Embracing Ashberry (32 page)

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.”

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.