Loving Lord Ash (2 page)

“No.” Ash knew what he would see upstairs, but he needed to see it. He needed to feel the pain to remember why he could not let Jess stay in his heart. “Where is she?”

Charlie and Ralph looked at each other again, their shoulders slumping as they realized the futility of resisting him.

“The studio, milord,” Charlie said.

There hadn’t been a studio when he’d lived here. “Where?”

“Top floor,” Ralph said. “First door on the left.”

Where the nursery had been. Damn.

He dropped his hold on Ralph and started up the stairs.

Jessica, Marchioness of Ashton, mixed brown into the white paint on her palette. She could not get Roger’s skin color right today. She swiped her brush with the new tint over his stomach.

No, that was wrong, too.

“You really should talk about it, you know.”

Jess glanced up from her easel to glare at Roger, reclining naked on a red chaise longue. “Talk about what?”

Roger just lifted an eyebrow.

He knew, of course. She’d been in a foul mood since before Valentine’s Day. It was a bad time every year, but this year had been by far the worst. Her fit of the dismals had lasted over a month.

She dropped her eyes back to her canvas. “There’s nothing to say.”

She did not care what Kit did. If he wanted to fornicate with Ellie—

Dear God!
She squeezed her eyes shut at the thought’s all too familiar pain. How could Ellie climb into Kit’s bed? Kit was the heir to a duchy; everyone knew the aristocracy lived by different rules. But Ellie was a vicar’s daughter, and she’d been Jess’s childhood friend.

Jess plopped more brown paint onto her palette.

But people changed, didn’t they? She’d never have guessed Kit would turn into such a rake; he’d been brilliant, but rather awkward and shy when they were growing up. Now, though, the Marquis of Ashton visited too many ladies’ beds to count. The London papers had been full of his exploits—so full she’d stopped reading them.

If he had a proper wife, perhaps he’d stay in his own bed.

She mixed the paint with short, sharp strokes. Yes, perhaps he would.

She was not one to make excuses for herself. After that dreadful scene with Percy, it was perfectly obvious why Kit wouldn’t wish to have anything to do with her.

But then why had he offered for her?

She shook her head. No matter what his reasons, she should not have accepted him.

This year Kit had turned thirty. Time was passing. He would want to start his nursery.

He would have to divorce her.

Finally, her marriage would be over—and
that
was what was causing her stupid heart to feel as if it were made of lead.

She frowned at her palette. Painting and drawing had always been her escape. She just needed to focus. She’d feel better eventually. Not happy—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt really happy—but at least not so morose.

Hmm. Roger’s skin was closer to olive. Maybe she should try a touch of yellow? She mixed in just a little....

Oh, blast. Now the color looked like what her dog hacked up after eating grass.

Roger snorted, shifting position slightly. “There’s plenty to say, as well you know.”

“Don’t be an ass. And keep still. I’m never going to get this painting right if you fidget.” She started over, mixing brown paint into white again.

Most people would say she’d landed on her feet. She’d had a roof—a very comfortable roof—over her head and food on the table for eight years, as well as plenty of paint and canvas and brushes. For someone who was the daughter of an Irish groom and a seamstress, it should have been a dream come true.

But she had dreamt of more. She had fallen in love with Kit, with the future Duke of Greycliffe, and had imagined her life by his side, not as a duchess but as a wife.

Stupid! She should have weeded her ridiculous love out of her breast the moment she’d first felt it. By the time she’d tried to do so, it had been too late. It had grown like thistle; its roots deep, spreading into every corner of her life.

“If you want me to be still,” Roger said, “you’d best put more coals on the brazier. I don’t know why you insist on painting me without a stitch of clothing when the snow has barely melted from the fields.” Roger leered at her. “Just can’t resist my manly physique, can you?”

She slammed down her brush, causing a bit of brown paint to spatter over her palette. “Don’t flatter yourself. A still life of a dead bird would be far more tempting—and easier to paint. Damn it, why can’t you be as pale as a proper Englishman?”

“Blame my Italian mother.”

“Your poor mother.” She started for the coal bin. “She—
ack!
” Oh, hell, she’d forgotten Kit, her enormous black dog, was stretched out at her feet. She tripped on him, pitched forward, and went crashing to the floor.

Kit’s deep, loud bark almost drowned out Roger’s cursing. They’d both leapt up and were now staring at her.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course. I’m fine.” Her lace cap had been knocked askew, and a large quantity of her straight, thick hair had escaped its pins—it was hard enough to keep under control in the best of circumstances.

She sat up and ripped off the cap, letting her hair tumble down her back. She clearly wasn’t going to get any good painting done today. She might as well give up. Maybe if she went for a long walk, the cold air would shock some sense into her.

Kit licked her cheek, and she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his long, black coat. He’d been her loyal companion since she’d got him as a puppy, a few years after she’d come to the manor. “Oh, you big Fluff. I’m sorry I tripped on you. Are you all right?”

He barked again.

“Not in my ear, you silly dog! You’ll deafen me.”

“Here, let me help you up.” Roger extended his hand.

His male bit dangled right at her eye level.

She admired all aspects of the human body, but this poor part was ungainly and, well, ugly. It really was best hidden by a fig leaf or a pair of well-fitted pantaloons. And it wasn’t only Roger’s that was unattractive; she’d painted enough of the male servants to know the organ’s homeliness was universal.

Percy’s certainly had been—

No. She would not think about that disgusting blackguard.

She forced herself to smile up at Roger, which had the added advantage of taking her eyes off his least attractive feature. The rest of him was lovely. He had long limbs, broad shoulders, and well-defined muscles. He was by far her favorite model.

She let him haul her to her feet.

“You’re certain you’re all right?” he asked.

“Yes, of course.” She tugged on her hand, but he didn’t relinquish it.

“I was afraid you’d hurt yourself.”

She made a face at him. “The only thing hurt is my pride.” She tugged again.

“Well, that’s good.” He finally let her go, but only so he could grab her shoulders. He shook her a little. “Jess, you know you can’t keep living this way.”

“Living what way?” She dropped her eyes to his collarbone. She’d definitely mixed too much brown into the white paint. If she—

“You know. Married, but not married.”

Her eyes snapped back up to scowl at him. Blast it, she knew everyone in the house worried about her, but until now everyone had been kind enough to hold his tongue. Why was Roger bringing the subject up when he knew she was so terribly out of sorts?

“I don’t want to talk about it.” She put her hands on his chest and pushed, but his grip on her shoulders only tightened.

“In the four years I’ve been here, I’ve never seen you really happy, Jess. Dennis and I were just discussing it last night.”

Dennis Walker, her—no,
Kit’s
estate manager—and Roger’s lover.

“I
am
happy. Why wouldn’t I be? I have a houseful of servants to do my bidding.” She looked him in the eye. “And I bid you drop this topic.”

His mouth was set in an unpleasantly mulish line. “But you don’t have a husband.”

“I
do
have a husband.” That was the whole problem.

“But not in your bed.”

A hot, odd yearning exploded in her stomach. “Damn it, Roger. Didn’t you hear me? I do not wish to talk about my marriage.”

Roger ignored her. “Every year, when the marquis’s birthday approaches, you get quieter and quieter. This year has been the worst. Valentine’s Day is more than a month gone, and you’re still dragging around as if it were yesterday.”

“You are mistaken.”

Roger lifted his damn eyebrow again.

“And even if you’re not, it will pass.”

He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Until it comes again next year and the year after and the year after that. Your life is drifting away, Jess. Is that really what you want?”

“No, of course not.” Damnation, her voice broke. She bit the inside of her cheek and willed herself not to cry. She was tired, that was all. She hadn’t been sleeping well lately.

“Dennis and I think it’s time you faced your husband.”

Dennis and he had been far too busy about her business. “No.”

“I don’t know what he did—”

“He didn’t do anything.” Her predicament was her own fault. She should never have let things with Percy go so far. She just hadn’t been thinking clearly. And then Kit had come in at precisely the wrong moment.

Why
had
he offered for her?

She’d wondered that for eight years. All she could surmise was the proposal had been a momentary lapse in judgment, Kit’s generous heart speaking before his considerable intellect could silence it. And once the words were said, he couldn’t unsay them and maintain his honor. She’d realized that even then.

And selfishly, she’d leapt to accept. She definitely should not have, but she’d been young and stupid and in love. She’d known she had some beauty; she’d seen how the other men looked at her. She’d even stolen a few kisses. She’d thought she’d have no trouble getting Kit to fall in love with her.

Youthful hubris.

“—but he should settle things now. And if he won’t come to the manor, you need to go to him.”

She stared at Roger. Go to Kit? Go to Greycliffe Castle and see the duke and the duchess and Ellie and Kit’s brothers and perhaps Percy?

She was going to throw up.

“You can do it, Jess. You have to.”

“No, I . . .”

But things couldn’t get any worse than they were, could they? It was just a matter of time. Kit was going to divorce her anyway. Why wait?

She took a deep breath and nodded. “All right.”

Roger grinned. “That’s the spirit.” He threw his arms around her, apparently forgetting he was naked, and hugged her.

She hugged him back, since leaving her hands on his chest was uncomfortable and letting them dangle risked encountering portions of his anatomy she’d rather avoid. And she did love him. He was the brother she’d never had. He was funny and kind and maddening and sometimes overbearing.

And he had terrible timing.

The door flew open right at that moment, and she jerked her head around to see who’d come all the way up to the studio.

Oh, bloody, bloody hell.

She stared directly into her husband’s furious eyes.

Chapter Two

The angrier the man, the more desperate his love.

—Venus’s Love Notes

Shock, longing, horror, mortification. The emotions flashed through Jess, keeping her frozen where she stood—with her arms around a naked man.

Oh, damn. This was almost as bad as the scene with Percy. Why did she have such horrendous luck?

She shoved Roger away as if he’d caught fire. “Ash, what are you doing here?”

How easily she fell into using Kit’s title. She’d been the only one who’d ever called him by his Christian name, but that was only when they were alone, back when they’d been friends.

They were not friends now. His face was like granite, his eyes hard gray chips. He looked even harsher than he had that terrible time with Percy.

Or maybe he looked harsher because he was older. His blond hair had darkened, his face was leaner, and there were lines around his eyes and mouth—likely caused by her and their doomed marriage.

But she also saw a glimmer of the Kit she’d loved—the shy, intense, brilliant boy with the heart-stopping smile who had befriended her even though she was only the groom’s daughter and had taught her to draw. She saw that boy’s face in her dreams at night and had ached to see him again in person.

And now she had, in such damning circumstances.

His lip curled. He probably saw her face in his dreams, too—or rather, his nightmares.

Roger stepped naked between them. “The door was closed, sir. A gentleman would knock and beg admittance.”

Kit’s eyes narrowed, his anger so intense Jess would swear he vibrated with it. “A
gentleman
would not fuck another man’s wife.”

Jess gasped. She’d never heard Kit utter such an ugly word.

“Wife?” Roger said. He turned to look at her. “Wife?”

“Yes, wife.” Kit stepped forward threateningly. “Or didn’t you ask if she was married before you—”

“That’s enough!” None of this was Roger’s fault. Jess pushed him aside and faced Kit squarely. “Lord Ashton, I’ll thank you to—”

Her sharp voice alerted her dog that some threat had entered his territory. He started barking, great deep woofs that echoed off the studio’s wooden floor and bare walls, and came over to vanquish the interloper.

“It’s all right, Kit.” Jess glared at her husband. “Lord Ashton is harmless.”

“Er, Jess,” Roger said. He’d had the good sense to grab the blanket off the chaise longue and wrap it around his waist. “I wouldn’t say he’s harmless precisely.”

Kit ignored Roger. His eyes had widened, and he stared at Jess’s pet, which was leaning protectively against her side now, and then up at Jess. “You named your
dog
after me?”

“She does like the dog,” Roger said helpfully. “It’s rather a compliment.”