Loving Lord Ash (20 page)

She’d inhaled, ready to argue about sharing a room and going off to balls and parties, but she let her breath out when Kit changed the subject.

Ned wasn’t the only one who worried. Kit did, too. It wasn’t easy being the heir, feeling responsible for everyone from his brothers to the boot boy, knowing one day they would all depend on him in one way or another.

“Perhaps he’s known her for years, Kit. You say you’re never in London, so it wouldn’t be surprising if you weren’t aware of their friendship. If she’s the granddaughter of a marquis, they must move in the same circles.” She’d never been to London before and had been ostracized by everyone near the manor, but she knew that the ton was a very small, very select world where everyone knew everyone.

“No. Remember Mama said Jack’s wife was Rothmarsh’s ‘long lost’ granddaughter. It sounds as if she was a complete surprise.”

She might have been a surprise, but a marquis’s granddaughter—unlike a groom’s daughter—belonged in the ton’s drawing rooms. London society would be more than surprised—it would be horrified—when the notorious Lady Ashton made her appearance.

“Well, she seems very nice, and your parents appear content with the match. There’s really nothing you can do but accept her.”

Kit blew out a long breath. “I know, but what chance of success does Jack’s marriage have when they know so little about each other?”

She tasted bitterness—or maybe it was despair.

“Perhaps they know enough. As we have illustrated all too well, long familiarity doesn’t guarantee marital happiness.”

He looked at her, his eyes as bleak as she felt. “Jess—”

But then the door swung open.

“Your bath’s here, my lord,” Mrs. Watson said.

Chapter Eleven

What the eye sees, it doesn’t forget.

—Venus’s Love Notes

Two footmen maneuvered a large copper slipper tub into the room and over to the hearth. Fluff, perhaps thinking the bath was for him, scrambled to his feet and fled, tail between his legs, to hide behind Jess’s skirts.

Kit laughed. “I thought he liked the water.”

“He does. He just doesn’t like baths.”

Fluff whined and peered around her as a procession of housemaids filled the tub.

“He’ll have to have one, you know. I thought he might go in after we’re done.”

Mrs. Watson’s eyes snapped from supervising the tub filling to stare horrified at Kit. “My lord, you can’t give that animal a bath up here! Think of the carpet.”

“Oh, yes, quite right. The carpet. But what about the dog, Mrs. Watson? You may not have noticed, but he smells.”

Mrs. Watson wrinkled her nose. “Yes, I’m afraid he does.” She gestured to the taller of the two footmen who were still in the room, waiting for the housemaids to stop filing through the door with their water pitchers. “Perhaps Richard could bathe him. He was able to get Shakespeare clean.”

Richard did not look thrilled. “Shakespeare liked bathing, my lord, and he is considerably smaller.”

“You might need some help, then.” Kit looked at the other footman. “William, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my lord.” William sounded as unenthusiastic as Richard.

“I’m sure the two of you can manage to get Fluff presentable. Have you any advice, Lady Ashton, to make the experience easier for all involved?”

“I do.” Roger had managed, through trial and error, to perfect a dog-bathing routine. “It’s best not to actually say b-a-t-h. Fluff is very bright.” Fluff had moved to her other side to get farther from the tub. “I’d use the largest t-u-b you have; I think that makes him feel less cramped—or he just thinks he’s in a deep puddle. And hide the s-o-a-p until you have him in the water.”

“Yes, my lady,” Richard said, “but how do we keep him in the ba—”

Fluff moaned and backed up to hide behind the bed.

“That is,” Richard corrected himself, “how do we keep him in the water?”

She laughed. “He likes to be sung to.”

Richard and William exchanged an alarmed look.

“But it doesn’t have to be good singing. In fact, it can be terrible singing.” She grinned at them. “Sometimes Fluff will sing along.”

“Oh, my word, that is all we need,” Mrs. Watson said. Clearly she disapproved of Fluff as much as she did of Jess. “A dog howling in the kitchen.”

“And perhaps Shakespeare will join in,” Kit said. “Can you persuade Fluff to leave with Richard and William, my dear?”

“As long as I’m not going toward the t-u-b, I can.” She looked at the footmen. “You might wish to wait in the corridor.”

The men left the room, and she grabbed Fluff’s collar, pulling him toward the door. Once it was clear they weren’t headed toward the tub, he stopped resisting.

“Go with Richard and William now,” she said when she’d got him out of the room.

Fluff looked at the men and then at her. Jess stroked his ears. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. And I bet Richard and William can find something nice for you to eat.”

Fluff’s tail started wagging, and he looked at the men hopefully.

“Yes, indeed,” Richard said. “Cook’s taken to saving tidbits for Shakespeare; I’m sure there’s some to spare. Come along, Fluff, and we’ll see what we can find, shall we?”

Fluff woofed happily, all reservations gone, and followed Richard and William downstairs.

Mrs. Watson was shaking her head as Jess came back in. “At least you’re all here now. I don’t think we’ll be getting any more beasties underfoot.”

“But think of poor Ned, Mrs. Watson,” Kit said. “He has no pet of his own.”

The housekeeper almost smiled. “He has taken to sharing Shakespeare with Lord Jack, so don’t you worry about him, my lord.” She put the towels she’d been holding on the bed and started for the door. “Oh, and the duchess said supper will be put back so you can have your baths. You’re to join everyone in the blue drawing room in two hours.” She closed the door behind her.

Jess tried not to let out a sigh of relief. “I don’t think she likes me.”

“She’ll come around.” Kit walked over and took one of the towels and a cake of soap off the bed. “Some of the servants chose sides when we separated.”

“No, they didn’t. They couldn’t have. There was only one side for them to choose. I know that.” Oh, dear. Until now, she’d only considered the question of being Kit’s wife and having his children; she hadn’t thought how difficult it would be to assume the role of Lady Ashton and take charge of Kit’s household. The servants would never accept her.
They
knew she was more properly one of them.

Of course, if she didn’t come to an agreement with Kit, the servants’ opinions of her wouldn’t matter.

He brought her the towel and the soap. “I don’t think it’s as bad as all that. In fact, I suspect some of them blame me for letting matters remain in limbo so long.”

“They think you should have divorced me.” She took the things from him. The towel was softer than any she’d felt before, and the cake of soap smelled of lavender.

“No, they think I should have brought you back to the castle and made you my wife in truth years ago, once it was clear you weren’t carrying Percy’s child.”

There had never been any danger of her becoming
enceinte
, as she’d told him before, but she wasn’t going to start that argument again. “But I was only a servant like themselves—worse even, I was the Irish groom’s daughter. They could not have wanted you to stay married to me.”

“No one saw you as a servant, Jess. As I told you before, I certainly never thought of you that way.”

Perhaps he hadn’t, but his parents certainly must have. Their nuptials had been more like a funeral than a wedding. The duke had been stony faced; the duchess had cried. Even Ellie’s father, who’d officiated, had had a furrow of worry between his brows from the moment he’d opened his prayer book. And Kit—Kit had stood stoically at her side, reciting his vows woodenly.

She should have stopped it, but she’d been too young and stupid and desperate—and oddly numb—to do so. Too much had happened to her in too short a time. She’d felt as if she were caught in a bizarre dream from which she’d soon awaken.

“I’d better get my bath before the water is cold,” she said.

He smiled. “Yes, indeed. Especially since I have to use that water after you.”

“Ha. A cold bath will be good for you.”

She said it without thinking, but Kit’s expression suddenly sharpened, reminding her how Roger and Dennis and the other men at the manor would talk about taking a cold bath or a dip in the frigid pond to cool their ardor over some unrequited love.

Damnation. She hadn’t meant it that way.

“I’ll hurry.” At least she could get herself out of this dress and her stays without his help. She turned, looked at the tub, and stopped. Oh, blast. “Kit.”

“What is it?” His voice sounded tight. She glanced at him. He still had an oddly pained look on his face. Likely her comment wasn’t going to help the situation.

“There’s no screen.” She waved her hand at the tub. “I’ll be . . . that is, you could . . .” She wasn’t usually one to mince words, but this didn’t seem like the time to point out in such detail that she’d be wet and naked and exposed to his view. “I won’t have any privacy.”

The pained expression intensified. “Oh. Yes. I see.” His voice was rather hoarse; she watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “I shall just turn my back.”

She looked at him and then at the tub. She wanted a bath so badly, and she trusted Kit to keep his word, but it would be so easy for him to look....

What was the matter with her? She was used to nudity. She’d painted any number of naked men. She’d even agreed to let Kit paint her unclothed.

She shivered. That might not have been such a good idea.

But painting wasn’t lascivious. When she had a brush in her hand, she was looking with an artist’s eye at line and light and volume and proportion. She might feel happy or satisfied or frustrated, depending on how well she felt the painting was coming along, but she never felt—heat swept up her neck to her face—
lustful
.

“I will turn the wing chair over there around and read a book.” Kit grabbed a volume from the bookcase and strode across the room to the big leather chair, wrestling it so it was facing away from the fire. “Just let me know when it’s my turn.” He sat down—and disappeared from view.

If she couldn’t see him, he certainly couldn’t see her, and even if he peeked—which she really did trust him not to do—he wouldn’t be able to see anything. The bed and bed hangings were between them, and the tub had high sides.

But he might get impatient.

She scrambled out of her dress and underthings, dropped them into a pile on the floor, stepped into the tub, and sank into the water. Ohhh. It felt wonderful. If only she could soak here until the water chilled, but Kit deserved some warm water, too.

She washed her body and then wet her hair. Water cascaded down her face and into her eyes as she felt around for the cake of soap. Where was it? Ah, here it was. She grabbed it—and it squirted out of her fingers.

Blast. From the sound of it, the soap had landed on the carpet.

She wiped the water from her eyes and peered over the edge of the tub. No soap. Where the hell—

Oh, Lord. Her heart sank. The damn thing had flown quite a distance.

She stared at the glistening soap. She could skip washing her hair, but it was already wet and it had been days since her hair was clean.

Perhaps if she stretched, she could reach it. She tried, but as she leaned farther, she felt the tub begin to tip. Oh, that would be perfect, to go sprawling like a caught fish, flopping around naked in a pool of water—not to mention the fact she’d soak Mrs. Watson’s precious carpet. She would just climb out and snatch it; the carpet would only get slightly damp then.

She tried to stand up, but her feet slipped on the tub’s slick bottom, and she plopped back down, sending a little wave of water over the side. Damnation. And even though she was next to the fire, the air was cold on her wet skin, especially as the soap had taken off on the side away from the fire.

She looked at the soap and then she looked across the room at the wing chair. Unfortunately, if she was going to wash her hair, there was only one solution to her problem.

Oh, blast. He’d picked up Ovid’s
Ars Amatoria
—
The Art of Love
. What the hell was that doing in his room?

He heard the sound of cloth rustling, of stays dropping to the floor.
Zeus.
He’d imagined Jess naked in as much detail as he could—he’d seen her body outlined by the fire through her shift at the White Stag—but he didn’t really know what she looked like without her dress and chemise and stays. He could find out now....

No. He’d given her his word that he wouldn’t peek, and she would expect him to honor it.

Of
course
he would honor it. He was an honorable man . . . who at the moment was suffering from a terrible case of lust.

He laid
Ars Amatoria
on his lap. It was a heavy book—it should keep his unruly cock where it belonged. And then he squeezed his eyes shut, gripped the chair arms, and pressed his head against the chair back. He would stay where he was if it killed him, and it probably would.

He could shut his eyes, but not his ears, not and keep hold of the chair. He heard splashing and a small feminine moan of pleasure as Jess sank into the water.

Mmm. He could imagine how her wet skin would glisten in the firelight. She’d lie back, and droplets of water would slowly trace their way from the base of her throat down her body. Her hands, slippery with soap, would slide over and under, around and between her beautiful firm breasts with their perfect rose-colored nipples, and then they’d move down over her flat belly to the place between her thighs—

He squinted down at
Ars Amatoria,
expecting to see it had risen several inches, but apparently it was still winning the battle with his cock. But only just. All his blood must be concentrated in that poor organ. He certainly felt light-headed—