the stairs and into the ballroom without further conversation. Jess’s knees were trembling so much she had to focus all her attention on walking. She certainly did not wish to trip and go sprawling on the floor. Just the thought made her tighten her hold on Kit’s arm.

  His hand came up to cover her fingers. “Courage,” he whispered.

  Yes, courage. Surely she could discover some modicum of that virtue in her breast. After all, she’d endured years and years of gossip when she’d lived at the manor. How bad could a few hours be?

  Very bad.

  True to her word, the duchess had got them to the ball early, but there were still quite a number of people present, all of whom stopped their conversations to stare the moment Jess was announced. It was quite remarkable, really. The steady drone cut off abruptly for a beat or two of complete silence and then started up again, louder and at an almost fevered pitch.

  She would not have credited it, but in some regards it was easier to be gossiped about behind her back than to her face—well, in front of her face. She was quite certain none of those present would actually tell her what they were saying, though she could guess. She could guess very well.

  “Ignore them,” Kit said. He looked rather fierce again, but this time his anger was clearly directed at the ton. “They are all chattering dunderheads.”

  “Who can make my stay in London very unpleasant.”

  His jaw hardened to granite. “It doesn’t matter what they say. You are my wife, the Marchioness of Ashton, and the daughter-in-law of the Duke of Greycliffe.”

  If only she were his wife in more than name. If only she were his love.

  “And Mama is not only the Duchess of Greycliffe, remember. She’s the Duchess of Love. None of the mothers with daughters on the marriage mart dare offend her.”

  “Of course.” But it was often difficult to trace down the authors of rumors, especially if everyone was whispering the same thing. There was safety—and anonymity—in numbers.

  The duchess smiled and nodded to everyone who greeted her, but she didn’t stop until she’d reached a corner with some exuberant potted palms and windows that opened onto the terrace.

  “Trust Mama to find the coolest place in the ballroom,” Jack said.

  “I have not spent years attending these events without making note of the best spots to, ahem, enjoy the festivities.” The duchess looked at Jess and Frances. “I should warn you both that Lord Palmerson’s garden is exceedingly large and dark, so don’t go into it without Ash or Jack at your side. Some men cannot remember their manners.”

  Jess flushed. The duchess made a show of addressing Frances, too, but she knew to whom Her Grace’s words were really directed. She—

  “Don’t worry, Your Grace,” Frances said. “I have no intention of going out into a garden by myself or with anyone but Jack ever again.” Even though she smiled, her voice trembled.

  “I should hope not!” Jack, his face devoid of humor for once, grasped Frances’s hand. “Let’s go see where Lady Palmerson has hidden the refreshment room. You look like you could use a glass of lemonade.”

  Kit watched them leave. “What was that about? Is Frances afraid of gardens?”

  “No.” The duchess shook her head. “Well, not precisely.”

  “There was a madman loose in London when we arrived,” the duke said, “luring women into dark corners and slashing their throats.”

  “Yes, and he almost got Frances,” Her Grace added, “but thanks largely to her quick thinking, he was captured.”

  “Thank God for that.” Kit looked at Jess. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?”

  “Of course.” She had no desire to tour the garden. Since it was too dark to view the foliage, the only purpose would be to misbehave, and no matter how much Kit might think otherwise, she did not wish to do that. Unless, perhaps, she was misbehaving with him, but that wasn’t going to happen tonight. “But if the man has been apprehended, he’s no longer a threat.”

  “True, but you never know what other threats will pop up, Jess,” the duchess said. “London is nothing like the country.”

  “And speaking of London threats . . .” the duke said.

  “What? Oh, blast.” The duchess swiveled her head to look in the direction the duke indicated. A determined-looking woman with graying hair was bearing down upon them. “It’s Lady Dunlee. You may want to take Jess to the refreshment room, too, Ash. No need starting the evening off with London’s biggest gossip.”

  Jess stood next to Frances, happy to have a moment’s respite. She’d danced every dance, though that was likely because the duchess—or the mothers of hopeful daughters and long-suffering sons—had shooed men her way. And the men . . .

  She scowled, causing a nervous-looking little fellow to make a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn and vanish into a sea of plumed chaperones.

  Many of the men who’d danced with her had acted as if she were a light-skirt, damn it, though they had enough fear of Kit’s family not to be blatantly rude—which almost made things worse. They didn’t say anything she could call them on; they just hinted, smirked, waggled their brows.

  At least Percy had kept his distance.

  “It’s too bad Ellie and Ned aren’t here,” Frances said, “though of course it is wonderful that Ellie is increasing.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Jess missed Ellie’s quiet support, and Ned would have stood up with her without making her feel like a doxy.

  Kit hadn’t made her feel that way either—

  No, that wasn’t quite true. He hadn’t treated her with disrespect, but moving in time to the music with him, touching hands, looking into his eyes—all had provoked hot, needy feelings in her breast and, er, other places.

  “It’s nice to sit out a set,” Frances said. “I confess I find dancing tiring.”

  After their dance, with the ton avidly watching, Jess hadn’t been able to think of a single thing to say. They’d stood there awkwardly until the duchess had come and dragged Kit away, saying people would think he didn’t trust his wife to behave in society if he stayed glued to her side, looking like a thundercloud.

  “The country dances can be a bit of an exertion,” she said, smiling at Frances. Though she was happier when her partners were breathless; if they couldn’t speak, they couldn’t treat her to unpleasant innuendos and veiled insults.

  Frances laughed. “Oh, I didn’t mean physically tiring. It’s the mental strain of concentrating that’s so wearing.” She smiled. “I’ve just learned to dance. I still have to count the steps under my breath most of the time.”

  Jess’s eyebrows shot up. A marquis’s granddaughter who didn’t know how to dance? Even Jess had mastered that skill. “Really?”

  Frances nodded. “I used to think dancing was only for silly, husband-mad girls. I was wrong, of course.” She laughed. “Jack teases me about it all the time.”

  “I hope you don’t think he means anything by it, Frances.” Sometimes Jack lost sight of the effect his comments had on people. “Jack likes to tease, but I can tell he’s very much in love with you.”

  Frances’s face lit up. “I know. And I am very much in love with him. Jack has changed my life, Jess. I was a lonely, angry person before I met him.” She put her hand on Jess’s arm. “I know he’s been worried about Ash for years. I do hope you two can resolve your problems and be as happy as we are.”

  “Er, yes. Thank you.” Jess did not wish to discuss her marriage, especially not here in Lord Palmerson’s ballroom. When was Jack going to come take his wife away?

  Soon. The set was e
nding; Jack was already looking their way, thank God.

  And where was Kit?

  He’d just come in from Lord Palmerson’s large, dark garden.

  Damn. Her stomach dropped.

  Had he spent a few amorous minutes with one of the beautiful London ladies, perhaps the one whose bed he’d graced last night? Now he’d dodged behind some potted palms. What was he trying to hide?

  Anger bloomed in her gut, and she looked away. She didn’t want to see him flirting. She—

  She saw Percy talking to a plump girl who had a mass of blonde ringlets on her head and a plethora of furbelows on her puce-colored dress. Well, it was more accurate to say the girl was talking to Percy. As Jess watched, Percy cut her off with a few words and a sharp chop of his hand and walked away.

  The girl took a step after him, but stopped herself. She appeared to be on the verge of tears, poor thing. Jess glanced around. Thank God no one else seemed to be watching her. She must have realized she was in danger of making a spectacle of herself, because she looked around wildly and then darted out the closest door.

  She should go after the girl and tell her how lucky she was to be free of Percy.

  “Excuse me, Frances. I see someone I must speak to.”

  Frances nodded, but she probably hadn’t heard. Her attention was all on Jack, who was making his way toward her.

  Jess slipped around the perimeter of the ballroom, trying to stay out of Percy’s sight. He appeared to be searching for someone, likely her. She dodged behind a potted palm, and then kept a large woman wearing an elaborate headdress between them. Finally, she got to the door the other girl had slipped through and made her own escape.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The truth is sometimes hard to believe.

  —Venus’s Love Notes

  Ash stepped inside after a few moments on the terrace. Zeus, the ballroom was stuffy. He should see if Jess would like to stroll outside. Perhaps, if she was agreeable, they could wander into the vegetation.