Loving Lord Ash (8 page)

“It will be painful and embarrassing for you and your family, Kit, especially your mother. She’s the Duchess of Love, after all. Think of all the fun the wags will have with that.”

“Yes.” He had thought of it and had hoped to avoid it. It was one reason he’d made the trip to the manor to see if he and Jess might come to an agreement.

But what he’d seen was Jess with that naked footman.

He took a swallow of brandy.

“The talk will affect you, too,” she said.

He shrugged. “Yes, but I’ll wager the ton will forgive a future duke.”

Her frown twisted into an expression he’d not seen on her face before—self-mockery. “I’m sure you are correct. They will likely forgive you even more quickly since your first wife was a servant.”

She’d mentioned that earlier. “You weren’t a servant, Jess. I never thought of you that way.” She had always been Jess, his friend.

His love.

“Of course I was. My father was the head groom.” She looked down at her plate and pushed a few lonely peas around. “Though I grant you I couldn’t have found a position anywhere, unless someone wanted a painter who wasn’t very good at making people look better than they are.”

He had to smile at that. Cicely had been extremely put out—and Ned upset on her behalf—at the painting Jess had done of her when Cicely was fifteen. Jess had always thought the girl rather insipid, and it showed in her portrait.

But that was then, before Percy and the naked footman.

“What is your point, Jess? As you say, I need an heir.” He took another sip of brandy. “Are you offering to give me one?”

“Yes.”

The brandy went down the wrong way. Jess started to get up to thump him on the back, but he held up his hand to stop her.

She frowned. “Are you all right?”

He nodded. He was still coughing.

“I didn’t mean right away about the heir, of course. We should take some time to get reacquainted.” She leaned toward him. “If you’re not in love with someone else—if you don’t believe in love at all—then why not see if we can salvage this marriage? If we try and find that we can’t, then you can proceed with the divorce.”

This had been his initial plan, but he wasn’t certain it was a good one. “Why do you want to try?” In another woman, he’d suspect a desire to maintain her status as marchioness and duchess-in-waiting, but he could not believe Jess cared for that.

She looked away and shrugged. “We were friends once—or at least I thought we were.”

“We
were
friends.” She’d been his best friend, the only friend who seemed to see him—Kit, not the Marquis of Ashton. “But we were children then.”

Her eyes were dark in the candlelight. “I’d like to see if we could be friends again. We haven’t seen each other for eight years; perhaps if we spend a few months together, we’ll find we can at least tolerate each other.”

He would like that, too, but was friendship her true reason for proposing this plan? It seemed unlikely, especially when he could think of another more pressing one.

He took another sip of brandy. “Are you increasing?”

“No!” She looked as if she was going to throw her glass at him. “I am not.”

This was obviously not the best way to begin a reconciliation, but he must be very clear. “I cannot allow another man’s child to become the Duke of Greycliffe.”

“How many times do I have to say it? I am not in the family way.”

He’d swear Jess’s teeth were clenched. Her hands definitely were. He would prefer not to push the point, but while in the past he could argue he’d never been physically close enough to get her with child, now it looked as if they would have to share this room—this bed.

“Then you’ll not object to signing a paper stating that any child you may bear within the next nine months isn’t mine.”

Her mouth flattened into a hard, thin line; she was going to refuse.

Disappointment knotted his gut.

Hell, he was a pitiful arse, wasn’t he, to want her back so badly? He should—

“Very well, I will sign your blasted paper.” She spat the last word as if it were a curse. “Have you a sheet and quill handy? I have a few clauses I wish to include myself.”

He should be angry at her tone, but he was mostly relieved. He stood. “I didn’t bring any writing materials, but I shall ask Winthrop—”

“Don’t bother,” Jess said, getting up also. “I packed my stationery set.”

This was a stupid idea. She should go back to the manor, though Kit would probably still insist she sign something since they’d been alone together—in a bedroom, no less. Surely she could persuade Roger to forget about waiting six months once she told him what a blockhead Kit was.

But Kit
had
walked in on her in two very damning situations. She must remember he had some grounds for his asinine behavior.

She threw open her valise. Damn it, her stationery must be at the bottom. She dug for it, jerking out her sketchbook—

A packet of papers tumbled out. What was this? She bent to pick it up.

“May I see what you’ve been drawing?”

Kit had followed her. When she looked up, he had her sketchbook in his hands and was opening it—

“No!” She lunged, grabbing the book and shoving it and the papers back into her bag. If Kit saw her drawings, he’d know how stupidly in love with him she was—or, had been. She wasn’t feeling much love at the moment.

“I beg your pardon.” Kit sounded like he had a poker up his arse again. “I did not mean to pry.”

She didn’t trust herself to answer. Instead, she closed her valise and carried her stationery case over to the table. Fortunately, Kit followed her.

She pushed aside her plate, pulled a sheet of paper and a pencil out of the case, and, as Kit looked over her shoulder, wrote:
Jessica, Lady Ashton, swears that she is not with child, but if she were, that child is not her husband’s.

“Will that do?”

“And add that you swear not to engage in sexual congress with any other man during the months we are together.”

She glared at him.

Kit had the grace to blush. “If we should come to an agreement, I will still need to be certain our first two sons carry my blood. After that you may do as you please.” He cleared his throat. “You don’t have any reason to, er, think that you can’t have children, do you?”

Idiot. “No. Do you have any reason to think you can’t?”

His brows snapped down. “No.”

“Fine. Here you go, then.”
She further swears she will not allow any man into her bed
—

“You said you didn’t need a bed to cuckold me.”

Oh, dear Lord, she had. Her lamentable temper.

“So I must ask you to refrain from allowing any man but me access to your person.”

Access to her person? She glanced up at Kit; he looked stiff and uncomfortable. She’d never fit into his orderly life, had she? He preferred things to be all straight lines and right angles where she was swirls and shades of colors. But she’d loved him anyway . . . or perhaps she loved him because he was so different from her. She’d always found him steadying. When she got caught up in her emotions, his was the calm voice of reason.

Which had been why she’d so wanted to see him after Papa had died.

“All right.” She changed it to
any other man access to her person
. “Does that suit?”

“Yes, that will do. Now if you will just sign it, we can—”

“Oh, no, I’m not finished yet.” This would never work if she were the only one making promises. She started writing again:
I, Christopher, Marquis of Ashton, in consideration of my wife forsaking all others, swear that I will not—
hmm, how to put it? Perhaps best to be as blunt as he had been—
that I will not engage in sexual congress with any other woman.

Kit made an odd, strangled sound.

She put down her pencil. “It is only fair.”

“The situations are not the same.”

Of course they weren’t. She understood why he needed to know any child she might bear was his. If it were a boy, the baby would inherit the vast Greycliffe holdings someday. The poor mite. The nasty ton would likely look down their damn aristocratic noses at him for being the grandson of an Irish groom.

Well, they would have her to contend with if they tried to do so . . . unless Kit exiled her to the manor again once she’d done her duty.

Ha! If he tried to do that, he’d have quite a battle on his hands. She wasn’t going to desert her children.

If she ever had any.

“That is true, but I find I don’t care to be just another woman you spill your ducal seed into.”

Which she wouldn’t be if she kept saying things like that. She
must
learn to control her tongue.

Kit’s head jerked back. His mouth twisted in disgust, but his eyes had an odd, intent, almost hot gleam. “Ah, but my seed is only ducal when it’s spilled into you, isn’t it?” He looked away. “Or into my wife, whoever she should be.”

She barely heard his qualification; she was too busy trying not to drown in the heat that suddenly flooded her. Oh, dear God. Her breasts felt swollen and sensitive, but worst, the place between her legs ached, throbbed—

She was losing her mind.

She hadn’t felt like this when she’d had her horrible encounter with Percy. Then she’d felt nothing but desperation, her heart numb from her father’s death and Kit’s absence. She’d been willing to do anything to guarantee she’d have a place to live and food to eat.

And then she’d discovered Percy had never been offering marriage at all.

“Very well,” Kit said. “I am willing to control my carnal urges if you are.”

Carnal urges? She’d like to show him some carnal urges. Very, very much—

No! No, she would
not,
or certainly not now, before they had settled anything. And he would just reject her if she were to be so bold; he thought her base enough to break her wedding vows with Roger and countless other men.

And she thought the same of him . . .

But that was different. Men—especially the male members of the ton—weren’t expected to keep their wedding vows. Even back when she was a girl at the castle, she’d heard the servants talk about how the guests behaved—or, rather, misbehaved—and how unusual it was that the Duke of Greycliffe was faithful to his duchess. He was the only peer in England who never strayed, they said.

Hell, she knew firsthand of the ton’s profligate ways. If she wanted to be the loose woman everyone thought her, she’d have no shortage of married nobles eager to oblige her. She’d had to turn far too many offers of that nature down, sometimes with the aid of an elbow or other sharp object.

“Of course.” She signed the paper and handed Kit the pencil. “Will we be returning to the manor in the morning?”

Kit shook his head as he signed, too. “I don’t wish to share a house with your beautiful footman.”

“Why?” Kit was far more handsome than Roger. “And I thought you’d let Roger go.”

“I’ll admit I was too precipitous in that.” He stared at her, his eyes the color of slate, as he folded the paper and put it in his pocket. “If I punish him for falling prey to your wiles, I likely would have to replace the entire household.”

“Blast it, Kit. If you are going to continue to insult me, our deal is off.”

He looked at her, his face expressionless, and then nodded. “I apologize. You are quite right. Since we have agreed to try this, we should give our plan the best chance of success, which is why I do not wish to return to the manor. Forgive me, but I prefer not to test your willpower so quickly.” He reached for the brandy bottle.

If only Kit knew he was more likely to be the target of the staff’s amorous attentions than she was. “May I have a glass as well?”

His brows went up. “Do you drink brandy?”

“Occasionally.” She and Roger and Dennis sometimes shared a bottle in the evenings.

He poured her a glass. She took it and looked around. The room had hardly enough space for the table and the bed....

Oh, damn. Where were they going to sleep?

She wouldn’t think about that now.

“Then if we’re not returning to the manor, where do you propose we do go? To Greycliffe Castle to live with your mother and father?”

Kit scowled as he sipped his brandy and leaned back against the bedpost, focusing her attention on the bed again.

The bed that suddenly looked very small.

Something hot and needy shivered low in her stomach.

“Yes, that’s what I had thought,” Kit said, “but now that you put it that way, I can see it is perhaps not the best idea.”

She nodded. “And Percy’s estate is nearby.” The thought of Percy cooled any misplaced ardor she might be feeling. She did not wish to see Percy ever again.

Kit’s thunderous expression indicated he agreed with her. “True. And Percy has been short of funds recently, so he might be rusticating.” He shook his head. “I think our only choice is to go up to the London house.”

“London?” Good God. She’d never been to Town—and she never wanted to go. “Are you mad? What about the ton? What about all those dreadful gossips?” Perhaps it
would
be better to go to the castle. It was a big place with extensive grounds. Maybe they could avoid the duke and duchess most of the time.

But could she avoid Percy? Given the opportunity, he was sure to make a nuisance of himself.

“I grant you it is not ideal, but we won’t be going to any society events. If we’re careful, we should be able to elude the gabble-grinders.” He smiled. “And I confess I wouldn’t mind seeing some of the sights, especially the new building that’s been going on.”

Kit had always loved architecture; he’d even named his horse after the famous British architect Inigo Jones. “Have you designed anything recently?”

He shrugged. “Nothing of import. It is only a hobby after all.”

“But you used to enjoy it so much.” She’d marveled at how he could create such detailed structures using only his imagination; she needed to look at a model when she painted. “Remember when you built that snow castle Ellie and Cicely and I played in until Percy decided to attack it?”