Loving Lord Ash (13 page)

Damn it all, she made him painfully, desperately, mad with desire. His blasted cock was going to explode. He shifted his weight again, but it didn’t help. There was no comfortable position to be found on this unforgiving bench.

Why the hell wasn’t he like other men? Most male members of the ton didn’t let marriage vows prevent them from enjoying a mistress or two. And now that he’d signed that damned paper, he had one more vow keeping him celibate. He couldn’t honorably find a willing barmaid to ease his pain and give him some sorely—ha!
very
sorely—needed experience.

If he was ever free to take Jess to bed and try for an heir, she would laugh at his fumbling.

Though she hadn’t been laughing last night, had she?

The surge of pride that came with that thought only made his cock grow stiffer.

He shifted position once more. They had better reach the damn inn soon.

Why did Huntington have to come along? Not that her conversation with Kit had been going well, but Huntington had just made things worse.

Jess glanced at Kit. He was fidgeting on his seat as if he couldn’t wait to reach the inn and put more space between them.

Had he believed her when she’d said she’d never had anything to do with Huntington? She knew people said that she had. The local gossips claimed she’d been in almost every man’s bed in the county, though how anyone could believe that was beyond her. But believe it they did.

Dennis and Roger went to the tavern on occasion and heard the local men talking. They wouldn’t tell her precisely what the fools said, but they’d admitted some of it, especially after the third or fourth or fifth round of ale, was highly uncomplimentary. Charlie, the footman who’d been at the door—or who should have been at the door—when Kit arrived, had let slip, before Dennis shushed him, that it was the common belief the manor staff was her male harem, a fact he found extremely funny. Of course if the villagers knew the staff’s true interests, she and the men at the manor would have an entirely different set of problems. There were definitely benefits to her social ostracism.

But none of the local men had better be boasting he’d been in her bed. If that was going on, she’d like a list of the liars so she could give them a piece of her mind, and have Kit—her dog, Kit—take a large piece out of their arses.

She glanced at her husband Kit again. He was scowling at Chester’s tail. She’d swear he’d actually been on the verge of hitting Huntington. Huntington had seemed to think so, too, and had been frightened by the prospect.

Perhaps Huntington wasn’t such a skilled pugilist after all. And Kit
was
quite imposing—tall and broad shouldered. She could definitely attest to that fact.

Mmm, yes, indeed. For the first time her excitement at the thought of painting the male figure wasn’t solely artistic.

Would Kit really pose for her when they got to London?

She shivered with what must be anticipation.

“Are you cold?” Kit asked.

“Ah . . .” No, she was actually rather hot, but she couldn’t very well say that.

“Would you like my coat?”

His coat, warm with the heat of his body.

“No, of course not. I’m fine—and see, there’s the church steeple up ahead. We’re almost there.”

He frowned down at her, concern in his eyes. “You’re certain you’re not cold?”

“Yes.”

She forced herself to look away and take a deep breath as Kit navigated a curve and the town came into view. She could not let herself fall back into love with Kit so easily.

All right, she’d never fallen out of love with him, but she mustn’t let herself act on the feeling yet. Kit might be solicitous at the moment, but that was only because he needed an heir. Did she really want to be nothing more than his brood mare?

They clattered over the narrow, cobbled street, past shops and the church.

“The inn must be on the other side of town,” Kit said.

The image of his body—broad chest, sculpted muscles, flat belly—flashed into her memory. And that very large tent in his drawers.

Yes, perhaps she did.

No! Where was her pride? He’d dropped her at the manor eight years ago like a rotten fish, and he’d not seen nor written to her—likely he’d not even thought of her—in all those years. Oh, no. He’d been too damn busy raking his way through the female members of the ton.

She might be spurned by the local gentry, but somehow they had managed to see that she heard
that
gossip.

And why was their gossip about Kit any more believable than their gossip about her?

She froze. Where the hell had
that
thought come from? Kit was a marquis. Everyone knew that was the way the male members of the ton lived. Look at Huntington. Look at Percy.

Look at Kit’s father, the Duke of Greycliffe.

Ah.

She glanced at Kit, his face intent as he guided old Chester. He was nothing like Percy or Huntington.

Perhaps the gossips had exaggerated. Perhaps there was hope she could persuade Kit, even if he
had
had many lovers, to limit himself to her bed. But it was too soon to know. She could not give in to her attraction now. Yes, she had his name, but she wanted his heart.

And even if she threw herself naked into his arms, he’d only push her away. He still thought Roger had been much closer a friend than he had been.

“Ah, here we are.” Kit sounded exceedingly relieved as they clattered into the Singing Maid inn yard. A young boy ran over to take Chester’s bridle. “Let’s go in and see about rooms.”

With luck they’d be able to get separate bedchambers, and she wouldn’t have to test her resolve. Her head was determined to wait, but her body, the treacherous thing, desperately wanted more of what Kit had done last night.

She started to get down.

“Wait for me to help you.” Kit swung out of his seat and hurried over to her side. Damnation. She could have scrambled off the wagon’s bench by herself. She’d certainly done it countless times these last eight years.

But Kit would not have liked her rejecting his assistance, and she’d admit it would have given a very odd appearance. The inn’s servants who had occasion to be in the yard were staring.
They
didn’t mistake Kit for a farmer.

She let his strong fingers grasp hers and ease her down from the wagon. Her silly heart fluttered, and—

Kit, her dog, whimpered.

Excellent timing. “You go on. I need to walk my dog.”

Kit, her husband, raised his brows. “Then I shall accompany you.”

“Why?” She’d like some time away from him. His large presence was unsettling. It was difficult to think clearly. “I walk him by myself all the time.”

“And that is another thing I shall add to my list of issues to discuss with Walker when he and I next meet.”

“I do not understand why you would raise the subject with Mr. Walker. He is not my keeper. And, in any event, in case it has escaped your notice, Kit is large and protective.” Apparently like his namesake. “No one bothers me when I have him with me.”

She heard the stable boy gasp as her dog jumped down to stand next to her. “See?”

“Yes, indeed. I see you are being difficult and overly independent to the point of ignoring your good sense.”

“I am not.” Kit had not been so overbearing when they’d been children. “I assure you I’ve walked my dog many, many times by myself.” She should have seen this coming. She’d wanted to take her dog out alone before they’d left the White Stag, but her husband had insisted on accompanying her then, too.

She’d never been a dependent female, and eight years virtually running Blackweith Manor by herself had only strengthened her independent inclinations. If Kit thought she’d be some pliable, submissive wife, he was going to be very much disappointed.

Kit leaned against the wagon, looming over her in a very annoying way. “That may be true, but you are not walking him alone here. You do not know the area nor does your dog. He may be very intelligent and protective, but he is only an animal. He could take off, chasing a rabbit or a squirrel, and leave you at the mercy of any passerby.” He straightened. “Where is his lead?”

“In the back of the wagon.” Kit had insisted she use the lead at the White Stag, so it was, unfortunately, in plain sight. Otherwise she might have insisted her pet could not wait while he looked for it.

“Ah yes, I see it.”

He proceeded to attach it to Kit’s collar—and the damn dog allowed him to do so.

“There we go.” He turned to the stable boy. “What’s your name, lad?”

“Jake, sir.” The boy couldn’t be more than ten. He kept staring at her dog, his eyes huge. “Is that a bear, sir?”

Kit laughed. “No. He’s just a very large dog. Would you like to pet him?”

And now Kit was introducing Kit—her dog, Kit—as if he were his. She watched Jake cautiously put a hand on Kit’s head.

“Can you see that someone takes care of our horse, Jake?”

“Y-yes, milord. Of course, milord.”

“And tell the innkeeper that the Marquis of Ashton would like two rooms for the night.”

Jake’s eyes grew even wider. “Straightaway, milord.”

“Splendid.” Kit gave the boy a coin and extended his arm to Jess. “Shall we go?”

Did she have a choice? “Very well.” She put her hand on his sleeve just as a woman and two men rode into the inn yard.

“What is this wagon doing here?” the thinner of the men asked. His face was pinched with distaste.

“Blast it all,” Kit muttered. She felt his arm tense under her fingers.

“It is rather in the way, ain’t it, Hal?” The other man was much broader, tending toward fat, with a reddish, bulbous nose.

“Yes, indeed,” Hal said. “Take it away, boy. Or better yet, find the farmer it belongs to and have him remove it.”

Jake’s mouth dropped open, and he looked at Kit.

The woman sniffed. She was strikingly beautiful with heavy-lidded eyes, very full lips, and clothes that must have come directly from London. “I hope we won’t find manure tracked inside. I thought you said the Singing Maid was a better sort of inn.”

“I assure you it is, my sweet,” Hal said. “I have never had a problem before. I will definitely have a word with Belmont, the innkeeper. He—”

The woman’s eyes had been wandering while the man talked. Now they touched on Kit and widened briefly. Her lips slid into a very unpleasant smile. “Stop chattering, Hal. We must greet Lord Ashton and his . . . friend.”

Jess did not like the way the woman paused before saying “friend.” Kit’s other hand came up to cover hers in a gesture that could only be intended as reassuring. She glanced up at him. His jaw was clenched.

“Ashton?” the other man said, looking Kit over as if he were a rare animal in a menagerie. “Good God, are you certain? I thought he never left Greycliffe Castle.”

“Of course I’m certain. I was just at his mother’s infernal house party, remember?” The woman nudged her horse closer. “So lovely to see you again, Lord Ashton.”

“Lady Heldon,” Ash said, bowing very, very slightly.

“You know Lord Hallington,”—she gestured toward the thin man—“and Lord Pelthurst, don’t you?”

“I don’t believe I’ve had the, ah, pleasure.” Kit looked as if he’d be very happy to forgo that experience now as well.

Lady Heldon examined Jess rather as she imagined a hungry cat might examine a mouse. “And who is your lovely companion?” She tittered. “Or can you not present her to me?”

“Yes, indeed,” Pelthurst said. “You may not be able to introduce the gal to Imogen, Ashton, but Hal and I would very much like to make her acquaintance. We’re always looking for another comely armful—when you are done with her of course.”

Lord Hallington nodded. “We’ve just finished up a rousing good party—Imogen here came over from your mother’s do and assures me my gathering was far more enjoyable.” He winked at Kit. “Why don’t you and your companion sample Belmont’s ale with us and then come back to my estate? Five is a good start on a second gathering, I’d say. Your friend would be a lovely addition to our games.”

Good God, was this the sort of behavior she had to look forward to in London? She should set Kit—her dog, Kit—on them, but she didn’t want to distress their horses. At least Kit, her husband, was also furious. His arm felt like steel; his nostrils flared.

“This
lady,
” he said, his voice tight with anger, “is my wife, the Marchioness of Ashton.”

All three dropped their jaws as one. Jess had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

“I’m sure you will understand when I tell you I do not wish to introduce her to you. Now if you will excuse us? Her dog has been patiently awaiting his walk.”

With that he turned and led her away.

Chapter Eight

Good advice can be found in surprising places.

—Venus’s Love Notes

“I’m sorry you were subjected to those three, Jess.” Sorry hardly began to describe his emotions. He was disgusted and angry—and insulted anyone would think he, a married man, would parade a paramour around a country village.

Well, yes, many married men probably did just that and Jess had said she’d heard rumors that he was among their number, but he’d truly thought everyone expected him to hold to a higher standard. He was the son of the Duke of Greycliffe, after all, who was famous for being madly in love with and completely faithful to his wife.

Though perhaps people could be forgiven for not thinking him madly in love. Because he wasn’t. Not precisely. But he was a man of his word. He took his marriage vows seriously—and perhaps he
would
be free to love his wife madly if this experiment or trial or whatever it was with Jess worked out.

He looked over at her. She was studying the ground. It was true the walkway was littered with the normal filth of village life—dust and mud and dog droppings—but navigating the mess didn’t require quite so much concentration.

Blast it, he remembered that expression. He’d seen it often enough when she was a girl. Her jaw was set and her lips were forced up into a tight smile. She’d always been determined not to show pain when someone hurt her. She was far more likely to laugh than cry.