Loving Lord Ash (7 page)

She looked at the tall, angry man still standing by the door. It had never mattered if Percy had loved her or not. She had always loved Kit. She’d thought—or perhaps she’d only hoped—that he’d felt something for her, too, something maybe not quite love but more than friendship.

But she’d never had the courage to find out. She hadn’t wanted to risk losing his friendship. If she’d flirted with Kit and he’d repulsed her, she’d be left with nothing.

Apparently she’d always been afraid to risk too much with him.

And then her father had died, and she’d panicked. Could Kit understand that?

No. Her husband was the Marquis of Ashton and would someday be the Duke of Greycliffe. He had wealth and property and prestige and a family who loved him. His position in the world was assured. He likely had never had to worry about anything.

She was the only spot of tarnish on his silver spoon.

But he had married her. She might have made a mistake with Percy—she
had
made a mistake—but Kit had not been compelled to offer himself as a sacrifice. It was his fault they were wed.

Well, and hers, too. She should have told him no. But she’d been desperate, with her father dead and no family to turn to, no way to earn her living. And she’d wanted Kit. She’d thought their friendship and her love could trump her lack of social standing.

She’d thought she could persuade him to love her.

Roger had said he already did, but Roger was mistaken. Lord Ashton did not look at all amorous at the moment. He looked disdainful and angry.

Well, she was stuck here, and she’d promised Roger—and herself—that she would try to reach a bargain with the marquis. She clasped her hands together—she
would
keep a tight rein on her temper and her unruly tongue—and took a deep breath. Best to start with an apology. “Lord Ashton, I deeply regret the scene with Percy you saw so many years ago.”

He snorted. “And do you also regret what happened with your footman just a few hours ago?”

Could the bloody man be more supercilious? He looked like he had a poker up his arse.

“Damnation, Kit. How many times do I have to say it?
Nothing happened with Roger!
”

All right, perhaps she wasn’t going to be able to control her temper. Unlike Kit. His expression hadn’t changed. The blasted man never lost control—

Except when he’d seen her with Percy, and again today with Roger. Then there’d been a crack in his almighty restraint. Maybe he
did
feel something for her besides his current disgust.

And maybe fairies painted the grass with frost in the nighttime.

“You can say it as many times as you wish, madam. Repetition will not make it true.”

If he called her madam once more, she would kick him in the shins.

“Why the hell did you marry me, Kit, if you find me so revolting? You weren’t the one who compromised me—not that a servant can really be compromised. And I certainly didn’t expect you to offer for me.”

Blast, she hadn’t meant to say that, either.

Kit’s brows shot up and then slammed down again. He looked away. “I don’t think you’re revolting.” His voice was strained. He shrugged. “But I’ll admit offering for you was a mistake.”

Pain lanced through her. So he agreed . . .

And he was looking down his aristocratic nose at her again, blast it all. She was tired of it.

“It’s not as if you’ve been a saint either, you know. I’ve read the newspapers and heard all the rumors.”

He looked surprised. “And what do they say?”

He must know very well what they said. “They go on and on about your countless amatory exploits, of course.” Some had even suggested Kit loved men as well as women, but she’d discounted those stories. Roger or Dennis would have told her if that were the case. “And they claim you’ve had a long-standing liaison with Ellie.”

She was very happy she’d been able to say Ellie’s name without her voice breaking.

Kit snorted. “That’s ridiculous. There is nothing between Ellie and me.”

Oh! He was either an excellent actor or what he said was true—at least now, because she believed him. She started to smile—

Wait. Ellie wasn’t the only woman who he’d been linked to. He’d consorted with many ladies, some as highborn as he . . .

“Between you and someone else then? Is that why you want to end our marriage now—because you’re in love?” Oh, God, yet another thing she hadn’t meant to say, but the notion had just popped into her head. It made perfect sense. It hadn’t been his birthday, but his heart that had sent him riding to the manor.

She’d thought her own heart couldn’t get any heavier, but she’d been mistaken.

His face twisted with distaste. “I do not believe in love.”

It would be sadly ironic if the Duchess of Love’s oldest son truly did not believe in love, but Jess was happy to hear it hadn’t been that emotion that had sent him journeying to the manor.

Perhaps there was still hope for her marriage.

“Jess,” he said, finally coming away from the door, “let’s not argue. You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to throw you out on the street. I’ll make arrangements—settle some money on you. You won’t go hungry or homeless.”

He would, too. He’d find her a nice little cottage and likely keep her in paint and brushes as well. It was what she wanted, wasn’t it? To be left alone to paint.

No. She’d tried over the years to convince herself that was indeed all she wanted, but now, having seen Kit again . . . Roger was right—she needed to decide if she still loved her husband, and if he could be persuaded to love her.

She took a deep breath and grasped her courage with both hands. “I have a proposal for you.”

His eyebrows rose. “A proposal? What—”

Someone knocked on the door. Kit looked at her. “Is that whoever brought you to the inn checking to see if I’ve murdered you?”

She’d wondered when Kit would realize he was stuck with her, at least for the night. “Oh, no. Roger left after he dropped me off. I don’t know who that could be.”

Good God. He stared at Jess. She was here until the morning. Here in his room. In his
bed
room.

Surely the inn had another chamber available.

The idiot in the corridor knocked again, blast it. Ash turned, grabbed the handle, and flung the door open.

Winthrop stood there, his hand raised to knock once more.

Good. He could ask the fellow about procuring a room for Jess.

The innkeeper was looking her up and down as if she were a clod of horse dung someone had tracked into his inn. “Milord, would ye like me to have this woman removed?”

Jess made a small, pained sound. Anger surged through Ash.

“‘This woman,’ Winthrop, is my wife, the Marchioness of Ashton, as well you know. You will show her the proper respect.”

Winthrop’s eyes widened and he ducked his head, bowing in a disgustingly fawning manner. “My apologies, milord. I thought—”

“Don’t.” Ash looked over at Jess. “Have you had your supper yet, madam?”

Jess smiled at him—the bright smile she used to give him when she was a girl—and shook her head. “No, my lord.”

He hadn’t managed to choke down a single bite in the common room, but now he found he was famished—but not for Winthrop’s stringy beef. Perhaps the kitchen could do better with something else. “Send up some roast duck, bread, and vegetables, Winthrop, and a bottle of Madeira.”

“Very good, milord.” Winthrop bowed and departed.

Jess was still smiling at him. “Thank you for not letting Winthrop throw me out.”

Her smile was doing very odd things to his heart. “I would never let you be treated in such a fashion. I don’t know what got into the man.”

Jess shrugged. “I’m afraid the local people don’t approve of me.”

Of course they didn’t approve of her, but he didn’t wish to start that argument again. It would be far too exhausting to squabble about it anymore, especially if she were really going to stay until morning....

How
would
they get through the hours until daylight?

One obvious activity presented itself—

He would not think about that now, or about the bed that took up a good portion of the room. The White Stag did not cater to the aristocracy. His bedchamber was simply that—a room with a bed. There was no separate sitting room.

“How are things at the castle?” she asked, looking at the brandy bottle.

Was she nervous? She’d never been at all reticent around him when they were children. It was one of the things that had first drawn him to her. Not that the other children deferred to him, precisely, but there had always been a distance, even with his brothers, that had never been there with Jess. With them, he was Ash, one day to be Greycliffe. With Jess, he was Kit.

Or perhaps he’d just been fooling himself.

“Well, I think. I left after Mama’s Valentine party.”

Jess’s eyes widened. “That was over a month ago.”

“Yes.” It was his turn to study the brandy. “I’ve been traveling.”

“In all the snow? You must have left right after the blizzard.”

He shrugged. “It did make things more difficult. That’s why it took me so long to arrive at the manor. Well, and I stopped along the way for a few days.”

“Find some interesting architecture?” She smiled.

He grinned. She did know him. “Yes.”

The servant arrived then with their food, breaking their brief rapport.

“Thank you,” Ash said. “That will be all. We shall serve ourselves.” They certainly didn’t need one of Winthrop’s people eavesdropping on their conversation and spreading the details throughout the countryside.

“Yes, milord.”

Once the fellow left, Ash held Jess’s chair while she took her seat. Mmm. He smelled lavender, the same scent she’d worn as a girl—he smiled—when the scent wasn’t overpowered by the smell of oil and turpentine and paint.

He sat and carved her a slice of duck. “I don’t suppose you know if Winthrop’s kitchen does better with this than with beef? I tried some of that downstairs earlier. It was inedible.”

“No.” She took a spoonful of peas. “I don’t leave the manor except for Sunday services.”

“You don’t have any female friends in the area?” That seemed too bad, though now that he considered it, Jess had been somewhat solitary even as a girl.

She met his gaze directly. “I don’t have
any
friends, male or female, outside the manor staff.”

“Ah.” The rumors said otherwise, but perhaps her early success with the area’s male population had faltered. Hell, she didn’t need any “friends” besides that damn footman and the rest of the male servants.

“Might I have some of the Madeira?”

“Yes, of course.” He poured her a glass and then reached for the brandy.

Jess concentrated on cutting her duck, not that it required much concentration. At least the inn’s cook had had better success with this dish. It was almost palatable.

For a while, the silence was broken only by the scrape of their utensils. It wasn’t a companionable silence, but he couldn’t think of something to say that wouldn’t just pitch them back into an argument. He could ask her about her proposal, but he wasn’t certain he wished to hear what she might say.

“So was your mother’s party successful?” Jess finally asked.

At last, a happy topic. “Yes, indeed. After years of trying, Mama managed to bring Ned and Ellie together. We celebrated their betrothal at the closing ball.”

Her eyes darted up to his and then back down to her plate. “Is that why you broke things off with Ellie?”

“What?” Oh, that’s right. She’d mentioned that ridiculous rumor about his relationship with Ellie Bowman. “Jess, Ellie is my friend. That is all she has ever been to me—except now she will be my sister-in-law as well. Didn’t you know she’s been in love with Ned since we were children?”

Jess frowned. “But Ned married Cicely.”

“That didn’t change Ellie’s feelings.” But then Jess hadn’t been at the castle to see that. She hadn’t been invited to Ned’s first wedding, and she hadn’t been there when Cicely and the baby had died.

Perhaps that had been badly done of him, but he’d felt the only way he could manage the pain was to cut her out of his life entirely.

And now here he was, sitting across a table from her, getting ready to make their separation permanent.

He should do so without a qualm. How many more naked men did he need to find her with to understand divorce was his only option?

And yet . . .

She was so beautiful and so familiar. His idiotic heart still wished to find a path to happiness with her, to children and years of marital love.

Stupid, stupid heart.

He took a swallow of brandy. “You said you had a proposal.”

Chapter Five

Once you see the glimmer of an opening,
shove your foot into the crack.

—Venus’s Love Notes

“Yes.” Jess leaned forward, her expression suddenly hardening into what looked to be determination while the candlelight made her skin glow.

God, she took his breath away.

“You need an heir.”

He inclined his head. “Obviously.”

“And procuring a divorce is an expensive, messy, lengthy business.”

His heart—or, more likely, another organ—urged him to reach across the table and run his thumb over her lips. Instead he clasped his brandy glass more tightly. “Which is why it is time I got started with it.”

Jess’s lovely brows snapped down.

Zeus! When she was a girl, she used to frown like that at anyone who didn’t fall in with her plans immediately.

Her fingers tapped the table. They were long and slender, and for once she’d managed to get all the paint off them.

She’d always been so happy with a brush in her hand. Her paintings, like her, had been full of life and color. That passion had been one of the things that had attracted him to her. His life had seemed dull in comparison, drawn in measured lines, painted in pale watercolor.

Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised she’d taken to depicting naked men.