Loving Lord Ash (32 page)

“Of course not.” But Jack was probably right about the gossips. She forced herself to smile at Kit. “You do look as though you’d like to be somewhere else, though.” She paused, and then said quietly, only for his ears, “And with someone else.”

That got his attention. His gaze sharpened as if he were suddenly focusing on her instead of his black thoughts. “It’s true I’d rather be somewhere else—this infernal ball will be crowded and hot and full of the worst idiots—but if I have to suffer through it, and I realize I do, I wouldn’t want to be with anyone but you.”

“There you are, Jess,” Jack said. “You are Ash’s chosen partner in hell.”

“Damnation, Jack. That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, that’s what you said.”

“I did not, and you know it.”

The duke turned around then. “Perhaps you two might stop squabbling before we enter the ballroom? There will be enough rude speculation without you adding to the spectacle.”

Kit’s jaw hardened again, but Jack laughed.

“Of course, Father,” Jack said. “We will be models of deportment.”

The duke snorted. “I do not ask for miracles.”

“Perhaps you should,” the duchess said. “The Almighty might be feeling generous.” She took his arm. “Come along. They have finally managed to wrestle Lord and Lady Smittle into the house.” She paused on the first step and looked back. “Do try to smile, Ash. Jack is quite right. Everyone will think you are contemplating murder.”

“I am.” He glared at his brother. “Jack’s.”

“I should like to see you try,” Jack said, grinning.

They made their way up the stairs and into the ballroom without further conversation. Jess’s knees were trembling so much she had to focus all her attention on walking. She certainly did not wish to trip and go sprawling on the floor. Just the thought made her tighten her hold on Kit’s arm.

His hand came up to cover her fingers. “Courage,” he whispered.

Yes, courage. Surely she could discover some modicum of that virtue in her breast. After all, she’d endured years and years of gossip when she’d lived at the manor. How bad could a few hours be?

Very bad.

True to her word, the duchess had got them to the ball early, but there were still quite a number of people present, all of whom stopped their conversations to stare the moment Jess was announced. It was quite remarkable, really. The steady drone cut off abruptly for a beat or two of complete silence and then started up again, louder and at an almost fevered pitch.

She would not have credited it, but in some regards it was easier to be gossiped about behind her back than to her face—well, in front of her face. She was quite certain none of those present would actually tell her what they were saying, though she could guess. She could guess very well.

“Ignore them,” Kit said. He looked rather fierce again, but this time his anger was clearly directed at the ton. “They are all chattering dunderheads.”

“Who can make my stay in London very unpleasant.”

His jaw hardened to granite. “It doesn’t matter what they say. You are my wife, the Marchioness of Ashton, and the daughter-in-law of the Duke of Greycliffe.”

If only she were his wife in more than name. If only she were his love.

“And Mama is not only the Duchess of Greycliffe, remember. She’s the Duchess of Love. None of the mothers with daughters on the marriage mart dare offend her.”

“Of course.” But it was often difficult to trace down the authors of rumors, especially if everyone was whispering the same thing. There was safety—and anonymity—in numbers.

The duchess smiled and nodded to everyone who greeted her, but she didn’t stop until she’d reached a corner with some exuberant potted palms and windows that opened onto the terrace.

“Trust Mama to find the coolest place in the ballroom,” Jack said.

“I have not spent years attending these events without making note of the best spots to, ahem, enjoy the festivities.” The duchess looked at Jess and Frances. “I should warn you both that Lord Palmerson’s garden is exceedingly large and dark, so don’t go into it without Ash or Jack at your side. Some men cannot remember their manners.”

Jess flushed. The duchess made a show of addressing Frances, too, but she knew to whom Her Grace’s words were really directed. She—

“Don’t worry, Your Grace,” Frances said. “I have no intention of going out into a garden by myself or with anyone but Jack ever again.” Even though she smiled, her voice trembled.

“I should hope not!” Jack, his face devoid of humor for once, grasped Frances’s hand. “Let’s go see where Lady Palmerson has hidden the refreshment room. You look like you could use a glass of lemonade.”

Kit watched them leave. “What was that about? Is Frances afraid of gardens?”

“No.” The duchess shook her head. “Well, not precisely.”

“There was a madman loose in London when we arrived,” the duke said, “luring women into dark corners and slashing their throats.”

“Yes, and he almost got Frances,” Her Grace added, “but thanks largely to her quick thinking, he was captured.”

“Thank God for that.” Kit looked at Jess. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?”

“Of course.” She had no desire to tour the garden. Since it was too dark to view the foliage, the only purpose would be to misbehave, and no matter how much Kit might think otherwise, she did not wish to do that. Unless, perhaps, she was misbehaving with him, but that wasn’t going to happen tonight. “But if the man has been apprehended, he’s no longer a threat.”

“True, but you never know what other threats will pop up, Jess,” the duchess said. “London is nothing like the country.”

“And speaking of London threats . . .” the duke said.

“What? Oh, blast.” The duchess swiveled her head to look in the direction the duke indicated. A determined-looking woman with graying hair was bearing down upon them. “It’s Lady Dunlee. You may want to take Jess to the refreshment room, too, Ash. No need starting the evening off with London’s biggest gossip.”

Jess stood next to Frances, happy to have a moment’s respite. She’d danced every dance, though that was likely because the duchess—or the mothers of hopeful daughters and long-suffering sons—had shooed men her way. And the men . . .

She scowled, causing a nervous-looking little fellow to make a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn and vanish into a sea of plumed chaperones.

Many of the men who’d danced with her had acted as if she were a light-skirt, damn it, though they had enough fear of Kit’s family not to be blatantly rude—which almost made things worse. They didn’t say anything she could call them on; they just hinted, smirked, waggled their brows.

At least Percy had kept his distance.

“It’s too bad Ellie and Ned aren’t here,” Frances said, “though of course it is wonderful that Ellie is increasing.”

“Yes, indeed.” Jess missed Ellie’s quiet support, and Ned would have stood up with her without making her feel like a doxy.

Kit hadn’t made her feel that way either—

No, that wasn’t quite true. He hadn’t treated her with disrespect, but moving in time to the music with him, touching hands, looking into his eyes—all had provoked hot, needy feelings in her breast and, er, other places.

“It’s nice to sit out a set,” Frances said. “I confess I find dancing tiring.”

After their dance, with the ton avidly watching, Jess hadn’t been able to think of a single thing to say. They’d stood there awkwardly until the duchess had come and dragged Kit away, saying people would think he didn’t trust his wife to behave in society if he stayed glued to her side, looking like a thundercloud.

“The country dances can be a bit of an exertion,” she said, smiling at Frances. Though she was happier when her partners were breathless; if they couldn’t speak, they couldn’t treat her to unpleasant innuendos and veiled insults.

Frances laughed. “Oh, I didn’t mean physically tiring. It’s the mental strain of concentrating that’s so wearing.” She smiled. “I’ve just learned to dance. I still have to count the steps under my breath most of the time.”

Jess’s eyebrows shot up. A marquis’s granddaughter who didn’t know how to dance? Even Jess had mastered that skill. “Really?”

Frances nodded. “I used to think dancing was only for silly, husband-mad girls. I was wrong, of course.” She laughed. “Jack teases me about it all the time.”

“I hope you don’t think he means anything by it, Frances.” Sometimes Jack lost sight of the effect his comments had on people. “Jack likes to tease, but I can tell he’s very much in love with you.”

Frances’s face lit up. “I know. And I am very much in love with him. Jack has changed my life, Jess. I was a lonely, angry person before I met him.” She put her hand on Jess’s arm. “I know he’s been worried about Ash for years. I do hope you two can resolve your problems and be as happy as we are.”

“Er, yes. Thank you.” Jess did not wish to discuss her marriage, especially not here in Lord Palmerson’s ballroom. When was Jack going to come take his wife away?

Soon. The set was ending; Jack was already looking their way, thank God.

And where was Kit?

He’d just come in from Lord Palmerson’s large, dark garden.

Damn. Her stomach dropped.

Had he spent a few amorous minutes with one of the beautiful London ladies, perhaps the one whose bed he’d graced last night? Now he’d dodged behind some potted palms. What was he trying to hide?

Anger bloomed in her gut, and she looked away. She didn’t want to see him flirting. She—

She saw Percy talking to a plump girl who had a mass of blonde ringlets on her head and a plethora of furbelows on her puce-colored dress. Well, it was more accurate to say the girl was talking to Percy. As Jess watched, Percy cut her off with a few words and a sharp chop of his hand and walked away.

The girl took a step after him, but stopped herself. She appeared to be on the verge of tears, poor thing. Jess glanced around. Thank God no one else seemed to be watching her. She must have realized she was in danger of making a spectacle of herself, because she looked around wildly and then darted out the closest door.

She should go after the girl and tell her how lucky she was to be free of Percy.

“Excuse me, Frances. I see someone I must speak to.”

Frances nodded, but she probably hadn’t heard. Her attention was all on Jack, who was making his way toward her.

Jess slipped around the perimeter of the ballroom, trying to stay out of Percy’s sight. He appeared to be searching for someone, likely her. She dodged behind a potted palm, and then kept a large woman wearing an elaborate headdress between them. Finally, she got to the door the other girl had slipped through and made her own escape.

Chapter Eighteen

The truth is sometimes hard to believe.

—Venus’s Love Notes

Ash stepped inside after a few moments on the terrace. Zeus, the ballroom was stuffy. He should see if Jess would like to stroll outside. Perhaps, if she was agreeable, they could wander into the vegetation.

He’d wanted to take her out into the garden earlier, after their dance, though that likely would have got all the gossips’ tongues wagging. Hell, what he’d really wanted to do was find the nearest bed, rip off Jess’s dress, and—

And he should have had that thought out on the dark terrace.

He ducked behind some potted palms.

Where was she now?

Ah, there with Frances, watching the dancers.

He’d never found dancing this, ah, stimulating before, but with Jess . . . She was so beautiful, so graceful, so alluring. He’d been so lust-crazed after the music had ended that he’d been as tongue-tied as a boy. He’d wanted to keep Jess from dancing with any other man.

It was a good thing Mama had come over then and dragged him away, though he did hope he’d made it look as though he’d gone willingly.

Oh, blast. Speaking of Mama, she was beckoning him now, some debutante at her side. He’d already danced with a legion of the young girls. Surely he’d earned one more dance with Jess? He would just—

He bumped into the back of another man. “Pardon me.”

The man turned and smiled at him. Damnation, it was the naked footman.

No, he must call him Baron Trendal.

“Lord Ashton, I was hoping to see you again.” Trendal nodded to the man he’d been talking to. “If you’ll excuse me, Windon?”

“Of course.” The man bowed and took himself off—after giving Ash a quick inspection and a slight, seductive smile.

No, he’d imagined that....

Good God, he
hoped
he’d imagined it.

“No need to interrupt your conversation on my account, Trendal.” The baron wasn’t going to make an improper advance, was he?

Trendal shrugged. “Windon was becoming a bit of a bore. I was happy for the interruption.” He raised a brow. “And no, you don’t have to worry.”

Damn it, he felt a hot flush rise up his neck. “Worry about what?” The fellow could not have read his mind.

Trendal just smiled. “I assume Jess told you about the staff at the manor?”

“Yes.”

“Then I must thank you for keeping my secret.”

Ash glanced around.

“Don’t worry. There’s no one within earshot.” Trendal’s mouth flattened. “I’m used to watching what I say.”

“Yes, the walls have ears, do they not?” Ash, too, hated feeling as if he was always under observation. “And eyes.” He cleared his throat. “Well, I must be off. I believe my mother wishes me to dance with another wallflower.”

“She has found someone else to do the honors.” Trendal was now regarding him as if he were an odd species of insect. “And I have something I wish to say to you.”

Hell,
he
wasn’t the odd one in this equation. Ash glanced over at his mother. Yes, she’d indeed found another victim. And, as Trendal had said in Hyde Park, it would be best if they appeared to be on cordial terms.

“Very well. What is it?”

“You know,” Trendal said, “I was certain I would thoroughly detest you if we ever met. I was very surprised—shocked, really—that I didn’t.”