Embracing Ashberry

by Serenity Everton

  Eventually, he read to her from the news sheets delivered to the Tate house that morning, printed only one morning earlier and rushed north, night and day. There was nothing of import in it, Ashberry told her even as he relayed its contents, grateful he saw no mention of the Mayfair magistrate’s search for the missing Lady Whitney.

  At mid-morning, as the carriage stopped to rest the horses and drink, Ashberry asked if she wished to ride. She nodded, and he finally allowed her to again button her jacket and secure her hair under her hat.

  After introducing her to the mares, Ashberry stood back and observed her. “I expect,” he said, watching her test the saddle and greet the mare, “That we’ll hear from Edward again by tomorrow morning.”

  Ellie had not replied, other than to look to him expectantly. He helped her mount as he grinned, noting her competent position, her unassuming hand on the reins. Not an expert, he knew, but neither a novice recreational rider. “You’ve a good seat,” he commented approvingly.

  Biting her lip, Ellie remembered suddenly that horses were at the center of Ashberry’s business and recreational life. Self-consciously, she adjusted her position a bit, watching as he slid easily into his saddle. “I learned at home,” she admitted. “But in Europe, the carriage became so tiresome that we all took to riding occasionally, though it took me several months to convince Mama I wouldn’t break. I haven’t ridden since we returned to London though.”

  Ashberry nodded. She would be out of shape. “We’ll take it easy,” he promised. “I won’t run you far from the carriage.”

  “All right,” she smiled over at him, watching as he leaned forward and spoke to the horse. For a moment, Ellie sensed he seemed out of place on the mount but then identified the awkwardness. His rank, his business, his expertise all showed in the saddle. He hardly held the horse at all, simply guided her with a touch to either side of her head. However, she was too small for him. Ashberry’s natural mount would be a tall, proud stallion—a powerful animal bred to run masterfully over the landscape.

  “Are these easy to ride?” she asked, indicating the mounts. They were a matched pair, both mares, both sleek and fit but past the restless stage of filly excitability.

  “Oh yes,” he assured her, drawing her forward. They were off then, and Ellie laughed at the cold wind in her face, at her pelisse flying behind her. She was glad she had worn her warm gloves and the bonnet that covered her ears, even the scarf tied around her neck, for the air was cold. Exhilarated, she pushed the mount faster, testing her.

  Ashberry shook his head at the glorious smile she gave him as she flew past, watching as she slowed the horse and waited, then matched him, canter for canter. Together they rode, not talking but enjoying each other’s company.

  At midday, the meal was a simple affair, though the inn had a pleasant room set aside for ‘gentlefolk’, as the tavern keeper said. It contained pleasantly upholstered high backed chairs that faced the fireplace, porcelain teacups and, Ashberry explained ruefully, higher prices to go with it. He didn’t seem to mind, though, bringing in locals while Ellie sat by the fire and treating them to hot tea as the men discussed the disappearance of four horses from the village three nights earlier.

  Ellie rode for another hour or so after their meal, but Ashberry stopped her early in the afternoon, sending her to the carriage. When she started to pout, he laid a finger to her lips, sensual promise in his eyes. “Dearest,” he murmured, “I do not want you so stiff tonight that you cannot manage me. I want you soft and supple.” At the words, Ellie had slid without objection from the steed, the flush of her face easily mistaken for the chill.

  The marquess joined her two hours later, finding her engrossed in a novel purchased before their marriage. He quirked his brow at the title but Ellie had shrugged. “I’m learning,” she muttered defensively and he had laughed.

  “Dearest, there won’t be enough detail in that little story to teach you whit,” he scoffed then leered suggestively. “If, however, you’d like a lesson from me—”

  Ellie’s breath caught. The sensuality, the suggestiveness in his voice, was too new for her to dismiss easily, even in jest. Ashberry stilled, their eyes caught together. Finally, she murmured, “I’m not sure I know how to say anything but yes to you, Stephen. Even knowing you were not completely serious ... It is quite disconcerting.”

  “Belonging to me?” he asked.

  At her affirmative nod, he leaned forward, capturing her hands. The book fell to the floor, unheeded. “It disconcerted me in the beginning as well. Realizing that I had to have you, no matter what the cost, no matter what struggles we faced together. I,” he laughed softly, “Have had more time to adjust to the sensation, however.”

  “You were sure, before we married,” Ellie whispered, examining his face carefully.

  His lip curled. “Yes, Ellie, I was. I knew you belonged beside me—I was serious the day I told your father I would take you from his house by force if he didn’t stand by you. I would have—Fields and your mother would have helped, incidentally.”

  “How did you wait so long?” she asked, touching his cheek with her gloved hand.

  Ashberry knew what she meant by the question. “I had made my choice, Ellie, but it was important that you choose me, just as you said you did.” His voice was soft with tenderness. “But my patience had limits, and you did push them occasionally.”

  Ellie’s cheeks blushed, even as she objected. “You were much more patient than I could have been, if I had known.”

  The marquess had the gall, or the ease, to laugh. Ellie couldn’t decide which. She lifted her chin defensively and straightened. When his brows rose in question, she poked out her tongue at him and crossed her arms in front of her.

  Her husband did not hesitate. He lifted her from the seat, letting her squirm even as he popped his hand smartly against her rear, then arranged her on his knee. Her small wriggling ended abruptly when he calmly began to unbutton her habit. “Ashberry! Not again,” she blushed, the final two words of the objection only a token response.

  His answer was to fold open the jacket. “Why not?” he asked quite logically. “No one can see in, Alexander would never interfere—he and Griffin are quite aware that I intend to enjoy my marriage to the fullest.” His mouth suddenly dry, he watched unabashedly as her breasts came into view, the sheer chemise that only partially screened her nipples from his purview really no obstacle at all.

  “You said they would hear,” she said softly. But without being asked, her fingers touched the top edge of the chemise, fingering it.

  That morning he had enjoyed her blindly, through the thin silk. He had no intention of not watching her nipples change hues this time. “Push it down for me,” he said, his voice roughening. “I want to see your nipples, bare.” When she obeyed, when the chemise was tucked under her breasts and the lush skin was bare, he murmured, “To be truthful, what I want is for every inch of your skin to be bared to me, but we can’t risk that here. Even now, it’s too cold for your tender skin. Later, when we’re alone, you will take this off for me. All of it.”

  He didn’t touch her, just looked, until Ellie arched a little, her body sending its own message. “Yes, Stephen,” she whispered, feeling her muscles soften even as her nipples tightened in the cold.

  His eyes continued to rove, learning in the afternoon light, memorizing how the shadows fell over her curves and how her nipples tilted up, a delectable pink already darkening to cherry under his scrutiny. Ashberry took her hands in his, held them tightly. “Why Stephen, instead of Shane? You didn’t tell me.”

  To be presented to him as she was, to feel only a caress of the eyes, made her vulnerable, needy, especially as she had to manage a rational answer. “I, I think because at first, while you were waiting, you reminded me of St. Stephen.”

  “The chapel?” he asked, amused.

  “The martyr,” she whispered, trembling. “You were sacrificing yourself. It seemed very much in the spirit of your namesake.�
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  Ashberry’s lip twitched but he refrained from laughing. Tasting her teasingly, the edge of his tongue just brushing her skin, he laid a circle of kisses around each aureole, but left both eager tips wanting. Her soft gasps thrilled him. Ellie—her body, her hands, her noises, her taste and scent—energized him as nothing ever had. Around her he lost all sense of the outside world, all desire to find it again. His mouth shifted, capturing her right nipple in his mouth, and she gasped, clutching his hands tightly as they held her sides. “Quietly,” he whispered, licking the hard nub. “You are perfect here, you know. Perfectly shaped.”

  “Small,” she answered, twisting slightly.

  “I prefer,” he answered roughly, “High, proud, firm, rounded to perfection. Much like your bottom.” His mouth suckled gently on her other nipple while his hands moved hers behind her, trapping them in the small of her back. “Why wait for summer?” he muttered after a moment, tipping her back slightly over his right arm. He feasted then, while she gritted her teeth, turning back and forth as frissions of pleasure spun through her blood.

  Ten minutes later, she was perfectly dressed, her bonnet in place, her book tucked away. For all the world she looked to be a typical young wife, exhausted from the day in a carriage, her aristocratic husband imperturbable in the late-afternoon light. Alexander helped her down while Ashberry conferred with several men standing outside a high brick wall that extended into the distance in either direction.

  At her side, Alexander said quietly, “This is Finnigan’s Folly, my lady. We’re about six hours from Ashberry Park at our current pace, but his lordship said he wouldn’t risk it or push the cattle faster, not with you in the coach. It’s a nice little stopping place, my lady, not much more than a few cottages inside the gates, but the most beautiful gardens.”

  Behind her, Griffin groused, “The folly of it, according to the locals, is that Finnigan spent his fortune on the gardens and doesn’t have enough left to build a respectable house. The truth of it is that he doesn’t want to. He’s a wily old man, without a desire to manage a large household, despite the number of characters he keeps hanging around him. His lordship will introduce you I’m sure—he’s known Finnigan since he was just a boy.”

  Ashberry came to her, then, leading her away from the servants and to the gate. “The stables and carriage house are down the road a bit,” he murmured. “Alexander and Griffin will have our bags delivered to us. I assume they warned you?”

  “Yes,” Ellie replied, her head dignified even as her eyes moved to take in the scene before her. “Although I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it for myself.”

  Before her, as far as the eye could see, formal English gardens stretched forward, with well-groomed paths wound through them. She sighted five cottages, three gazebos, four fountains and an odd-shaped structure that seemed to be a water house and cistern.

  Catching her curious look, Ashberry explained, “Cistern, kitchens, cellars and the housekeeper’s rooms. She’s the only female in the place. Finnigan earned more than one fortune as merchant captain, but nearly drowned in a shipwreck before he could enjoy it. He bought this place afterwards and became a land-lover—he and the crew he survived with. Gardening is his passion now, and his old sailors all have their own duties.”

  “Goodness gracious,” she murmured, as Ashberry guided her off one path and toward one of the cottages.

  “It won’t be here much longer as it is,” he said regretfully. “Captain Finnigan plans to sell it to the highest bidder once he’s gone and divide the money between his men. Whoever buys it will certainly build a respectable lodge, if not a villa.”

  “Very good of him, I should think,” Ellie said, noticing that fires were burning in three of the cottages, including the one they were approaching. “Are we going to meet him now?”

  “Not yet. We’ll be having dinner with him, if you’re up to it,” Ashberry murmured.

  “All right,” Ellie smiled. “He seems like an interesting man.”

  Ashberry opened the door, ushering her inside. She looked around quietly while he hung their coats. The cottage consisted of four small rooms placed in a square, with a chimney at the center and a hearth opening into each room. Ellie proceeded in a circle through a sitting room, comfortable bedchamber, dressing room and miniature conservatory, pleased by the simple arrangement. More than adequate for a single night, the chambers contained finely carved furniture and expensive fabrics, deep carpets and exotic plants that belied, even more than the gardens, the owner’s wealth.

  Ellie met Ashberry in the dressing room. “I suppose they are all the same,” she murmured.

  “As far as I can tell,” Ashberry laughed. “Although Finnigan’s has a dining room and library instead of a dressing room and conservatory.”

  “Does he have company often?”

  Ashberry considered the question for a moment. “I don’t think so,” he finally mused. “I don’t spend the night often myself, though I sometimes had Aunt Lucy stay here when she traveled back and forth during the winter months.”

  “What do you suppose he uses this for then?” she asked, lifting a black shift out of the bureau. It fell from its folds, short and sleeveless, blatantly low in the front and of muslin so fine that Ellie could see Ashberry’s face while she held it between them.

  The marquess’ eyes gleamed. “I don’t suppose you have something similar for me to find under a gown, do you?” he asked intently, not answering her question.

  Ellie’s face reddened noticeably. It was still light, and though the curtains were drawn, they did not completely prevent the sun from spilling into the room. He could see her flushing easily. Almost imperceptibly, she shook her head.

  “A pity.” A knock on the door had his attention. “That will be our bags,” he murmured regretfully, letting his eyes brush over her before he turned away.

  When he returned with them, Ellie had recovered from her flush and replaced the shift in the bureau. Her bonnet reclined proudly on top of the chest. “Don’t start without me now,” he cautioned, noticing that she was fiddling with her gloves.

  The lady glanced at him quickly as she drew them off her hands, confusion in her face. “Start what?” she asked innocently.

  Ashberry’s reply was happily wicked as he settled the bags on the carpet. “Undressing for me,” he said baldly, turning to face her.

  “Now?” she asked, astonished. She glanced toward the window. “But it’s still light, we haven’t had dinner–“

  “So?” Ashberry asked. “Is there some reason I cannot enjoy my wife when the sun is out?”

  Ellie couldn’t say if there was a reason. She blushed, stammering in her uncertainty. “I, I thought it was the, the sort of thing that one did after the, after the sunset.”

  Ashberry was amused. He shook his head. “It’s the sort of thing, my dear, that will be done whenever I wish it. Or whenever we wish it.” Awareness bubbled between them at his rough words, until Ellie could see Ashberry’s eyes change color, the yellow flecks of desire flaring.

  “Oh,” Ellie swallowed softly, the word needless. Both knew instinctively that she would respond to the sensual strength Ashberry radiated, the strength that had begun to seep into her own soul. That strength, or the strength it evoked in her, gave her the courage to not only acquiesce but also participate eagerly in his desires.

  Nervously, her fingers unbuttoned the jacket. When she shrugged out of it, she felt her breasts bounce in the light, knew he could see them. He took it from her, watching unabashedly as she fumbled with the fastenings on her skirts, gaining confidence only after the outer skirt fell and she looked up to see Ashberry’s eyes on her, so intent that she could not doubt his fascination. When her petticoats fell to the floor, he took her hand, helping her to step out of the fabric. Ashberry led her to where the sun laid out a pattern on the carpet, the rays bright through the fabric of the window hangings.

  When she knelt to remove her boots, then untie her garters and rol
l down her silk stockings, he caught his breath, barely breathing. The clothes accumulated on the floor until only her chemise remained. Only then did he stop her, standing before her and turning her in a circle until she faced away from him. Lifting it from the back and exposing her bottom to his fingertips, Ashberry examined it closely in the light. “Lift it up,” he whispered, his voice rasping, as he ran his thumbs up over her curves. She did, the graceful curve of her back exposed inch by inch until the cloth went over her head.

  Ellie shuddered when his hands traced ten straight lines down her back, the nails scraping lightly. He started at the shoulders and stopped at mid-thigh. Instinctively, her hands went behind her, clutching at his. He chuckled, took her hand and guided her to the bedchamber, where they remained, mostly breathless, until darkness fell. The soft noises that came from the room did not carry far, but the memory of the frenzied sensations that drove their muffled moans branded both their brains.

  Dressed carefully the next morning, Ellie examined her appearance in the mirror. Quite aware they would arrive at Ashberry Park by early afternoon, Ellie had spent an inordinate amount of time preparing. She only had three outfits available: her riding habit, her navy carriage gown, and the russet gold traveling gown that Ashberry had given her. Its skirts swirled around her easily as she turned in front of the mirror. It fit well, complimenting her trim frame but giving shape to her shoulders, breasts and hips.

  She had been distracted during dinner the previous evening. Not that Ashberry had minded—he had been the cause and he knew it. She had worn the same dress she had worn for dinner at Harlan Chase, only last night Ashberry had paid attention. Despite the rollicking bearded old sailor, the raucous dinner staff and the delicious meal, Ellie had hardly been able to focus. Ashberry’s hands had teased the ribbon dangling from her gown and his low comments, meant for only her ears, had inflamed her senses and the imagination she found she was quickly developing. He had been only too glad to withdraw her from the company of Captain Finnigan, hardly closing the door to their cottage before his fingers had pulled intently on the ribbon and his hands had delighted in the skin beneath.