Earlier, Zack had attempted to block the earl’s escape, and in the struggle, Zack’s pistol had gone off. Worried that a magistrate would have to be called if an earl had been shot, Ash steered Christie closer so he could see more. He couldn’t see blood or bullet wounds. The dastard had effectively killed himself.
Hiding his limited sight would be difficult. Ash let the others speak first while he decided how much he dared reveal.
“I’ll clean up here,” Pascoe said briskly, hiding the concern in his voice as he laid a reassuring hand on Ash’s shoulder. “You need to lead your men to battle.”
“Montfort?” Ash asked about the cad who had held a gun to his head and locked him up with the boys.
“Your wife put him to shame. We’ve tied him up, and he’s whimpering like a baby. I don’t think it’s safe to leave him as your neighbor,” Pascoe warned. “But he’s a baron. Putting him on trial will be messy.”
“I’ll leave the decision in your hands.” Ash leaned against Christie, grateful for her support since he was fairly certain his head would roll off at any minute. “I have no idea exactly what happened here today, but my thanks to all of you. I owe you.”
“Put the Whigs in office, and you’ve repaid us all,” Aster declared.
Aster. And Celeste. Ash shook his head in amazement. His brothers would kill him for endangering their lives. Theo and Erran had only married since his accident, so Ash had never seen them before. He turned toward the sound of their voices.
He tilted his head to better study the one who had to be Aster. She was almost as he’d imagined her—a carrot-red riot of curls, laughing eyes, short and well-rounded. She would lead staid Theo a merry dance.
Celeste—Ash tried not to stare as she entered his narrow line of vision. He’d known she was Jamaican and different. He hadn’t known that meant her complexion was more brown than he became after a summer in the sun. Tall, thin, with lustrous dark hair falling loose from her hair pins, she was the sensuous dessert hard-working Erran deserved.
If his eyesight disappeared again, at least he’d had these few moments to see his family. Sighing with pleasure, he finally released Christie to let William take his weight and lead him toward the waiting carriage.
With a sensation akin to awe, Ash kept stealing glances at his magnificent wife. She was wearing a dowdy blue gown with a single petticoat. Her lack of fashion didn’t deter him so much as fascinate him—he could watch the sway of her sturdy hips as she hurried ahead of them. No vaporish female, this! Instead of uselessly smothering him with worry or weeping over what couldn’t be changed, she was already shepherding her flock. Any other female of his acquaintance would, at the very least, be demanding smelling salts and wilting all over the scenery.
Instead of hysterically scolding the troublemakers, Christie hugged the twins as they ran up, surrounded by half-starved hounds. She ordered the driver to help Ash into the berlin so William could take care of the dogs. Hoping to stall the inevitable, Ash refused to climb in until she did. He leaned against the berlin, arms crossed, and kept angling his head so he could watch his wife command her troops like a good general. She ushered in Aster and Celeste, then verified his brothers would find the curricle and look after the twins while Pascoe sought out the local authorities.
And even disheveled and distraught, she looked the part of a ripe Venus. Ash thought his heart would swell with pride and explode. He prayed his eyesight would last long enough to see her naked and with her hair down.
That was the image that got him through the humiliating carriage ride back to town, fighting nausea and the demons pounding on his skull. For Christie, he even endured the torture of a cramped carriage populated with nattering women.
He might possibly die for Christie, and he would die happy. He circled her shoulders with his arm, she rested against him, and the world blissfully went away.
32
“Two tubs, in my chambers, immediately,” Ash commanded as they entered the house. “All hands to hauling hot water,” he told the footman on duty, who stared at their disheveled states, then rushed off to do as bid.
Christie shook her head in amazement at the arrogance of her lordly husband. He could barely hold his head up for the pain, yet he entered the house as a king would his stateroom, shoulders thrown back, chin up, and shouting orders.
“Our guests will be calling for their hot water if they’re just now rising,” Christie reminded him. “I’ll use a basin until everyone is gone.” She didn’t even know if the house contained two tubs, and she blushed at the thought of bathing in the same room with Ash.
Which was foolish of her, admittedly, given what they’d done in bed these last nights. It was just . . . she was having difficulty adjusting to the notion that the magnificent marquess actually loved her. It was a little too much to believe after a lifetime of neglect. Perhaps all this time, she had been wrong about her ability to feel emotion, and it was all in her head. She needed time to absorb so very much . . . .
“The layabouts can wait,” Ash said rudely, giving her no time for romantic fancies. “You come first. And if they expect me to lead them anywhere, I need to be rid of this headache. Or we could share a tub,” he suggested wickedly.
There was the arrogant monster she knew and loved.
“I doubt one tub would hold us both,” she said dryly, letting him drag her into his chamber. Now that he was home, he seemed better able to move about. He wasn’t even using his stick. Had he lost it? “I’ll have someone fetch your headache powder.”
“The tub at Iveston will hold us,” he said with a leer that almost convinced her he could see her state of dishabille. Her morning gown was very thin. “We’ll head there directly tomorrow,” he continued, “and I’ll show you the wonders of sharing a tub.”
“Then we can wait until tomorrow. Today, you bathe alone, and I’ll just wash and change and see to your guests. After you have all marched off, I can have a bath.”
She tried to slip away, but he held her tight, and she had a hard time telling him no after almost losing him. She was still feeling weepy and longed to cling to him. She loved that Ash was big enough to hold her so easily. He found the fastenings of her gown and began undoing them.
“I can do that myself.” Gathering her hard-won courage, she pushed him away to work on her bodice. “It’s too complicated to undress each other, especially if you want to go out there and talk to your guests anytime soon.”
“I don’t, really,” he said with blunt honesty. He focused on her undressing with avid scrutiny, as if he could actually see her, while tearing blindly at his own buttons. “Tell me why you didn’t let me know where you were going. You worried me past redemption.”
Surprised at this tack, she took a moment to understand what he was feeling. He was brimming over with lust, so it was difficult. “Because I must learn to manage family matters on my own,” she finally asserted.
“Only if I’m not available!” He wrestled out of his frock coat, his eyes still following her as she undid her skirt. “I didn’t marry you so you could treat me like an invalid.”
“I am treating you like a busy marquess,” she responded, surprised at her own tartness. “Your children were being children. If you don’t wish me to interfere with their upbringing, then say so.”
“You are deflecting the argument. There is a very real danger of haring off on your own.”
“Just as there was a very real danger in driving a curricle while blind,” she cried in outrage. “If I thought it would work, I’d take a stick to your head for that. I had the sense to look for help. You stubbornly struck out on your own!”
“Because you weren’t there.” Her arrogant husband jutted his stubborn jaw and cast aside his waistcoat, but he didn’t yank off his shirt while the servants rushed in. They carried in two tubs and buckets of steaming water. Christie darted behind the dressing screen.
“Just build up the fire,” Ash told his valet, his frustration obviously mounting.
“Jones, bring his headache powder, please,” Christie called.
“Yes, my lady. I’ll lay out fresh clothes in the dressing room. Shall I have your maid fetch fresh linen?”
“Fresh everything,” Christie agreed with a sigh, glancing down at her paint-splattered gown. “Afternoon attire, please.”
“Yes, my lady.”
She discarded the rest of her clothing while Ash stomped about, ordering servants. After his morning’s exertions, he ought to just collapse in bed and groan, but he seemed to be in full martial mode. His eagerness was so great, she could feel it across the room. She didn’t know what he was eager about. Earlier, he’d been beyond surly about leading a parade down Pall Mall to Parliament as he’d been ordered to do. She surmised it wasn’t the election he was thinking about.
She heard a bolt slamming home. When had a bolt been installed? Since the chamber had three doors, that was fairly useless.
She heard two more bolts slamming shut. My heavens!
“All clear, my love. You may come out of hiding.”
She was down to her linen shift and nothing more. She peered around the screen to see Ash alone, lowering his splendid nakedness into a steaming tub. Entranced by the sight, forgetting the argument, she stepped out of hiding. His broad back rippled with muscle and his arms bulged as he gingerly held himself above the hot water.
“Shall I wash your back?” she asked, daringly walking up to the tub to admire the front of him. He had a taut belly and not an ounce of fat marred his waist.
He was partially aroused. At the sound of her voice, he stiffened more, she noticed with fascination.
“By all means,” he said gruffly, settling into the water. He seemed to study her as she reached for the soap the servants had left within his reach. “If that’s one way of keeping you from haring off on wild escapades.”
At his blatant stare, her nipples rubbed at her linen, even though she knew he could see next to nothing in the dim lamplight.
“I no longer wish to be a hermit hiding inside houses,” she said stiffly. “I shall hare about as I deem necessary.” She leaned over to scrub his shoulder.
“Then I shall have to arrange it so I go with you.” Ash grabbed her waist and hauled her half over the tub to kiss her. She squealed and struggled, but finally finding a comfortable purchase, she eagerly returned his kisses. She was still in desperate need of reassurance that he was home, safe and unharmed.
He massaged her breast until she was as wet inside as out. He lifted her higher so he could cover her nipple with his mouth, soaking the linen between them even more. It didn’t take further persuasion to step into the tub.
“There can’t be room,” she protested faintly as he tried to pull her down, and she resisted, holding the tub sides.
In answer, he unerringly grabbed the hem of her shift and yanked until he ripped the ribbons loose. He tugged the wet linen down, parted her thighs, and licked between them as she gingerly balanced above him.
Christie muffled a scream and quickly figured out how to drop down and kneel in place. Her husband was not a small man in any way. Even when she kneeled, his arousal brushed against her.
Ash eyed her as a starving man might study a feast, as if he might actually be seeing her. Uneasily, she edged back, but he pushed her breasts up and together and kissed them both. The place between her legs opened and ached.
“You are more luscious than words could ever say,” he said reverently. “I knew you would be, but this . . .” He sighed and took her bare nipple in his mouth until Christie nearly shrieked with need.
She wanted to question his words, explore the excitement he exuded, but he captured her buttocks in his large hands and eased her over him, and she couldn’t think at all as he filled her.
He pumped into her until they were both sweaty and frantic with need, then bit her shoulder to muffle his moans of pleasure. Expertly, he fingered sensitive tissues just as he drove deep and achieved his own release. It was Christie’s turn to bury her cries in his shoulder while she writhed with muscles clenching, milking him until pleasure satiated them.
“Yes,” Ash said in satisfaction, pulling out what was left of her pins to fill his hands with her hair. “If I never see another day, I’ll have this moment in my head forever. I wish I could paint you like this. You have no idea . . . Someday, I’ll take you to the Continent to see the masters. Even they could not replicate your beauty.”
Hunger momentarily slaked, unable to move despite the awkwardness of the tub, Christie leaned her head against his brow and tried to translate his declaration. He must be speaking in metaphors. “You cannot touch the old masters to see them,” she said, although the notion of visiting the Continent enthralled her. “They are paint and canvas.”
“Which is why you are so much better.” He caressed her breasts. “But I wish you to see your beauty as I do. It’s a damned shame Lawrence died. I’d hire him to paint you.”
Horrified at the thought of a giant her on the wall, Christie finally discovered the energy to push away. “You would subject your family and guests to staring at what they can already see. That’s foolish. Now hurry, I can hear people in the dining room.”
He caught her hands against his chest and wouldn’t let go. “You have an intriguing freckle just below your left breast, and your eyes are the color of summer skies. And if you run away, I will follow you forever.”
Christie froze. She studied his sightless dark eyes. She watched as he tore his gaze from hers, deliberately dropped it to her breasts, then kissed the freckle hiding below her over-plump breast.
“You can see?” she whispered, not sure whether she felt horror or joy. Most likely both. His joy filled her, and she could scarcely resist his ballooning excitement—but if he could see the roll of flesh at her waist . . . “How much can you see?” she asked in horror. “When did you start seeing?”
“After the knock on my head. I don’t know if it’s the result of Emilia’s potions or the blow or just another stage of the problem. I still need a lot of light to see clearly in just the narrow band in front of me,” he admitted. “I have to turn my head to see anything else. But to be able to finally admire your lovely skin and the beauty of your lips—” He slid his fingers through her hair and steadied her jaw. “I cannot get enough. It’s like being handed heaven. I need to know every detail that I’ve missed.”
Confused, she hastily scrambled from the tub and grabbed for a towel. “I . . .” She looked down at her very large and unstylish self and back to his magnificent muscled form and ran for the screen.
“I will find old masters right here in London,” Ash declared. “You will not run until you see what I see.”
“You are mad,” she cried, scrambling for the clean clothes her maid had left. “Your mind is still addled. Wait until you see me next to Celeste and Aster—”
“I’ve seen you next to them,” he said, splashing in what water remained. “Celeste is skinny and brown. Aster is short and her mouth is too wide. Erran and Theo think them beautiful. Have you never heard that beauty is in the eyes of the beholder?”
She didn’t know whether to trounce him for not telling her about his eyes sooner or preen that he thought her prettier than beautiful Celeste or . . . just scream. “That’s for old people,” she said scornfully. “We’ll all be gray and fat someday. We must hope to be known for kindness or wisdom by then so people will see those traits instead of wrinkles.”
“Christie, my beloved, I have been seeing those traits in you for weeks now. Do you think I can see anything other than your patience with a tyrant, your kindness to my sons, your command of my unruly household? I have held your voluptuous beauty in my arms and imagined every lovely curve to perfection. You could have warts on your nose, and I would love them.”
She swallowed a giggle at the image and clung to her outrage. “You got me naked before you told me!” She knew she was being ridiculous in the face of his brave declaration. She’d spent a lifetime
with her unlovely self. He couldn’t change her mind so easily with pretty words.
“Of course I did,” he admitted cheerfully. “I’m not a fool. You should remember that the next time you lie to me. I always know it when you do.”
“Then you know I’m not lying when I say I’m no beauty,” she said darkly, struggling with her bodice. Realizing he could help her now, she came out from behind the screen.
He stood naked and dripping, towel in hand, looking like an Adonis. She’d spent a lot of time studying illustrations in her stepfather’s library. Her husband was Greek god material.
“Your definition of beauty and mine differ. That’s opinion and not fact. I have an ugly scar down my face, a withered thigh, a big nose, and I’m not exactly of a gentlemanly build or coloring.”
Outraged at this description of perfection, she pinched his patrician nose. “You are looking for compliments. Have you even seen the scar? It merely emphasizes your handsomeness. Perfection would be boring.”
He snorted and studied the blue and white striped gown she’d donned. “I have wondered how you dressed. I like the simplicity. It suits you.”
Still roiling with so many emotions that she couldn’t think straight, she presented her unfastened back to him rather than gawk in awe at his nudity. “For my new gowns, I intend to order lace and ribbons and those lovely billowing sleeves,” she said spitefully.
“You’re lying. Try again.” He accurately pulled her bodice hooks together until it fit snugly, then kissed her shoulder.
He could see. He really could see. Christie shivered. “I’m a terrible liar.”
“That’s a lie,” he said with a laugh. “You do it all the time and no one notices except me.”
“That’s a lie,” she countered. “I told you your valet’s choice of wallpaper was excellent so you’d leave poor Zack alone. Take a good look.”
He glanced around the unlit walls. “Too dark to see it well. And I didn’t believe you. I was just intrigued that you’d settle for walls you didn’t like and wondered why. Now I know. You were saving my cousin from my bullying.”
Theory of Magic Page 28