Loving Lord Ash

by Sally MacKenzie

  Damnation, he heard dog nails on the stairs and voices. Someone was coming with Fluff and Shakespeare.

  “Madame Celeste is very quick.” That was Frances’s voice.

  “Really? I can’t see how she can have a dress ready by tonight. She only took my measurements yesterday.”

  And that was Jess. He saw their slippers. In a moment they would reach the landing and turn to see him—and ask him what he had in his hands.

  He took his only path of escape—the front door.

  Fortunately it was a warm morning, but he couldn’t very well sit on the stoop to read. He’d go to the park in the middle of the square. As he remembered, it had a few benches in among the trees. He’d be comfortable and, more importantly, he’d be hidden from view.

  “Don’t worry,” Frances said as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “I didn’t have any suitable clothes either when I arrived in London.” She laughed. “Suitable? I was dressed as a boy, so obviously my situation was dire indeed. But Madame Celeste had two dresses ready in less than twenty-four hours. I’m certain you’ll have your gown in plenty of time for the ball tonight.”

  “Oh. Th-that’s good then.” Jess’s stomach sank. It would be better if Madame Celeste was not quite so efficient. Attending her first ton event was going to be stressful enough, but attending it without Kit’s support—

  Stupid! Why the hell had she thought she’d have his support? He hadn’t cared enough about her to spend last night in their bed.

  No, that wasn’t quite true. The bedclothes on his side were mussed this morning. He must have arrived after she’d fallen asleep and left before she’d woken.

  How . . . annoying.

  She flushed. She should never have looked at the duchess’s shocking leaflets, but she’d skimmed through them after supper and had planned to try some of their suggestions. She’d been very, er, anxious to try them. Very, very anxious.

  She’d waited expectantly for Kit to appear, but as the clock ticked the time away, she’d gone from excited—that was one way to describe the churning, needy feeling—to impatient to angry. She’d finally given up and blown out the candle. And then she’d tossed and turned for what had felt like hours. Fluff had almost abandoned her for the hearth.

  Kit must have been in someone else’s bed. Where else could he have been? Talking to his brothers until all hours of the night? Not bloody likely.

  No, he’d been out “visiting.” He had many beautiful women anxious to entertain him and a lot of time to make up for, since he hadn’t been able to indulge his lecherous urges on their trip from the manor.

  Her flush deepened. Well, he had exercised those urges briefly when he’d touched her at the White Stag—and then he’d blamed her for being a light-skirt!

  Damn it. The ton was certain to be gossiping about his nocturnal activities at the ball tonight, making her even more of a laughingstock.

  Ohhh! If Kit were within reach right now, she’d kick him in the place that would do the most damage to his profligate ways. And to think she’d begun to doubt the rumors. She was such a fool.

  She’d had enough. She would have it out with him tonight, after this dreadful ball they were committed to. She’d beg off going at all if she didn’t think the duchess would ask embarrassing questions—or, worse, waggle her eyebrows in that hideously knowing way.

  William appeared from the back of the house and noticed the dogs—or the dogs noticed him. He was becoming quite their favorite. They rushed over to greet him.

  “Hallo, boys,” he said, patting them. He smiled at Frances and her. “Shall I take them down to the kitchen, then, and find them some breakfast?”

  Shakespeare sat up and begged, and Fluff so forgot himself as to woof with enthusiasm.

  “I think so,” Frances said, laughing.

  The dogs knew the way to the kitchen quite well and took off, leaving William to catch up.

  “And now let’s have our breakfasts,” Frances said, leading the way into the breakfast room.

  Jess followed her—

  Blast, there was the duchess, sitting alone at the table. She’d been eyeing Kit and Jess all during supper the night before, clearly trying to divine what it was that was keeping them apart. Ha! She should tell the duchess where her son had been last night—or, rather, where he hadn’t been. That would stop the woman’s speculations.

  Or, perhaps it wouldn’t. It was hard to tell with Kit’s mother. Best to hold her tongue and eat quickly so she could leave quickly. Her control was very fragile after such a trying—and lonely—night.

  “Good morning.” The duchess beamed at them. “Did you run into Ash in the hall? He was just here.”

  Oh, God. Jess reached for some toast and took a large bite. If she was chewing, she couldn’t say things she shouldn’t.

  “No, Your Grace,” Frances said, “we didn’t.”

  “Really?” Kit’s mother frowned. “I don’t see how you could have missed him. He left no more than a minute ago.” She shrugged, smiling again. She was sunnier than the damn celestial orb itself. “Well, it doesn’t matter. We don’t need him until it’s time to leave for Lord Palmerson’s.” She took a sip of tea. “Where’s Jack, Frances?”

  “He got up early to visit his children.”

  Jess inhaled a crumb and started coughing. Jack had children? She reached for her teacup.

  “I was surprised, too,” the duchess said. “But it turns out Jack has set up a foundling home in Bromley. Can you believe it? And here I’d thought he was rather irresponsible.”

  “He doesn’t want the ton to know what he’s doing,” Frances said, a slight frown appearing between her brows, “so please don’t say anything, Jess.”

  “Of course I won’t.” Even if she were one to blab, which she wasn’t, she wouldn’t have the opportunity. Much as the duchess might think otherwise, the ton would give Jess the cut direct or, if not that, then avoid her as though she was carrying the plague. Which she was in their minds—she had the blood of an Irish groom in her veins, no matter how talented and respected he was.

  Even Papa would say it was best to breed quality to quality if you wanted a good racehorse . . . or a future duke.

  Kit should have thought of that eight years ago.

  She glared at her toast. The playwright William Congreve had got it exactly right: “Married in haste, we repent at leisure.”

  Why had Kit married her?

  The duchess spread jam on her toast. “I’m glad you’re here—I wished to speak to you both about tonight’s engagement. I’m afraid it will be a terrible squeeze”—she smiled at Jess—“since word is sure to have got out that you and Ash will be attending. It might be hard to edge through the crowd, so I plan to arrive early and get settled in a comfortable spot.” She smiled again. “That might also curtail the number of people goggling at you and Ash, Jess.”

  They wouldn’t be staring at Kit, they’d be gawping at her. Navigating a crowded room would not be a problem. The duchess need only let her lead the way. The crowd would part as though she were ringing a leper’s bell.

  The duchess frowned slightly. “I hate to say this, but . . .” She leaned toward Jess. “Most people will be polite, but there is always one or two who won’t be.”

  “Like Percy.” Of course. It always came back to Percy.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so, though I truly am hoping Percy behaves.” The duchess sighed and shook her head. “I really thought Miss Wharton would be the making of him, but if he doesn’t offer for her soon, I shall have to find her another gentleman. Her parents have threatened to marry her to an elderly neighbor if she doesn’t catch a husband by the end of the Season.”

  “I thought Percy was on the verge of asking for her hand a few days ago when I saw him with Miss Wharton at Lady Wainwright’s Venetian breakfast,” Frances said.

  “Yes, I thought so, too.” The duchess looked at Jess. “But now . . .”

  Oh, God. Now her presence in Town would dash some poor spinster
’s hopes in addition to everything else.

  Why the hell did Percy still care what she did? He’d ruined her life and Kit’s—his job was done.

  “Jack told me no one liked Percy growing up.” Frances helped herself to a slice of ham.

  “I do feel sorry for the boy.” The duchess looked at Jess. “You must have known his parents were very unpleasant.”

  “Yes, Your Grace. I had heard they were.” Of course she’d never met Percy’s parents. A baronet and his wife weren’t going to have anything to do with a groom’s daughter. Everyone—except her—knew what use the heir to a baronetcy would have for such a woman, and it didn’t involve introducing her to his parents.

  But servants did gossip. Lady Headley was said to have been an overbearing woman who would pinch a penny until it howled for mercy. She reputedly bullied her husband and son shamelessly. Once she died, Percy’s father ran through all the family’s funds and expired nine months after his wife while in bed with two of the maids.

  “I invited Percy to the Valentine house party year after year,” the duchess said, “hoping he’d find a nice girl who would settle him down. And I kept hoping he and Ash would resolve whatever it was that stood between them”—she smiled at Jess—“and become friends again.”

  “They were never really friends,” Jess said.

  “Well, yes, that’s true. But I’d hoped they’d at least come to terms with . . . things”—the duchess smiled again—“so Percy would stop spreading nasty rumors about you.”

  “Which Ash believed.” That had always hurt, that Kit could think so little of her. But then why wouldn’t he? He’d caught her with Percy in such damning circumstances.

  “Yes,” the duchess said, “just as you believed the rumors about Ash.”

  Jess smiled weakly and concentrated on her toast. Of course Kit’s mother would say that.

  She wished the duchess was right. Just yesterday in the park, Kit had told her she couldn’t believe everything she heard. He hadn’t denied the rumors completely—she’d noted that—but she’d thought he’d been on the verge of telling her the truth.

  But then Jack had arrived, and the moment was lost.

  Damn it, they could have discussed all that last night if Kit had come to bed at the proper time.

  She forced herself to take a bite of toast and chew it thoroughly. The duchess and Frances had moved on to discussing some eccentric old woman who dressed her cats in silver and gold livery.

  She’d grant that people enjoyed exaggerating and distorting things, but there was almost always some kernel of truth to the tales. Take the ugly rumors about her. She’d never done the things people said she had, but she had indeed behaved scandalously with Percy. Once, but once was enough.

  And really, why wouldn’t Kit enjoy himself, especially since he believed his wife was little better than a doxy? He was only doing what the rest of his class did.

  Well, enough was enough. She was determined. After the silly ball was over, she’d settle things with the Marquis of Ashton.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A woman’s feelings require careful handling.

  —Venus’s Love Notes

  “You look beautiful, Jess,” Ash said, hoping to ease the tension in the room.

  Fluff had retreated to the hearth to sprawl in front of the fire, his head on his paws, his brows tented, watching them from a safe distance. Ash would like to remove himself as well, but his gut told him that would be a colossal mistake.

  Jess had been snapping at him ever since they’d come up to get ready for the Palmerson ball. Mary, Mama’s maid, had just left after arranging Jess’s hair, and now Jess was standing stiffly in front of the cheval glass, scowling at her reflection.

  Why the hell was she scowling? She took his breath away. Her dark blue gown hugged her small breasts, barely covering them, and her lovely black hair was swept up to expose her shoulders.

  God, he wanted to run his hands over her, pull her back against him, and kiss his way along the exquisite curve of her neck to her delicate jaw and then turn her and—

  And that sure as hell wasn’t going to happen. She’d likely jab her sharp elbow into his stomach. For some damn reason she was angry with him.

  He took a deep calming breath. He’d read the handbook Mama had given him. It wasn’t a long or difficult text. Some of it was more than a little scandalous, so he sincerely hoped Mama hadn’t written it—though he was very much afraid that she had—but other parts had suggestions that could be implemented without blushing, such as: Compliments, as long as they are sincere, will go a long way to warming your wife’s heart.

  Well, that hadn’t worked, and he was sincere, very, very sincere. He had never seen Jess look more beautiful. She would have every man at the ball lusting after her—including Percy.

  Bloody hell! If Percy stepped even a quarter of an inch over the line of proper behavior, Ash would rip his head off.

  Unless Jess wanted Percy’s attentions. But she didn’t . . . did she?

  The fear of that was why he’d forced himself to read every damn word of How to Woo Your Wife.

  “You’re certain the neck isn’t too low?” Jess turned one way and then the other, studying herself in the mirror. “I really do think a fichu might be a good idea, no matter what Mary says.”

  Sometimes a woman needs reassurance, not reasoned argument.

  Right.

  “I’m sure Mary must know what’s proper for a London ballroom. Mama certainly relies on her.”

  Jess bit her lip, her eyes still studying her reflection. “Yes, I suppose you are right.”

  She did not look convinced.

  “And Madame Celeste definitely must know. She wants everyone to admire your dress so they’ll come to her for their clothing, doesn’t she?”

  Jess frowned. “Remember that popinjay we saw on the street when we first arrived in London? His tailor must have thought people would admire that outlandish outfit, too.”

  Oh, for God’s sake! Now she was being ridiculous. But he swallowed his impatience.

  “Jess, you look nothing like that man.” He stepped closer, but still not close enough to present a target for her elbow. “You really are beautiful.”

  “Really?” She glanced up at him. He saw doubt and perhaps a flicker of hope in her eyes—and then a flash of anger again. “I suppose you should know, being such an accomplished rake.”

  It was almost as if she was trying to pick a fight.

  He would let it go. This was no time to get into that. It was just her nerves speaking.

  “All I know is what I see. I’m telling you the truth, Jess.” Should he mention how she would draw all the male eyes? No. He would have sworn just a few weeks ago that she’d want to hear exactly that, but now he thought not.

  What had the damn pamphlet said? Ask her how she feels. Listen to her.

  Why anyone would want to talk about feelings was beyond him. Frankly, the notion gave him shivers, like hearing fingernails scraping on slate. It must be a female quirk.

  “Are you nervous?”

  Her jaw hardened. “No.” And then she sighed and looked back at the mirror. “Well, maybe a little.”

  Perhaps Mama’s handbook had some value. He thought he could sense her softening toward him. He might—

  No, he might not. He clasped his hands behind his back. Listen means listening, not touching. Keep your hands to yourself.

  That was his advice, not the pamphlet’s.

  “I’ll stay by your side if you wish.”

  “Would you?” Her lips wavered in and out of a smile.

  “Of course.” He wanted to say more, but he held his tongue. Their connection was so fragile, anger might come rushing back at the first wrong word to sever it.

  Her eyes flared with warmth, and then she flushed and dropped her gaze.

  He felt quite hot himself. And he’d almost forgotten. “I have something for you.”

  Mama’s handbook had said women liked gifts
as long as they were really gifts and not bribes.

  He’d never given Jess a gift. He should have given her something when they’d wed, but he’d been too . . . upset at the time. Perhaps this could be a new beginning—a courtship. The handbook said women liked to be courted.

  “You do?” She smiled. “Some paints? I haven’t painted since I left Blackweith Manor.”

  Should he remind her who she’d said would be her next subject? No. From the color flooding her cheeks, she’d just remembered. If they weren’t going to the ball . . .

  But they were going. Mama and Father were correct. Now that society knew they were in Town, the gossip would only become more outrageous if they didn’t attend at least some events and give everyone a chance to stare at them.

  And he must remember, the way Jess was acting, she might skewer rather than paint him if he armed her with a sharp-handled paintbrush.

  “I’m afraid not paints. We can get those later.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a jeweler’s bag. He’d dashed over to Rundell and Bridge this afternoon and found something he liked. He hoped Jess liked it, too. He spilled the pearl necklace onto his palm.

  “Oh!” Jess sucked in her breath. “Is that for me?”

  He laughed. “Well, it’s certainly not for me.”

  She laughed, too. “No, I suppose it would look odd with your cravat.”

  “Most definitely. Here, let me put it on you.” He dropped the bag on her dressing table and stepped close behind her. Mmm. She smelled of lavender.

  He draped the pearls over the creamy expanse of her chest. The blue dress was barely modest; if his hands slipped, they could easily reach below the scrap of fabric and lift her lovely, soft breasts free—

  His body had the predictable response. He pushed his hips back so the bulge that had suddenly appeared in his pantaloons would not startle her.

  Blast it, all the bloody men at the ball would have the same reaction. Jess would have her pick of the damn scoundrels.