Ashton: Lord of Truth (Lonely Lords Book 13) (20 page)

And thank the everlasting powers, she grew damp, then slick, though she didn’t seem to notice.

“This daylight loving has much to recommend it,” she said, rubbing the side of her breast against Ashton’s cheek. He hadn’t shaved
since rising, and the infernal woman apparently liked that too.

“Aye, though with you, I think any hour would be an adventure. Are you happy where you are, or should we indulge in some variety?”

“I am not happy,” she said, sitting up and drawing circles around Ashton’s nipples with her fingernails. “I am discontent, inside,
and—you’re looking at me.”

“I’m staring, love. Growing visually inebriated, and maybe a bit cross-eyed. You are a fiend, Matilda, and that feels… I could spend just
from what you’re doing with your fingers.”

She stopped. “Please don’t. Once you spend, it’s good night, isn’t it?”

God love her
. “More like, we ring for a fresh pot while contemplating further shared pleasures. I’d need about two cuddles and a kiss before being ready to
oblige you again. I’m happy to prove I’m not boasting if you’d be so good as to take me inside you.”

Please, please, please.

“Like this? I don’t have to lie beneath you?”

“Exactly like this, or lying beneath me, on your side, against the wall, on all fours, sitting in the middle of the bed with your legs wrapped
around—”

She kissed him before he’d got through a quarter of his list of fantasies. When it became apparent Matilda either didn’t know how to start
their joining, or couldn’t bring herself to touch his cock, Ashton took himself in hand and found her heat.

“You have to do this part,” he said. “You have to decide how deep, how fast, how hard and how—St. Robert the Bruce in a
tree.”

Matilda sank onto him in one slow, relentless slide. Ashton had to bring to mind swimming in a loch in April to prevent himself from spending in one great,
thrashing shudder.

“Did I do that right? It feels right. You feel right. You feel… satisfying. Abundant. I don’t know how to describe it.”

“I get the general notion. How does this feel?” Ashton thrust lazily, and Matilda soon had the knack of counterpointing his efforts.

The rest of the conversation was silent and ranged from Ashton’s hands whispering across Matilda’s back, to her mouth teasing at his ear, to
his thanks sent quietly heavenward as Matilda began to move more urgently.

Ashton grabbed for self-restraint with both hands, even as he sent his lady flying free. When Matilda went soaring in his arms, he wanted to laugh as she
had—joyously, heartily, gratefully.

This was how loving was supposed to be. Trust and tenderness, intimacy and freedom, all wrapped up with gladness and pleasure. Ashton held on to those
sentiments as Matilda subsided against him, panting and pliant.

She was his, he was hers. He’d found his countess before the Season had even started, and all because he’d taken a little time to be himself
before strutting about as the blighted earl.

“Time to order a fresh pot?” Matilda murmured.

Ashton hadn’t spent, nor would he until he’d offered the woman a proper proposal. “This pot’s still plenty hot. Perhaps you’d
like another cup?”

She struggled up, bracing herself above him. “What on earth are you talking about? If you think I can make
moves
now, as you put it, when
you’ve obliterated my ability to think, then I can assure you—” 

Ashton had to close his eyes, lest the rosy flush over her chest stir him past all control. “I’ll show you. You don’t even have to move.
Just hold me.”

Matilda held him, and he showed her that the right teapot offered as many servings as she wanted, served exactly as she pleased.

“You have a very pretty singing voice, ma’am,” Pippa said. “Don’t believe I’ve heard you sing before.”

Matilda had forgotten how, but yesterday afternoon in Ashton Fenwick’s bed, she’d started to recall.

“Singing is supposed to be one of a young lady’s accomplishments, though my gift was more at the pianoforte. I like to sing. I’m not as
keen on folding laundry.”

She and Pippa were in the laundry, the end of the week being when all the wash that had spent the past several days drying could be taken down, folded, and
put away. Rainy weeks were the worst, because only the kitchen could effectively dry anything. Racks and clotheslines cluttered the entire space, and large
items such as sheets never felt entirely dry.

Ironing them dry was one of Matilda’s least-favorite chores, but damp sheets were a recipe for sickness and poor sleep.

“I don’t mind laundry here,” Pippa said, taking up a pillowcase. “Nobody bellowing at me to turn from the life of Jezebel and
repent of my sins. I never did repent of ’em, but I got bloody sick of having an empty belly. If I were a man, I’d be ashamed to think a woman
put up with me only because she was starving. Doesn’t seem to bother most of the gents, though.”

Matilda folded her good chemise, the one she saved for Sundays and special occasions, not that she’d had special occasions in the past six years.

“Not all men are like that, Pippa. Some are decent, honorable, and kind.”

And glory of glories, some of the decent, honorable, kind ones were fiendishly talented in bed. In the space of a few hours the previous afternoon, Ashton
Fenwick had not merely educated Matilda, he’d enlightened her—illuminated entire parts of her life, much less her body, that had been shrouded
in ignorance.

“I fancy that Nathan,” Pippa said, folding the pillowcase into a precise square. “He’s a good sort, and he doesn’t judge me
for making do as best I could.”

Nathan was the neighbor’s oldest boy, and from what Matilda could tell, he was a fine young man. Nathan was not quick, but he thought for himself,
and when he did come to a conclusion, he based his opinion on facts and reason, rather than the loudest gossip in the marketplace.

“You could ask Nathan to walk you home from services,” Matilda said. “He might be waiting for you to make that move.”

Ladies did make moves, take the initiative, and even give orders. She knew that now.

“I go to services because you make me,” Pippa said, taking up another pillowcase, “and to set an example for Helen. Where’s she off
to, by the way?”

“She and Mr. Fenwick are preparing for his eventual remove to the Albany, and he said he wanted to pay a call on some Scottish duke who’s new
to town.”

“So that’s why he wore that kilt get-up. You’re a good influence on him, ma’am. Him too.” 

In his kilt, Ashton was a different man. More free, more imposing, more devilish. He’d made sure to tell Matilda that beneath his kilt, he wore
nothing save the treasure God had stowed there.

Matilda set aside her good chemise and started on the endless, everlasting, bottomless pile of towels.

“I will be sorry to see Mr. Fenwick leave us, and not simply because he’s a good lodger.”

Pippa’s grin was in the tradition of a happy Jezebel. “Fancy him, do ya? I expect he’ll pay you the occasional call even once he moves to
that fancy apartment.”

Matilda hoped so, which was foolish and risky—also entirely understandable. Maybe by this time next year…

She snatched another towel from the pile. “Mr. Fenwick has to go home eventually, Pippa. Scotland is very far away.”

Scotland also had its own legal system. That realization had Matilda creasing the edges of the towel precisely. Would an English warrant be enforceable in
Scotland? If so, why did criminals flee over the Border?

“Scotland is right next door, Mrs. B. Right up the Great North Road. I’m told it’s pretty too.”

As the pile of clean laundry gradually became stacks of folded wash, Matilda dreamed. She shouldn’t. If the past six years had taught her anything,
it was that dreams were for the lucky or the unwise.

And yet… Scotland wasn’t England. As the mistress or even the wife of Scottish gentry, Matilda would be safe from Drexel’s investigators
and Stephen’s greed. Kitty was well provided for, and maybe in a few years, when the girl was old enough to understand—

Helen swung through the window. “I love the smell of clean laundry here. Has his lordship come back yet?”

“Helen, the least you can do is use the back door,” Matilda said. “You track in the garden mud on rainy days and let every urchin in the
alley know exactly how to gain entrance to the domicile.”

One of Helen’s braids had slipped from her cap. She shoved it back out of sight, but it immediately drooped free again.

“Ain’t any urchins in the alley. I run ’em all off before Christmas. That’s my alley until I say somebody else can have it.
What’s for lunch?”

Pippa tossed a clean flannel at Helen. “Hard work. If you’ve been loving on that jackass, at least wash your hands before you finish folding
this wash.”

“Marmaduke is a donkey,” Helen said, crossing to the washtub, “not an ass. His lordship says we must take care not to insult our
betters.”

Matilda’s haze of cheerful speculations—not dreams—floated a little closer to earth. Something Helen had said…

“Helen, you referred to Mr. Fenwick as his lordship. Were you speaking metaphorically?”

Helen was absorbed with washing her hands and making some noise at it. She might not touch a single piece of laundry, but neither would Matilda allow the
girl to eat with filthy hands.

Not anymore.

“Beg pardon, Mrs. Bryce?”

“Never mind. There’s bread, cheese, and ham in the kitchen. You may help yourself.”

“Thanks.” Helen went skipping on her way, stuffing the errant braid under her cap yet again. “Ham begins with a haitch,” she called
from halfway down the corridor.

“Helen should cut her hair,” Pippa said as the girl’s footsteps faded. “Never met a boy who wore braids. Some have longish hair,
but not braids.”

“I’ll offer to do the honors, though I’m hesitant to deprive Helen of any manifestation of her femininity.”

Pippa took a set of folded towels to the cabinet along the wall. “You mean, you don’t want her to forget she’s a girl? Soon enough, her
body will remind her. She’s safer as a boy. I know what I’m speaking of, Mrs. B.”

Matilda knew as well, but then, she’d thought she’d known about being a wife, about being a debutante, about
teapots
…

Now she was dreaming of traveling to Scotland and telling herself that 344 days was nothing, if she was safely over the Border. Two clouds shadowed her
sunny musings, three, counting the thought of being so far away from Kitty.

The second problem was that Ashton Fenwick was a good man, and Matilda had not yet shared her past with him. Deception was a sure way to earn his disgust,
and yet, Matilda’s problems were not his to solve. Time could solve them, to some extent, and meddling in her affairs could get Ashton in significant
trouble.

The third problem had to do with Helen referring to Ashton as his lordship. Ashton was not a lord—what lord took up lodging on Pastry Lane for two
minutes, much less two weeks, or purchased a donkey for his temporary tiger?—but he was well connected, witness today’s call upon some Scottish
duke.

The polite world was tiny, with everybody living in everybody else’s pockets. Ashton knew at least one English earl and one duke. By the end of the
Season, he’d know everybody, and many of those people would recall the scandal that had befallen the Derrick family six years ago.

The prudent course would be to send Ashton on to the Albany with a fond kiss farewell.

Matilda wasn’t sure she could do that. Not now. Maybe not ever.

“You should sack Basingstoke,” Stephen announced, “or at least have the youngest one kept away from our affairs.”

Drexel made it a point to finish reading the newspaper’s latest tally of who’d arrived in Town before acknowledging his nephew. The hour
approached noon, which was early for Stephen to rouse from his slumbers.

“Good morning, Stephen. If you’d like to start the day with a bit of hair of the dog, help yourself to the brandy.”

The sideboard sported so many varieties of libation, it resembled a pipe organ of spirits. Very little of what was on display was good quality, but then,
Stephen’s tastes weren’t refined. His dear step-mama might have brought a bit of polish to the boy’s outlook, had circumstances been
different.

Stephen helped himself to enough hair of the dog to stuff a sofa cushion, then—in broad daylight, in the very library—wiped his mouth with his
sleeve.

“Better,” he said, leaving his dirty glass on the reading table. “Damon Basingstoke was impertinent to me. I asked him for a report
regarding his efforts to locate the family murderess, and he balked.”

Well, no, he hadn’t. Basingstoke had sent a note around confirming disbursement of fifty pounds to Stephen and relating Stephen’s insistence
that the search for his missing step-mama be intensified.

“The last course one follows with an impertinent solicitor is let him go, Stephen. Do please have a seat. Your perambulations will make me
bilious.”

Stephen cast himself into a chair opposite Drexel’s. Both were positioned by a window, the drapes pulled back to let in sunshine and reveal a view of
a tidy back garden. The morning light showed the resemblance between Stephen and his late father that would emerge as the years passed. For now, Stephen
was robust, golden-haired, and outgoing, but in another ten years, he’d have his father’s receding hair to go with the already evident receding
chin.

Also his father’s devotion to the bottle, alas. That took a toll on a man in many ways.

“One doesn’t tolerate disrespect,” Stephen retorted. “Basingstoke doesn’t know his place.”

“He’s the youngest son, probably the only one doing any real work at his papa’s firm, and his antecedents are irregular. What do you
think will happen if I let him go or complain to his elders about him?”

Stephen slouched against the cushions and stared at the ceiling. “We’ll hire somebody who will find the damned woman and put her on a convict
ship for the Antipodes. She’s an earl’s daughter and will never survive the voyage. Then I can have my money, you can have Kitty’s money,
and we can get the meddling fools from the Chancery court out of our hair.”