Loving Lord Ash (11 page)

That damn footman was lucky he was still breathing.

“So will you come, Jess? I’m sure I won’t be so, er, difficult once we have better accommodations.” And surely once he wasn’t so tired, he wouldn’t have to keep fighting the urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her—and then take her back to that dreadful, sagging mattress and do what he hadn’t done with her last night.

She hesitated, and then nodded. “Very well.”

His arms wanted to pull her close, but he forced himself to release her and step back. He shouldn’t push his luck. And he wasn’t completely certain this was luck; he just wasn’t ready any longer to cut off all hope of salvaging their marriage. “I’d better get dressed.”

“Yes.” She’d tilted her head and was studying him, especially his arms and chest. Was there lust in her eyes, perhaps?

No, they were narrowed in her painterly expression.

“Is there a studio in your London house?”

He pulled on his breeches. “Yes, or at least there was. I haven’t used it for years—I haven’t been to London for years—but I can’t imagine my parents would have done away with it. It’s up near the old schoolroom.” Of course, once Mama finally had a grandchild, the studio might get sacrificed.

“Will you pose for me?” She flushed.

Now he felt as if he were flushing, and of course it made him think of that damn footman. The words were out before he could stop himself. “Naked?”

She nodded. “And clothed. We could do clothed first, if you prefer, but I should like to . . . that is, you really do have classical proportions. Er, or at least I think you do. I don’t know for certain, of course, since I haven’t actually seen”—she gestured toward his groin—“everything.”

He wanted to show her everything, but it was too soon for that.

He smiled as he sat down to pull on his stockings and boots. She was nervous. “Very well, if you’ll pose for me.” He looked up. “Naked.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You draw buildings.”

He certainly preferred drawing buildings. Their straight lines and angles were very satisfying. But he drew other things, too, though perhaps not so much recently. “I used to draw figures. I believe I was drawing a heron when I first met you, wasn’t I?”

Her eyes widened as if she was surprised he remembered. Of course he did. How could he not? He’d been sitting by the river, sketching, when a girl he’d never seen before had come running over the grass.

Everyone else, even his family, treated him with a certain amount of deference due his rank, but not this girl. He was mildly insulted and intrigued.

And annoyed. She’d scared away his heron.

She’d stopped by his side and stared at his drawing. And then she’d looked directly into his eyes.

He’d felt as if he’d taken a punch to the gut. Her eyes—a violet shade he’d never seen before—were full of intelligence and wonder. It felt silly to think it, but she’d seemed to vibrate with life, and all her attention and energy had been focused completely on him.

He was used to people pretending an interest in his drawings. Well, not pretending exactly. His parents, his brothers, the vicar, Cicely and Ellie and even Percy acknowledged he could draw, and his parents were clearly proud of his talent. But none of them really understood. They didn’t feel the passion—the magic—of capturing angle and light and shade, of making a scene with volume and depth appear on a flat, blank paper.

Jess understood, and she’d wanted him to teach her how to do it right then.

He pulled his shirt on over his head. The times they’d spent drawing and painting together in the cottage were some of his fondest memories. Or had been. Seeing her there with Percy had rather soured things.

Jess shrugged. “I suppose I do have the straight lines you favor in your architectural designs, don’t I?”

He picked up his cravat and tied it. Was she serious? She wasn’t buxom, true. In fact, many would call her thin—and her outdated frock certainly didn’t help matters—but he’d had his fingers on her soft breast and slender waist and swelling hip.

“I believe I discovered last night that you have delightful curves, my dear marchioness.”

“Oh.”

Now he’d managed to get her to blush. He walked closer. He felt different, more . . . alive. The stuffy old Marquis of Ashton had given way to Kit, a man unencumbered by title and expectations. “So will you pose for me?”

She backed up a step and bumped into the bed. “If you wish.”

He grasped the bedpost and leaned in so he had her trapped.

“Dressed only in your lovely long, dark hair.” He wished she wasn’t wearing her damn bonnet.

“I have never posed before,” she said. Her voice sounded a bit breathless.

“Nor have I.”

“You will be drawing, remember. You won’t be able to”—she frowned at him—“you won’t
want
to do anything else.”

“No?” Oh, he would definitely want to do something else. It was true an artist saw his subject differently, with his eyes more than with his heart, but he didn’t plan to draw Jess until he could see her as his wife. As his lover. “Perhaps you are right. So do we have an agreement?”

“Yes.” She extended her hand.

He took it, but he used it to pull her toward him. He intended to seal this bargain with a kiss. He had to dip his head to avoid her blasted bonnet, but he managed to find her mouth and brush her lips with his.

He felt the contact like lightning flashing through him to lodge in his heart . . . and another prominent organ. He heard her quick intake of breath—or maybe it was his breath he heard—and leaned forward to take a deeper taste....

And then her damn dog barked.

“Oh!” She jerked back out of reach. “What is it, Kit?”

He would tell her. He—

Blast it, she was talking to the dog. It had got up and was now whining, its nose against the door.

“Oh, you poor thing.” She slipped around him to go to her pet. “You need to go outside, don’t you?”

Jess slid to the far side of the wagon’s seat, putting as much space as possible between her and Kit, as her dog stretched out among their valises in the back. Kit didn’t appear to notice; he was too annoyed at having to travel in the wagon.

“We’ll be lucky if we make it a mile in this thing,” he said as he gave poor Chester the signal to start. “How did you manage with it all these years?”

“It was fine for my purposes.”

The old horse looked back, clearly irritated at being asked to pull a heavier load than usual, but at Kit’s insistence, he blew out a long-suffering breath and grudgingly ambled into motion.

“I’ll engage a coach and coachman when we get to the next town. I’m sure the inn there will have them for hire.”

“Quite likely.” And then she would have to share a confined, private space with him. She’d prefer keeping to the wagon. Now she only worried about having her teeth jolted from her head. In the coach, she’d have to worry about her heart.

Thank God for the canine Kit. She could use him as a furry shield against the human Kit’s blandishments. If he kissed her again like he had in the inn bedroom, she was afraid she’d do anything he wanted.

And what would be the matter with that? He was her husband.

But he didn’t trust her, and he certainly didn’t love her.

“I should have seen you had a decent carriage. I don’t know why Walker didn’t mention it in his letters to me.”

“He didn’t mention it because we didn’t need it. I told you I never went visiting.”

She’d kissed men before without love. Years ago, when she was a girl, out of curiosity she’d let men steal a few kisses, but those had been no more than a furtive mashing together of lips, disappointing and slightly disgusting. Kit’s kiss had been completely different. His mouth had barely touched hers yet, like a spark falling into a pile of dry leaves, it had lit a smoldering fire that was threatening to consume her and all her common sense.

And last night . . . oh, God.

She’d never felt anything like what she’d felt last night. Yes, she’d had that encounter with Percy, but that had been rough and cold and unpleasant.

She shifted on the hard wagon seat, but she couldn’t escape that memory.

She’d been so stupid. When Percy had appeared at the cottage, he’d seemed like the answer to a prayer she hadn’t yet thought to address to the Almighty.

With her father gone, she could no longer stay at the castle, even if the duchess would let her. But what could she do? Where would she go? No one would hire a female groom, and no one wanted a female painter, especially one who didn’t paint flattering portraits. She could read and write, add and subtract, but she hadn’t the patience to be a governess, and most employers wouldn’t want a governess who wasn’t from the gentry.

Even the lowest scullery maid had more useful skills than she did.

She’d known Kit was coming for his mother’s house party. The hope of seeing him had been the only thing keeping the panic that fluttered in her breast from spreading its wings and stealing her fragile composure.

And then Kit had not come. She’d heard he’d arrived at the castle, but an entire day passed—it had felt like years—and he hadn’t come to see her.

Of course he hadn’t. She heard the whispering. Everyone said he was going to marry the beautiful Lady Charlotte. He had more important things to concern himself with than the feelings of a groom’s daughter.

So when Percy had appeared, she’d seen opportunity. He’d been sniffing around her skirts for years. She’d thought he’d be willing to marry her.

Ha! How naive.

Percy had offered to pose for her. She hadn’t realized he’d meant to shed his clothing until he was halfway out of his pantaloons. She should have stopped him—she’d smelled alcohol on his breath and of course any idiot knew what he was doing was so far beyond accepted behavior the sun should turn red and swoon from the sky—but her damn curiosity had got the better of her. She was an artist and yet she’d never seen a naked man. And she’d thought Percy wouldn’t expose himself like that if he didn’t mean marriage. He was wild, but she hadn’t thought him that far beyond the pale.

He’d looked better with clothes on. His chest was flat and pasty; his legs, spindly and covered in curly, black hair. And his male bit—it was small and droopy and snakelike until she’d stared at it. Then it had grown, swelling and stiffening until it stood straight out from his body.

Oh, God. She’d actually asked him if he was in pain. He’d laughed and said yes, and she was the one who could ease his suffering.

She’d still thought he’d meant marriage when he’d pulled her into his arms. She’d wanted to push him away, but she’d reminded herself she needed a roof over her head.

He’d held her so tightly she’d been barely able to breathe. He’d covered her mouth with his and thrust his tongue between her teeth, making her gag. And then he’d jerked her bodice down, pinched her breasts, and pushed her onto the couch, pulling her skirts up and shoving himself between her legs.

She’d just thought that was the way of it. Men satisfied themselves and women endured.

But last night . . .

She clenched her teeth harder as a very sensitive part of her shivered at the memory. It had been wonderful—until Kit had called her a whore.

Her stomach knotted. She’d never thought . . . but perhaps she hadn’t been so different from a whore that day with Percy. She’d been desperate enough to let him take what he wanted in exchange for marriage. And if Kit hadn’t offered for her, she might very well have had to work on her back to keep a roof over her head and food in her belly.

“You didn’t even visit the vicar and his wife?”

Kit’s voice interrupted her ugly memories.

“No.”

“Why not?” He looked genuinely puzzled. “I thought it was a vicar’s duty to minister to his flock.”

Oh, yes, the vicar had wished to minister to her in exactly the same way Kit had “ministered” to so many ladies of the ton.

She frowned. But if Kit was a rake, shouldn’t he have been able to tell last night that she had no bedroom experience? And when he’d been helping her out of her gown, he’d been so clumsy and slow. One would think a man as rakish as the Marquis of Ashton was reputed to be would have expert fingers.

He
did
have expert fingers, but with more intimate skills than unbuttoning frocks. His touch—

She could not think about what he’d done to her in bed last night. It would be far safer to think about the disagreeable vicar. “Have you ever met the man?”

“Of course I have. Reverend Clintfield has been the vicar for ages.”

“
Had
been the vicar. He retired shortly after I arrived. Reverend Pierson has the living now.”

Kit’s cheeks turned red from more than the cold air. “Oh, yes, that’s right. Now I remember. Is the new fellow not satisfactory?”

“Oh, I’m sure everyone else finds him admirable. He’s a very saintly man, far too principled to have anything to do with as great a sinner as I.”

Unless she was willing to sin with the vicar, which she wasn’t, as she’d told him in so many words the one time he’d called at the manor.

They hit a particularly nasty rut, and she was thrown up against Kit. He put his arm round her to steady her.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. Of course.”

As soon as he removed his arm, she scooted back to her side of the seat and found a secure handhold. She was not going to go flying into him again if she could prevent it.

Oh, God. She’d
felt
like a loose woman after Kit had gone to lie down on the floor with her dog last night. Perhaps it was her lowborn nature coming out. Perhaps that was why Kit thought her accomplished. Likely proper society ladies didn’t feel such wild, physical needs.

She had no idea how proper lowborn ladies behaved either. Her mother had died when she was very young; she’d only hazy memories of a black-haired, green-eyed woman with an Irish brogue and a warm hug. Had her mother felt the hot, embarrassing things Jess felt?

Perhaps.

When her father had heard the rumors that she’d let a few men kiss her, he’d sat her down and, with much hemming and hawing, had told her that women had needs—that she was likely a lusty girl like her mama—but that she should never let a man, especially one with a title, take her virtue unless he first gave her a wedding ring. She’d remembered his words that dreadful day in the cottage and had stopped Percy just in time.