Loving Lord Ash (3 page)

The look Kit gave Roger could have frozen fire. “You bloody—”

“My lord, Charlie said you’d arrived.” Dennis Walker appeared in the corridor behind Kit. The poor man’s face was flushed, and he was panting as if he’d run up the stairs. He wrung his hands—and carefully avoided looking at Roger. “What a surprise.” He smiled weakly and cleared his throat. “A
wonderful
surprise, of course. But you must be hungry and thirsty. Why don’t you retire to the study, and I’ll have some refreshments sent to you?”

Kit turned his glare from Roger to Dennis. “Refreshments will not be necessary; I am leaving.”

“But, my lord—”

“However,”—Kit cut Dennis off, and suddenly Jess could see the duke in him, though His Grace had never been this cold—“I shall require a moment of your time before I depart, Mr. Walker. If you would be so kind as to await me in the study? I shall not be long here.”

Dennis opened his mouth to argue, but must have realized he’d be wasting his breath. Kit had made up his mind.

He pressed his lips together, gave Jess a worried look, and then bowed and departed.

Jess listened to Dennis’s heels echo down the corridor as she looked at Kit’s stony countenance. So this was it. It was finally coming. Her heart stilled. It felt like a fragile glass ornament that would shatter in a moment with the words she knew were coming.

She sniffed and swallowed sudden tears. Stupid. She should have given up her foolish hope of a miraculous happily-ever-after a long time ago.

“Madam,” Kit said.

Damn it, he sounded as if he were addressing a servant—no, not even a servant. A poor, dirty cur.

Her heart lurched back into motion, anger beginning to smolder in its center. Good. Anger was better than tears.

“Madam,” he said again, “I came to tell you that I am initiating divorce proceedings. I apologize for taking so long to do so.” His nostrils flared, and he looked at Roger—poor Roger standing barefoot in the cold studio with a red flowered blanket wrapped around him.

Kit looked back at her. “I must also inform you that if you become
enceinte,
I shall deny the child is mine. I have plenty of witnesses who will swear we never shared a bed.”

Her temper flared. How dare he talk to her—to any woman—this way. “Oh, do you need a bed to accomplish the deed?”

For a moment, she actually thought Kit would hit her.

“Jess, I’m not sure that’s what you wanted to say,” Roger muttered.

Well, she’d wanted to say it when the words had left her lips, but now she wished she’d kept her tongue between her teeth.

Kit finally managed to loosen his jaw enough to spit out a few words. “Good day, madam. I don’t believe we need ever meet again, a fact for which I’m certain we are both profoundly grateful.”

Then he turned and walked out of her life.

Ash had to make a detour on his way to the study. He ran down the back stairs—fortunately he didn’t encounter anyone, but then most of the servants were probably gathered in the kitchen, gossiping about how their cuckolded lord had finally appeared after so many years—and out the back door. He took a few quick steps and then bent over a nondescript bush and emptied the meager contents of his stomach.

He couldn’t as easily disgorge the memory of Jess’s arms around that naked lecher. Or her long hair, black as night, sweeping down to skim her derriere. Or her violet eyes so full of anger and passion.

Bloody hell. He rubbed his hands over his face. Now he had something besides Percy’s arse to haunt him.

Dissipation should show in a person’s appearance, but Jess was as beautiful as ever, perhaps even more beautiful. Her face had matured. It had character—

Evil
character.

And the worst of it was he
still
wanted her so badly his damn ballocks burned. Desire pounded in his chest as hard as anger.

He heaved again, but there was nothing left to come up.

He should take her to bed and cure himself of her once and for all. It was his right. He was her husband—

No. He was the worst sort of fool, but he wasn’t
that
stupid. His cock did not—had never—ruled his will. If he bedded Jess now and she bore a child in nine months, he’d never know if the babe was his or that blackguard’s upstairs.

Being a cuckold was bad enough, but passing the duchy on to some filthy rake’s get—no. He could not do that.

But Jess might be barren. It seemed likely, given how many men she’d reputedly entertained over the years. Or perhaps she merely knew the light-skirts’ tricks for avoiding conception. He could scratch his itch—

His stomach twisted again. She might be no better than a whore, but he couldn’t use her as one. He had loved her once and, to be honest, he was afraid that if he went to her bed, he’d discover that he loved her still.

He straightened, pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped his mouth. He was making too much of this. His problem was solved simply enough—at least the problem of his aching cock. All he needed was an accommodating bit o’ muslin, a girl who didn’t pretend to be anything other than what she was.

He’d kept his marriage vows all these years, but now he considered himself well and truly free of them. He’d have a word with Walker, and then, when he got to the inn, he’d see if any of the serving girls were interested in a little bed play. It was long past time he lost his virginity.

He stood in the chill March air a few more minutes, waiting for his head to clear and his passions to subside—and his nether regions to return to their proper proportions.

When he met with Walker a few minutes later, he was in strict control of himself. He sat down at the desk, pushing a stack of papers aside . . . papers that carried his wife’s handwriting.

What were they? Notes to her many lovers?

He picked one up to read.

Walker cleared his throat. “My lord, that is Lady Ashton’s correspondence.”

“I see that.” And Walker was correct. He should not be reading Jess’s letters. It was beneath him.

This was merely a note to a shopkeeper in London, ordering more painting supplies. Perhaps she kept her personal correspondence—her
love
letters—in a desk in her room.

He turned his attention to Walker. “Who the hell is that bounder upstairs?”

Well, perhaps he wasn’t in
strict
control of himself.

Walker turned a bit green about the gills, but at least he didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Roger Bagley, my lord.”

“Bagley.” That surname sounded vaguely familiar....

He thought for a moment, his finger tapping the desktop. No, he couldn’t recall where he’d heard it before. Well, if the reprobate had any connection to the nobility, it was probably as a very small twig on a very distant branch of some very minor family. “What is his position here—besides his position in my wife’s bed?”

Walker went white and braced himself on a chair. “Rog—” He cleared his throat. “That is, Bagley is a footman, my lord.” He swallowed. “And I assure you he has never been in Lady Ashton’s bed.”

“Do you need a bed to accomplish the deed?”

Damnation! Would he ever be able to get those words out of his head? Clearly his clever wife could “accomplish the deed” in many inventive ways.

His blasted nether regions suddenly turned as hard as stone. Thank God he was sitting down.

“Walker, I may be slow, but I am not an imbecile. A woman doesn’t embrace a naked man simply because the poor fellow has taken a chill.” He grabbed an oddly shaped paperweight off the desk.

Walker stepped behind the chair he’d been gripping.

Did the man really think he’d throw the object at him? Ash glanced down to see what kind of weapon he had.

Zeus! It was the smooth piece of sandstone he’d given Jess when they were children. He remembered the day; they’d been drawing by the lake when he’d found it—

And that had been many years ago. He dropped the stone. The girl Jess had been—or at least the girl he’d thought she’d been—was long gone. Why in God’s name did she still have the worthless thing? It was only a piece of rock and rather ugly at that.

“Rog—I mean, Bagley—”

He looked up at Walker. The man was clutching the back of the chair with both hands now.

“Bagley was merely posing for Lady Ashton, my lord. She is a painter, you see. She likes to paint Bagley.”

“I’ll bet she does.”

Walker shook his head a bit desperately. “She paints all the men, my lord.” He paused, quite likely hearing his words and realizing how they sounded. “That is, there is nothing special about Bagley, my lord.”

“So you admit my wife has been sharing her favors with the entire staff?”

Walker looked as if he might cry. “My lord, no! None of the staff would ever do, ah, what you are suggesting even if Lady Ashton asked them to—which she would not because she is completely faithful to you.” He took a deep breath and visibly steeled himself. “She loves you, my lord.”

That was too damn much! Ash surged to his feet and planted his hands on the desk, sending Jess’s papers flying every which way. “Mr. Walker, you forget yourself.”

Walker staggered as if his legs had given out. “My lord.”

“I want Bagley gone.”

“But, my lord—”

“Tonight.” He could not dismiss everyone, much as he might wish to. And he certainly couldn’t dismiss Walker out of hand. He relied on him to run the manor, though it clearly was time to find his replacement.

“But, my lord.” Walker’s Adam’s apple bobbed a few times. “Tonight?”

He must remember it was not just Bagley’s fault. Jess was a Siren. A succubus. Look at how much he still wanted her, even with clear evidence of her perfidy. “Very well, he may stay the night. But I want him out of Blackweith Manor by noon tomorrow. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good. Now have my horse brought round.”

“But, my lord, wouldn’t you be more comfortable here? I can have the master’s rooms made up for you in a trice.”

The master’s rooms with their connecting door to Jess’s chambers. “No, thank you.”

He had to get to the White Stag and see about losing his virginity. He was not so base as to do so with one of the maids in this house.

He frowned. He hadn’t seen any female servants, had he?

Well, he hadn’t seen any servants at all besides Bagley, Walker, and the two men that had greeted him—

Ah, yes. Those two.

“Walker, I expect a footman on duty at the main door at all times, especially if it is unlocked. There was no one there when I arrived.”

“Yes, my lord. I shall discuss the matter with Charlie.”

It was odd that Walker referred to the fellow by his first name, but he was beginning to think there was a great deal that was odd about the management of Blackweith Manor. Well, he couldn’t worry about that now. He’d put this house in order once he’d dealt with the disorder of his marriage.

“And be sure he and the other man—Ralph, I believe it was—understand the importance of looking presentable. I don’t know what they were doing, but they were both adjusting their livery when they finally appeared in the entryway.”

Did Walker blush?

“Yes, my lord. Indeed. I will be certain to speak to them.”

The White Stag was like any other inn. It was dark and smelled of cooking, stale ale, and smoke.

Winthrop, the innkeeper, looked up as Ash entered. His eyes widened. “Milord, we haven’t seen ye in many a year.”

In eight years, to be precise. He’d deposited Jess at Blackweith Manor and then spent the night here, alone, before returning to Greycliffe Castle.

He didn’t want to think about that night. He’d been furious with Jess and with himself. Desire had cramped his loins; desolation had echoed in his soul.

He’d felt much as he did now.

“I need a room for the night.”

“Not staying at the manor, then, milord?”

He just looked at Winthrop. He bloody wouldn’t be standing here if he were staying at the manor.

Winthrop comprehended. The man’s face paled slightly. “Right, then. Would ye be wishing to go up straightaway, milord?”

Yes.

No. He was going to find an accommodating serving girl, wasn’t he? He was going to lose his damn virginity.

“I’ll take a glass of ale and something to eat in the common room.”

Winthrop nodded. “Very good, milord. I’ll just have your bag taken up, shall I?”

“Thank you.”

The common room was crowded, but there was one empty table in the far corner by the window. Ash made his way to it, ignoring all the stares and whispers. Damnation. He’d hoped no one would recognize him, but of course everyone did. He might not have been here for eight years, but Jess’s scandalous goings on had kept him present in people’s minds.

He gestured for the barmaid’s attention, not that he needed to do so. She was staring at him like everyone else.

He watched her approach. She had blond hair and large breasts and a saucy swing to her generous hips. She was nothing like Jess.

Thank God.

“What can I get ye, milord?” She leaned forward so he could admire her breasts more thoroughly and gave him a suggestive smile.

Good. This would be easier than he’d thought. She was clearly expecting to be invited into his bed. He wouldn’t have to spell it out.

If only she didn’t smell quite so much of onions and garlic.

“I’ll have a glass of ale and some roast beef.”

“And would ye like some of Cook’s trifle, too?” Her pink tongue peeked out to slowly wet her lips. “Or would ye rather have something else for dessert?”

This was quite bold.

But boldness was a good thing. He forced himself to smile. He should say yes. He cleared his throat. “I’ll, er, think about it.”

Her brows rose in surprise.

“To see if I’m still hungry.” Oh, God, he hadn’t said that, had he?

She stared at him a moment longer, clearly puzzled, and then shrugged. “I’ll just be getting yer food then.”

He watched her swing her hips back to the kitchen. All the other men watched, too, and then turned to look at him before resuming their conversations.