Loving Lord Ash (16 page)

No, the real reason Ash was sitting out in the chilly March air was to keep his attention off Jess, though that was proving to be well-nigh impossible. No matter how hard he tried to concentrate on other matters—like Darby’s plodding driving—his thoughts kept circling back to her.

What were those papers she’d thrust back into her valise last night—love letters from the naked footman? He’d wanted to grab them out of her hands, but he’d restrained himself.

Just barely.

What the hell was wrong with him? He was always in strict control of himself—except around Jess. All during supper and as he was escorting her back to her room, he’d had to bite his tongue to keep from mentioning those damn papers. If he’d had to ride the whole way to London in the carriage, he’d have severed that organ from his mouth. As it was, the first few miles had been passed in uncomfortable silence.

Frankly, he’d been delighted when Fluff had shown signs of carriage sickness.

He frowned at the passing scenery. What the hell did it matter if Jess was in love with the footman? The man was back at Blackweith Manor, too far away to get into her bed. And while the fellow might be in Jess’s heart, it wasn’t her heart Ash needed: it was the temporary use of another of her organs. Once she gave him two sons, she could take her heart and her . . .

She could take herself back to her footman with Ash’s blessing.

Well, with his grudging acquiescence.

Whom was he kidding? He’d want to fight tooth and nail to keep her, but he wouldn’t hold her against her will.

He shifted on the hard coach box. He simply didn’t like uncertainty and emotionally messy situations. Not that
his
emotions were involved. Oh no. His heart was completely whole. All would be well once this untidy detail from his past was resolved.

A young London buck in a curricle, pulling alongside them to pass, made the mistake of glancing over. His hands dropped with his jaw—he was clearly not expecting to see an enormous dog sitting on the box—and his equipage shot forward.

“Damn idiot,” Darby muttered as he and Ash watched the fellow fly down the road in front of them, struggling to get his horses back under control. “Good thing nobody was coming the other way.”

“Yes, indeed.” Ash watched the curricle disappear into the distance, conscious of a faint touch of envy. Their progress could most charitably be described as lumbering.

“At least the dog didn’t bark at ’im.” Darby wheezed in apparent laughter. “That would have sent the fool’s horses running all the way to the sea.”

“Quite likely.” Fluff had greeted Darby with some enthusiastic barking, and the poor old man had turned white as a ghost. Ash had expected him to flee back into the Singing Maid, but now he was smiling at Fluff as if Fluff were his own dog.

“Look at ’im, milord. Can ye see how much ’e likes the view from up ’ere? ’e’s a regular coachman’s dog, ’e is.”

Fluff was indeed surveying the countryside with what looked like great satisfaction.

“Well, he’d best not get too attached to the position. He’ll be walking once we’re settled in Town.”

Fluff gave him a reproachful look.

Darby laughed. “Has yer lady brought the dog to Lunnon afore, milord?”

“No. This will be his first visit to Town.”

The coachman frowned. “Ye know a dog that size is going to need a lot of walking.”

“Yes, I suspect you are right.” With luck there’d be a sturdy footman at Greycliffe House who liked dogs....

Damn it, the footman had better not like women as well—or at least not Jess. Surely any man his father had in his employ would value his position too much to dally with the heir’s wife.

But would Jess refrain from dallying with the footman? His hand balled into a fist.

He forced his fingers to uncurl. Zeus, he had to rein in this blasted jealousy if he hoped to have an . . . arrangement with Jess. She had, rightly, objected to his calling her a whore, and she had signed the paper he now carried in his pocket. She’d agreed again yesterday to honor it. If he watched her constantly, questioned her interactions with every male who crossed her path . . . She wasn’t stupid. She’d know he thought her a light-skirt without his saying the words, and that would put paid to their truce.

He shifted on the box again and looked out over the passing scenery. The snow had all melted here, and the trees were beginning to bud. Spring was coming. He’d always liked spring, even with the mud and the rain. He liked the warmer weather and the longer days. It made him feel hopeful. He’d like to feel hopeful about his marriage—or at least his chances of getting an heir.

“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.