Loving Lord Ash (23 page)

Now why did he feel as if he’d passed some bizarre test? Damn it, he wished he still had brandy in his glass so he could toss it in Jack’s face.

Jess looked glumly down at her turtle soup. It was one of her favorite dishes, and this particular bowl looked and smelled wonderful. But then the Greycliffe cook could probably turn an old shoe into a feast; a mediocre chef would not be tolerated in a duke’s kitchen.

She brought a spoonful to her mouth—and then put it back down. She was far too nervous to eat; sitting next to Kit’s mother had her completely on edge. She’d been trying to answer the duchess’s many questions while not revealing too much about her travels to London or the uncertain state of her marriage.

She wished, not for the first time, that Kit was sitting next to her, rather than at the other end of the table.

“Don’t you care for turtle soup, dear?”

She startled, bumping the table. Her soup and everyone else’s, along with the wine and any other liquid in the vicinity, threatened to splash onto the tablecloth. Thank heavens she’d returned her spoon to her bowl or she’d very likely have soup adorning her bodice.

“Oh, no, Your Grace. I’m quite partial to turtle soup.”

Now why the hell did the duchess’s eyes suddenly gleam with what appeared to be delight? Kit’s mother could not possibly care if Jess liked turtle soup or not.

“I see. So you have no appetite?”

She tried to smile. “No, Your Grace, I’m afraid I don’t.”

She’d hoped Jack, her dinner partner on her right, would help her manage his mother, but he was too busy talking to his wife. Ned was across the table, laughing with Ellie, and Kit was far away, next to his father, sending her worried looks and making her even more nervous.

If only she could have taken a tray in her room, but how could she have explained that? And, really, there was no point in putting this off. The duke and duchess weren’t leaving Town anytime soon, and if she and Kit ironed out their differences, she would have to learn to deal with them eventually. It might as well be now.

“You must be tired”—the duchess winked—“from your trip.”

Oh, God, she was in over her head and sinking fast. She knew nothing of the ways of dukes and duchesses. Why had Kit’s mother winked?

She took a deep breath and dipped her spoon back in her soup. She was letting her nerves rob her of her common sense. The duchess hadn’t winked. Of course not. What would the duchess have to wink about? She’d likely got an eyelash in her eye.

“I suppose I am a little tired.”

Now the duchess was beaming at her. “I’m sure that will pass with time.”

“Y-yes. A good night’s sleep will have me fit as a fiddle again.”

Though how she was ever going to get a good night’s sleep sharing a bed with Kit was anybody’s guess.

He’d seen her naked. He’d had his
hands
on her.

Oh, God.

What a disaster. Why the hell did the soap have to go squirting through her fingers? It never did that when she took a bath at the manor. If only she’d been more careful—more sensible—the entire embarrassing, mortifying scene could have been averted. She should not have dropped the soap. She should have tried harder to reach it herself. And she should never have had Kit walk across the room blindfolded. She was very lucky he hadn’t hurt himself.

“Sleep is very important for a woman in your condition.”

When Kit had looked at her breasts, she’d felt her nipples tighten. Dear heavens. He hadn’t noticed, had he?

He was a rake. Of course he’d noticed.

And then when she’d tripped getting out of the tub . . . His chest had been like a wall, his arms strong around her. His hands hot on her back and buttocks . . .

Need shivered low in her belly.

And then there’d been that breathless moment when she’d been certain he was going to kiss her—

What had the duchess said? Something about sleep.

“Yes, sleep is—” She snapped her eyes from her soup to Kit’s mother. “My condition? What condition would that be, Your Grace?”

She could not let her attention wander when she was talking to the Duchess of Love.

Kit’s mother was watching her intently. “A condition that makes women unusually tired.”

The duchess was speaking in riddles. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

“Are you nauseous first thing in the morning?”

“No, of course not. I’m quite fit, Your Grace. I’m just not hungry this evening. As you say, I’m probably overtired. I’m not used to traveling, having spent eight—” No, no,
no!
Don’t say that. Don’t refer to the many years she’d spent alone, rejected at the manor. “I’m just not used to traveling. I’m sure I’ll be fine in the morning.”

Her Grace looked disappointed.

Jack leaned over and smiled at Jess. “Mama thinks you might be increasing.”

“What?”

Oh, no, that was a mistake. She should not have sounded so shocked. It would not be surprising that a married woman might be increasing. The duchess thought Kit had gone directly from the castle to the manor, but even so . . . wasn’t it too soon to know if one were in the family way?

It didn’t matter. She wasn’t
enceinte,
but she wasn’t about to tell Kit’s mother why she was so certain of the matter.

“I’m only tired from traveling, Your Grace, and I’m not so very tired at that. My appetite will pick up, I’m sure.” She would force the rest of the courses down her throat if it would stop the duchess from speculating about her womb. Though with her luck, that would only cause the duchess to conclude she was eating for two.

Jack sniggered, and then looked at his mother. “Leave poor Jess alone, Mama. She’s just getting used to us.”

“But she and Ash were in the bath so long.” The duchess turned back to waggle her eyebrows at Jess. “Not that I was noticing, of course.”

Was this how it was going to be, the duchess drawing salacious conclusions every time she was alone with Kit? Oh, blast. Jess felt as if the walls were beginning to close in on her.

“Keep that up, Mama,” Jack said, “and you’ll have Jess running back to Blackweith Manor.”

That sounded like a splendid idea.

The duchess frowned. “Oh, no, dear. You can’t do that. That would be fatal.”

To whom? Staying in London—in this house—felt like a death sentence. But she wasn’t about to argue with the Duchess of Love. She smiled weakly and let William take away her soup bowl.

“Mama’s right, you know,” Jack said. “I was telling Ash the same thing a little earlier. You must stay in Town and face down the gossips.”

Did Jack think
that
would help her appetite? “Ah. Yes. Of course.”

He grinned at her.

“I confess I was surprised Ash brought you to Town,” the duchess said. “I would have thought he’d have wanted to stay in the country. You didn’t have a real honeymoon before, did you?”

Jess thought it best simply to shake her head.

William put the fish platter in front of her. The plaice’s dead eye stared up at her accusingly.

Blast it, she was really losing her grip on reality if she was letting the food judge her.

“But as it turns out,” the duchess continued, “it was a brilliant decision. The gossip has got completely out of hand because of Ash turning thirty, Jess. But once society sees the two of you dancing and strolling happily together, everyone will stop talking.” She beamed at her.

Jess nodded, tried her best to smile, and declined a serving of eels from Jack.

“Don’t you think Percy will try to stir up trouble, Mama?” Jack asked.

“Oh, Percy.” The duchess made a dismissive sound and flicked her fingers. “We can deal with Percy.” She smiled in a rather satisfied way. “And I think Miss Wharton will take care of him.”

“Miss Wharton?” Jack shook his head. “I think Father has the right of it, Mama. Matching Miss Wharton with Percy is indeed like throwing a kitten to a lion.”

“Nonsense. Women are far stronger than men give them credit for. Isn’t that right, Jess?”

At last, something she could agree about wholeheartedly. “Yes, Your Grace, it is.”

Chapter Thirteen

If you pry, you’ll see things you’ll wish you hadn’t.

—Venus’s Love Notes

Jess closed the bedroom door and leaned against it, sighing with relief. Thank God she was finally, blessedly alone. She’d escaped when the women left the men at their port after supper.

She should have gone on to the drawing room with the duchess and Ellie and Frances. She knew that. She’d even decided during dinner to do so. She was a grown woman and Kit’s wife, the Marchioness of Ashton. As Roger had said, she must pluck up her courage.

She pressed her head back against the door. Hell, it was all well and good to remind herself of her title when steeling herself to face an innkeeper, but when facing the Duchess of Greycliffe, the Duchess of Love . . .

Kit’s
mother
.

She took a deep breath. She
knew
there was no point in hiding from the duchess. It was impossible, especially as they were living in the same house. But when the moment had come to sail, head high, into the drawing room, she’d turned craven. She just couldn’t face another hour or two of dodging questions. She’d stopped as they’d passed the stairs and said she was going up to bed.

A poor choice of words.

The duchess had raised her eyebrows—likely remembering Jess was at heart nothing but a servant and unschooled in the social niceties—but she hadn’t tried to insist or argue. She’d merely wished her good night, and then, with an alarmingly knowing expression, said she’d send Kit up promptly.

Oh, God!
Jess covered her face with her hands. Had she ever felt more embarrassed?

She’d insisted that it wasn’t necessary, that she knew Kit would want to spend time with his family, that she was very tired and was going straight to sleep—

She’d been babbling and must certainly have confirmed to the duchess—and to Ellie and Frances, too—that what they must all think was going to happen in that damn bed was indeed going to happen.

Why
did Kit’s family have to be in London?

She pushed away from the door. Surely Kit wouldn’t take his mother’s hint—or outright suggestion, since she doubted the duchess would waste any time beating around this particular bush—and come right up. But just in case, she’d get changed immediately. She certainly didn’t want him watching her disrobe—

She paused, hand on the wardrobe door, and closed her eyes, but that only made the memory come into sharper focus.

Kit already knew what was hidden under her dress. He’d seen her completely naked. He’d had his hands all over her.

She moaned, but perhaps not entirely from mortification.

Damn it! She snapped her eyes open to scowl at the innocent wardrobe. Enough foolishness. She would change and then perhaps sketch a bit.

She scrambled out of her clothes and into her nightgown. The poor garment had been mended so many times it was more darns than fabric. Well, the duchess had said at dinner that the dressmaker would be coming tomorrow—

Oh, God.
She closed her eyes again. And then Kit’s mother had leaned close to whisper, in a very significant way,
“and she’ll make you some under-things and nightgowns, too.”
Thank heavens Jack had been talking to Frances and hadn’t heard or he’d have been sure to tease her about that.

She shook her old dress out and hung it on a peg in the wardrobe. Even with the impending embarrassment of buying stockings and chemises and stays and nightgowns, she had to admit to feeling excited about the dressmaker. She loved color and texture. She was a painter, after all.

She’d never had nice clothes. Her father certainly hadn’t been able to afford silks and laces on his groom’s earnings, but there’d also been no need for her to have such finery. The horses she rode didn’t care, and it was far better to spatter paint on homespun than satin.

Girls of her station often did get some special clothing for their wedding, but her marriage had been such a scrambling affair, she’d not got a trousseau. Nor had she needed one during her long exile at the manor. She shrugged. And even if she’d got clothes then, they’d be sadly out of date now.

She reached for her sketchbook, but what her fingers closed on was Roger’s pink-ribboned collection of
Venus’s Love Notes
.

She snatched her hand back. She didn’t want to know what her mother-in-law thought of love.

And yet . . .

The duchess had been happily married to her duke for over thirty years, and she’d made countless successful society matches. Roger, though he definitely had some unusual proclivities, was no idiot. If he’d carefully saved the duchess’s leaflets and loaned them to her, he must think Kit’s mother had something useful to say on the matter of love. She certainly knew more about it than Jess did.

She shifted from foot to foot and glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was early. Kit was likely still at table drinking port with his father and brothers. She would just have a quick peek.

She picked up the packet, untied the ribbon, and started reading the first page.

Men are not women dressed in breeches.

Well, of course they weren’t. Even she knew that.

They are far more aroused by their senses than we are.

Hmm. That might be correct. Men certainly did a lot more obvious ogling than women did.

Thus if you wish to seduce
—

“What are you reading, Jess?”

“Ack!”
Her hands flew up, and the papers sailed off in all directions.

Kit was standing in the doorway with Fluff.

“I’m sorry. Did I startle you?”

She scrambled over the floor, scooping up the errant leaflets. “No, I always scream and throw things when people enter the room.”

He put the brandy decanter he was carrying on the bureau. “Here, let me help—”

“No!”
She dove to grab a sheet at Kit’s feet before he could pick it up.