Loving Lord Ash (17 page)

Back when Percy and Kit were fifteen or sixteen, Percy had found an edition of
Venus’s Love Notes
in his mother’s sitting room. Of course he’d had to torture Kit and his brothers with it, but before he could read the first word, Jack had tackled him. That had been a bit of luck, since Jack was four years younger. But then Ned had sat on him while Kit tore the paper up and stuffed the pieces into Percy’s mouth.

No, she could not tell Kit. She’d be happy to throw the papers, along with her sketch, into the first fire she came upon, but Roger wanted them back.

What the hell was Roger doing with copies of
Venus’s Love Notes
? Worse, why had he told her she should read them? She most certainly did not want to know her mother-in-law’s thoughts on marital love.

“I don’t think there’s much danger Fluff will run away to ride the highways and byways on the coachman’s box,” Kit said, “but he did seem content to remain where he was, so I felt it safe to leave him with Darby.”

Kit had been gone at least two hours. Surely it hadn’t taken him that long to reach this decision. “But why did you come inside now?”

Likely to quiz her.

His jaw hardened. Oh, damnation. He was going to ask about the damn sketchbook. Or the
Love Notes
. Could she pretend to swoon or have a fit of hysterics?

She had no idea how to do either of those things.

“We are approaching London. I felt I was a bit conspicuous sitting where I was. Gossips are everywhere, you know.”

Her stomach tightened. “I thought you said we could avoid the gabble-grinders.”

“I hope we can—which is why I removed myself from the coach box. Your dog is enough of an oddity.” He switched seats so he was facing her and stretched his legs out, brushing against her skirts.

Her heart, the stupid thing, fluttered in her chest. If she moved her right leg just slightly, it would be pressing up against his.

And Kit would just move away. The coach was confining, and he was a tall man. He meant nothing by their proximity and would be horrified if he could hear her treacherous heart beating faster.

He couldn’t hear it, could he?

“If I were driving the vehicle, that would be one thing. That might be considered somewhat dashing or dangerous. But sitting like a lump next to a dog and the coachman? No. Well, you can imagine what people would say, especially once it came out that you were with me.”

“Oh yes.” She could imagine all too well.
Why
hadn’t they gone to the castle instead? Well, it was too late now. But to think she’d have all the London women—and men, too—looking at her and talking about her . . .

Her stomach clenched into a hard knot. “Everyone would say you found me so abhorrent, you braved the weather and contact with servants and animals to avoid me.”

Kit frowned. “I believe you overstate the case, but yes, that would likely be the gist of it.” He cleared his throat. “But I wasn’t avoiding you, of course. I was just tending to your dog.”

No, he’d been doing both.

“I’m sorry about Fluff,” she said. “I had no idea he was prone to carriage sickness. I’ve never taken him anywhere in a closed coach like this—he’s only ever ridden in the back of the wagon. And I suspect the cook at the Singing Maid spoiled him dreadfully, so he ate far more than he should have. How did you recognize the problem?”

Kit smiled. “Ned was afflicted with carriage sickness when he was a boy. Whenever we traveled together Father would have him sit with the coachman, until he was old enough to ride a horse. I just assumed your dog might be the same.”

“I didn’t know that about Ned.” As a child she’d played with Ned, but of course she’d never been in a carriage with him. She was just a servant’s daughter.

But she was in a carriage now with his brother, so close she could touch him without reaching. Alone, without even Fluff to chaperone them. Private. No one could see them.

Kit was so much larger than she. His hair was windblown; there was a slight shadow of stubble along his jaw. His right hand—he had shed his gloves—rested on the coach seat. It was broad and capable, with lovely long fingers that were so clever with a pencil . . . or, as she’d discovered the other night, with a woman’s body.

She took a deep breath. His scent—a mix of cologne and soap and him—warmed her. She wanted to feel his touch again....

“Why should you have? I think the only ones who knew Ned got queasy were my parents, Jack, and me. Ned wasn’t proud of it. I’m afraid it was just one more thing for him to worry about.”

Ned had always been the worrier of the brothers, the one who spoke the word of caution when they were climbing trees or sledding or doing anything that carried the slightest risk.

She could use a word of caution right now. Her fingers itched to touch Kit’s knee, to slide up his leg—

He would only swat her hand away. He would have nothing to do with her until he knew she wasn’t carrying Roger’s child.

Which was a good thing. She didn’t want to be just the mother of Kit’s sons. She wanted a true marriage; she wanted Kit to love her and, perhaps even more, trust her. Respect her. Attacking him in the carriage would only confirm his opinion that she was no better than she should be.

But she still wanted to touch his knee.

Zeus, Kit’s nearness and his scent were muddling her thoughts and eroding her self-control. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap and searched for a conversational topic that had nothing to do with Kit’s knee.

“It must have been horrible for Ned when Cicely died.”

Ned and Cicely had married about three years after Kit left her at the manor. Kit hadn’t written to tell her about the wedding or about Cicely’s subsequent pregnancy and death. She’d learned everything she knew from the newspapers and from Dennis Walker, who got some information from Kit’s letters on estate business.

And this was the man she was struggling not to throw herself at?

She welcomed the spurt of anger.

It would be one thing if she were some London lady, but she’d grown up with Ned and Cicely. True, she’d thought Cicely an annoying, spineless, mewling ninnyhammer, but that hadn’t meant she didn’t mourn her passing. And she’d been very sad for Ned. She’d only hoped he’d soon realize he’d been . . . well, not lucky precisely, but that he still had hope for a happy future. She could not imagine being compelled to live one’s life with a person as meek and helpless as Cicely.

But then, there was no accounting for taste when one’s heart was involved, was there? She could hardly fault Ned for loving Cicely when she was stupid enough to love his brother.

Kit grunted. “Yes. It did rather reinforce his tendency to fret about everything.”

She tightened her laced fingers to keep them from touching him and drew in a sustaining breath—and with it another lungful of Kit’s scent.

Oh, God. It would be a very good thing if they arrived at Greycliffe House soon. Perhaps she should open a window. The cold air might clear her head. She fumbled with the latch.

“Here, let me help you with that.”

“No, I can do it. I—oh!”

Kit reached over so his arm pressed up against hers as his fingers brushed hers aside. His scent enveloped her completely, making her feel a little giddy, as if she’d had one glass of wine too many.

His face was so achingly familiar with its high cheekbones, strong chin, and gray eyes fringed with long, dark lashes. She wanted to trace the tiny scar on his temple that he’d got when he was twelve and jumped out of a tree. Well, he’d said he jumped; she’d thought Percy had pushed him, so she’d pushed Percy into a large, fresh pile of horse droppings.

But there were lines there, too, that hadn’t been there eight years ago—lines across his forehead, at the corners of his eyes and mouth. He was older, the boy in him harder to see.

Or perhaps she was fooling herself, and the person she’d dreamt of no longer existed. Eight years
was
a long time.

She watched his capable fingers force the latch open. She must look older as well. She bit her lip. Of course she did. Years were never kind to a woman’s face; he must think her a complete quiz, especially compared to the beautiful women of the ton.

“There you go.” He grinned as he shoved the window open. “What do you think of the place?”

She’d been aware of a rumbling in the background, but now she heard the cacophony all too clearly—carriage wheels clattering over cobblestones, people hawking their wares, dogs barking.

“It’s very”—she had to raise her voice—“noisy.”

And dirty with coal dust and smelly with stinks she’d rather not identify. She wrinkled her nose and reached for her handkerchief.

Kit laughed and closed the window again. “You’ll get used to it—or at least you’ll come to tolerate it. I confess on this I agree with my father: I much prefer the country.”

“You really don’t come to London often?” He’d said so, but she’d found it hard to believe. London must be like a sweets shop for a rake.

“I haven’t been here in years.” He looked at her, his face expressionless. “Not since we married.”

“Oh.” She looked out the window to avoid his gaze.

Hadn’t the rumors specified London?

Perhaps not. Perhaps she’d just assumed he’d been in Town to have been able to “entertain” so many women. He could have taken full advantage of the society house parties he’d surely attended. They would be more convenient for his purposes anyway. Each night would offer a new bed with a new lady.

“Look up ahead, Jess. We’re approaching the Thames and London Bridge.”

She leaned forward. Yes, she could see the river; it was larger than she could ever have imagined, with ships of all sorts plying the water. And up above, a dome. “Is that St. Paul’s?”

“Yes.” His voice filled with enthusiasm. “I’ll take you there. It’s a magnificent building, and you can see all of London from the gallery at the top.” He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have a fear of heights, do you?”

“Of course not.”

The coach crossed the bridge and started up the hill.

“And what’s that?” A large, stone column stood by itself, towering over the surrounding buildings.

“That’s the Monument. It was erected to commemorate the Great Fire. We can climb all three hundred and eleven steps, if you like. It has a splendid view, as well.”

“That might be nice.” Anything to get above the crowds. She’d never seen so many people, moving in streams on either side of the road—and sometimes in the middle of it. And there were carts and wagons and carriages and dogs and—

“I hope Fluff stays with Darby.”

Kit smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure Darby will stop if there’s a problem. I suspect poor Fluff is glued to his seat, overwhelmed by all the noises and smells and sights.”

As was she.

They turned west and followed the main road past St. Paul’s. The streets gradually got broader, but they were still crammed with people.

“Good heavens, look at that!” A tall, very thin man with an impressively hooked nose and shirt points so high they brushed the corners of his eyes was walking a small pug on a pink lead. “It’s a wonder he doesn’t poke his eyes out with those shirt points.”

Kit leaned forward to peer out, too. “I think he must already be blind to wear such an outlandish outfit.”

He was right. The man’s collar was the least of his peculiar appearance. He was also wearing red and white striped baggy trousers that looked like they’d be at home in a harem, a green coat with very long tails, a pink floral waistcoat, and a large ostrich feather pinned to his high-crowned beaver hat.

“I wonder who he is.”

Kit snorted. “Just another of the eccentric members of the ton. His tailor should be shot.”

“I can’t imagine he’d want people knowing he made those clothes. Perhaps he swore the man to silence.” She looked at Kit. “Are we going to see many such popinjays?”

Kit sat back, obviously tired of craning to see out the window. “I sincerely hope not, or if we do, only at a distance. I believe they tend to flock to the ton events, which we shall be giving a wide berth.”

Their carriage had finally turned off the main road and was now approaching a broad square with a large fenced garden in its center. Another traveling coach—a much better looking conveyance—was drawn up in front of the largest house. The house they seemed to be headed for. The house that was supposed to contain only Kit’s youngest brother.

She did not have a good feeling about this.

“Did Jack travel to London in a large carriage?”

Kit looked at her as though she’d just stepped out of Bedlam. “No, of course not. Why would he do something daft like that? He took his curricle.” He paused, a furrow forming between his brows. “Why do you ask?”

They rocked to a stop.

“Because there’s a large traveling coach parked right in front of us.”

Kit’s head snapped around, and he leaned forward to stare out the window. “Zeus,” he muttered. “It couldn’t be. They’re at the castle.”

“What couldn’t be?” There were only two people who were supposed to be at the castle—the duke and the duchess. Unless . . .

“Might it be Ned?”

“Perhaps.” Kit’s tone, however, said “not bloody likely.”

Mr. Darby opened the door, Fluff at his side. “Sorry, milord, but there’s a coach in my way. Ye want me to see if I can get them to move?”

“No, no, that’s fine, Darby. Lady Ashton and I will get out here.”

Kit bounded out of the carriage and, not bothering with the steps, grasped Jess by the waist and lifted her down just as the house’s front door opened. He kept one arm around her, clasping her close to his side in a shockingly intimate manner, but she decided not to protest. She suspected she’d need the support. Fluff crowded against her other side; she rested her hand on his head.

A footman came out first, dressed in the duke’s livery, and then a man and a woman—she recognized Ned and Ellie. And behind them came Jack with a girl she was fairly certain she’d never met. And then, of course, the duke and duchess themselves.

She must have moaned, because Kit hugged her closer and murmured, “Don’t worry. Perhaps they are all leaving.”