“Yes, of course.” She tugged on her hand, but he didn’t relinquish it.
“I was afraid you’d hurt yourself.”
She made a face at him. “The only thing hurt is my pride.” She tugged again.
“Well, that’s good.” He finally let her go, but only so he could grab her shoulders. He shook her a little. “Jess, you know you can’t keep living this way.”
“Living what way?” She dropped her eyes to his collarbone. She’d definitely mixed too much brown into the white paint. If she—
“You know. Married, but not married.”
Her eyes snapped back up to scowl at him. Blast it, she knew everyone in the house worried about her, but until now everyone had been kind enough to hold his tongue. Why was Roger bringing the subject up when he knew she was so terribly out of sorts?
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She put her hands on his chest and pushed, but his grip on her shoulders only tightened.
“In the four years I’ve been here, I’ve never seen you really happy, Jess. Dennis and I were just discussing it last night.”
Dennis Walker, her—no, Kit’s estate manager—and Roger’s lover.
“I am happy. Why wouldn’t I be? I have a houseful of servants to do my bidding.” She looked him in the eye. “And I bid you drop this topic.”
His mouth was set in an unpleasantly mulish line. “But you don’t have a husband.”
“I do have a husband.” That was the whole problem.
“But not in your bed.”
A hot, odd yearning exploded in her stomach. “Damn it, Roger. Didn’t you hear me? I do not wish to talk about my marriage.”
Roger ignored her. “Every year, when the marquis’s birthday approaches, you get quieter and quieter. This year has been the worst. Valentine’s Day is more than a month gone, and you’re still dragging around as if it were yesterday.”
“You are mistaken.”
Roger lifted his damn eyebrow again.
“And even if you’re not, it will pass.”
He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Until it comes again next year and the year after and the year after that. Your life is drifting away, Jess. Is that really what you want?”
“No, of course not.” Damnation, her voice broke. She bit the inside of her cheek and willed herself not to cry. She was tired, that was all. She hadn’t been sleeping well lately.
“Dennis and I think it’s time you faced your husband.”
Dennis and he had been far too busy about her business. “No.”
“I don’t know what he did—”
“He didn’t do anything.” Her predicament was her own fault. She should never have let things with Percy go so far. She just hadn’t been thinking clearly. And then Kit had come in at precisely the wrong moment.
Why had he offered for her?
She’d wondered that for eight years. All she could surmise was the proposal had been a momentary lapse in judgment, Kit’s generous heart speaking before his considerable intellect could silence it. And once the words were said, he couldn’t unsay them and maintain his honor. She’d realized that even then.
And selfishly, she’d leapt to accept. She definitely should not have, but she’d been young and stupid and in love. She’d known she had some beauty; she’d seen how the other men looked at her. She’d even stolen a few kisses. She’d thought she’d have no trouble getting Kit to fall in love with her.
Youthful hubris.
“—but he should settle things now. And if he won’t come to the manor, you need to go to him.”
She stared at Roger. Go to Kit? Go to Greycliffe Castle and see the duke and the duchess and Ellie and Kit’s brothers and perhaps Percy?
She was going to throw up.
“You can do it, Jess. You have to.”
“No, I . . .”
But things couldn’t get any worse than they were, could they? It was just a matter of time. Kit was going to divorce her anyway. Why wait?
She took a deep breath and nodded. “All right.”
Roger grinned. “That’s the spirit.” He threw his arms around her, apparently forgetting he was naked, and hugged her.
She hugged him back, since leaving her hands on his chest was uncomfortable and letting them dangle risked encountering portions of his anatomy she’d rather avoid. And she did love him. He was the brother she’d never had. He was funny and kind and maddening and sometimes overbearing.
And he had terrible timing.
The door flew open right at that moment, and she jerked her head around to see who’d come all the way up to the studio.
Oh, bloody, bloody hell.
She stared directly into her husband’s furious eyes.
Chapter Two
The angrier the man, the more desperate his love.
—Venus’s Love Notes
Shock, longing, horror, mortification. The emotions flashed through Jess, keeping her frozen where she stood—with her arms around a naked man.
Oh, damn. This was almost as bad as the scene with Percy. Why did she have such horrendous luck?
She shoved Roger away as if he’d caught fire. “Ash, what are you doing here?”
How easily she fell into using Kit’s title. She’d been the only one who’d ever called him by his Christian name, but that was only when they were alone, back when they’d been friends.
They were not friends now. His face was like granite, his eyes hard gray chips. He looked even harsher than he had that terrible time with Percy.
Or maybe he looked harsher because he was older. His blond hair had darkened, his face was leaner, and there were lines around his eyes and mouth—likely caused by her and their doomed marriage.
But she also saw a glimmer of the Kit she’d loved—the shy, intense, brilliant boy with the heart-stopping smile who had befriended her even though she was only the groom’s daughter and had taught her to draw. She saw that boy’s face in her dreams at night and had ached to see him again in person.
And now she had, in such damning circumstances.
His lip curled. He probably saw her face in his dreams, too—or rather, his nightmares.
Roger stepped naked between them. “The door was closed, sir. A gentleman would knock and beg admittance.”
Kit’s eyes narrowed, his anger so intense Jess would swear he vibrated with it. “A gentleman would not fuck another man’s wife.”
Jess gasped. She’d never heard Kit utter such an ugly word.
“Wife?” Roger said. He turned to look at her. “Wife?”
“Yes, wife.” Kit stepped forward threateningly. “Or didn’t you ask if she was married before you—”
“That’s enough!” None of this was Roger’s fault. Jess pushed him aside and faced Kit squarely. “Lord Ashton, I’ll thank you to—”
Her sharp voice alerted her dog that some threat had entered his territory. He started barking, great deep woofs that echoed off the studio’s wooden floor and bare walls, and came over to vanquish the interloper.
“It’s all right, Kit.” Jess glared at her husband. “Lord Ashton is harmless.”
“Er, Jess,” Roger said. He’d had the good sense to grab the blanket off the chaise longue and wrap it around his waist. “I wouldn’t say he’s harmless precisely.”
Kit ignored Roger. His eyes had widened, and he stared at Jess’s pet, which was leaning protectively against her side now, and then up at Jess. “You named your dog after me?”
“She does like the dog,” Roger said helpfully. “It’s rather a compliment.”
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 thirst
y. 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.”<
br />
“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.
Loving Lord Ash Page 2
