The Naked Prince (10 page)

He teased her nipple, making her body hum again in anticipation. “Apparently it's not how it's done, it's with whom it's done that's important. Love is far stronger than lust.” He closed his eyes again.

“I'll wager it will be even better next time now that I know what happens.”

“Mmm.”

She looked up at the bed canopy and tried to determine whether she felt different. Well, of course she felt different—she'd never been so sore
there
—but did she feel
different?
“Do you think we made a baby?”

“Mmm.”

“Are you going to sleep?”

He opened one eye again. “I am trying to.”

“I'm not sleepy.”

“That's clear.”

How could he even consider sleep? Her thoughts were darting around like dragonflies on a pond. “When can we do it again?”

“Insatiable, are you?”

“Yes.”

He laughed. “Later. You are probably sore now, aren't you?”

“Y-yes, a little.” A lot, really.

He stroked his hand over her belly. “If you're looking for something to do, I brought the Ovid up. It's on the night table.”

“Really?” She leaned over him to look at the volume. It was indeed very red, battered, and dingy. “It's rather unimpressive.”

“Yes.” Damian stroked her breasts as they dangled over his chest. His thumb found one of her nipples and rubbed it. “You know, I'm suddenly feeling more energetic. Perhaps we should read it together. I might even demonstrate a few verses.”

“But I thought you said I was too sore.”

“For some things.” He kissed her nipple. “But not for other things.”

“Other things?” This sounded interesting. “There are other things?”

“Of course. You know your conjugations. There are many forms of the verb ‘to love.'”

“Oh.” She grinned at him. “I think you will find me an eager student.”

“Splendid!”

And he proceeded to give her a very illuminating lesson indeed.

If you enjoyed
The Naked Prince
,
don't miss the next book in Sally MacKenzie's delightful
Duchess of Love series,

 

 

a Zebra eBook and mass-market paperback
on sale in March 2014!

 

—Venus's Love Notes

 

 

The March wind stung his face, but the Marquis of Ashton, heir to the Duke of Greycliffe, still paused when he rounded the curve in the drive that led to Blackweith Manor.

Zeus, he loved this house, especially with the late afternoon sun limning its classical facade. It was so orderly and controlled. No one could look at it and not feel calm—

The image of Jess's milky white thighs—and Percy's naked arse between them—shoved to the front of his thoughts. Again. He'd been battling the memory every minute of every hour on this blasted journey.

He shifted on his horse, making the animal toss its head. The jangling of its bridle sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet.

There was nothing calm or controlled about the place. It was a wasp's nest—smooth and beautiful on the outside, but a mass of stinging, painful chaos on the inside. He should go back to Greycliffe Castle. A wise man didn't poke a wasp's nest. He'd left this problem alone for eight years; why couldn't he leave it for another eight?

His fingers tightened on the reins. Because he needed an heir, of course. He'd just turned thirty; Jess was twenty-eight. It was past time to set up his nursery. Running back to the castle would not give him a son to carry on the title.

He nudged his horse forward. Hell, he couldn't run back even if he wanted to. He'd never had such a cursed journey. What with the snow and the mud and the washed-out bridges—not to mention his horse coming up lame, forcing him to hire this slug he was currently riding—a trip that should have taken two days had stretched to over a month. Even the few interesting buildings he'd seen along the way hadn't made up for the slow pace and maddening detours.

Well, he was here now. Surely he and Jess could come to some agreement. He was only asking for a couple years of her life. Once she gave him his heir and his spare, she could go back to doing as she pleased. It was a very common arrangement among the ton.

A cloud drifted in front of the sun, bringing a chill to the air, turning the manor's warm stone dark and forbidding. His stomach tightened with each step the bloody horse took up the drive.

His brother Jack had said the London idiots were taking bets on what he would do about his union with Jess. It was a particularly delightful situation for the gossips because Mama was the Duchess of Love, the ton's premier matchmaker and the author of
Venus's Love Notes,
mortifying leaflets of marital advice. How ironic that her oldest son had made such a damnable muddle of his marriage.

Yet everyone but his mother knew love didn't last....

Love.
He scowled at his horse's ears. If he didn't feel this wretched, stupid love for Jess, everything would be much simpler. He wouldn't have married her in the first place, or he would have had a calm discussion with her about her duty as soon as they'd left the church. But he
did
love her. He loved her—and he hated her, too.

He was such a bloody fool. He had no one to blame for this mess but himself.

He stopped at the front of the manor and waited. When no one came to take his horse, he dismounted.

The horse stomped its front hoof and gave him a nasty look.

“Don't complain. I'll grant you this is irregular, but I'm sure someone will come out and take you to the stables shortly. It's not as if you exerted yourself. A slower hack would be hard to find in all of England.”

The animal snorted and tossed its head, but it couldn't dispute the truth of the matter.

Ash shifted his shoulders, trying to ease the kinks out of his back. God, every one of his muscles ached. If only Inigo hadn't pulled up lame—

No, it was just as well. If he was going to bring Jess back to the castle, he'd have to take a carriage, and this way he wouldn't be tempted to ride instead of sitting inside with her. He didn't want to spend one more moment astride this bag of bones.

The horse found a few blades of grass to nibble, so Ash was confident the animal would stay put for the time being. He climbed the stairs to bang on the front door.

Nothing happened.

He scowled. The servants either did not expect visitors or the butler was deaf. Well, he would have a word with Walker, the estate manager, after he spoke to Jess. If he remembered correctly, he was paying for a full staff. He expected anyone working for him to be competent.

He tried the latch; the door opened easily. Good God! This was the country, but even so, leaving the door unlocked and unattended was not wise. Perhaps he'd have to make a list of things to discuss with Walker.

Sadly, this was what happened when one didn't visit one's estate regularly. He stepped over the threshold.

“Hallo! Is anyone here?”

He heard an odd sort of yelp and some scuffling, and then a large man hurried out from the back of the house, tucking in his shirttail and fastening his fall as he came.

He stopped when he saw Ash, his hands still on his buttons. A slow grin spread across his face. “We-ell, who do we have here?” His eyes swept Ash from his boots to his head and back.

Was the fellow drunk? “Ashton. I've come to see my wife.”

“W-what?” The man's jaw dropped.

He must be a half-wit. It would be just like Jess to insist Walker take on a man who wasn't employable elsewhere. She might lift her skirt for anything in breeches, but she did sincerely care about the less fortunate. Perhaps it was the artist in her; she saw people who were invisible to most everyone else. But she also gave little thought to her own safety. She'd very likely never considered how she'd be at this fellow's mercy if he became violent.

Once they came to an agreement about their marriage, he would have to discuss that with her. Perhaps the man could be moved to the fields. At least then he wouldn't have the run of the house.

“I'm Lord Ashton.” Ash spoke slowly and distinctly so the fellow could comprehend. “I'm here to see Lady Ashton. Your mistress.”

The man's brows snapped down, and he snorted. “And I'm Prinny himself. You'll have to try harder than that to fool me, my fine fellow. Anyone will tell you Lord Ashton never comes to Blackweith Manor.” The butler, or whatever he was, stepped forward to grab the door. “Now turn yourself around and be off, or I'll help you on your way with my boot.”

“I am not going anywhere.” Ash stood his ground and glared. Good God. He'd never expected to have to prove his identity.

“Who is it, Charlie?” Another man, also fiddling with his fall, came up behind the first.

Charlie sniffed. “Some scoundrel who says he's Lord Ashton, Ralph.” He glanced out the door at the broken-down nag and curled his lip. “I don't know what your game is, sirrah, but you won't cozen Charlie Lundquist.”

Ash clenched his fists, struggling to keep a hold on his temper. This was ridiculous. “I don't
say
I'm Lord Ashton, I
am
the marquis, and if you don't move aside at once, Charlie Lundquist, you will find yourself on your arse next to that poor hack.”

Charlie was not easily cowed. “Brave words. Now let's see you try—”

“Charlie.” Ralph had been studying Ash. Now his eyes widened, and he grabbed Charlie's arm.

“Let go.” Charlie tried to shake him off, but Ralph hung on.

“Charlie,” he hissed, “he does look bloody like the painting in the library.”

Charlie paused and examined Ash more closely. “I . . .”

“And look at his clothes. They're muddy, but they're quality.”

Charlie's eyes narrowed. “But the marquis never visits.”

“He has now,” Ash said. “And I will tell you that you and Mr. Walker will be looking for new positions if this is how matters are handled at Blackweith Manor.” He took a savage sort of satisfaction when Lundquist paled at his use of the estate manager's name. “Now take me to my wife.”

“Ahh.” Charlie looked at Ralph, and then they both looked up the stairs. They turned back with identical expressions of horror.

“Please forgive me, milord,” Charlie said, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopping his brow. “If you will just come along to the parlor, you can be comfortable while Ralph tells Lady Ashton you're here.”

Any fool could see they were trying to hide something from him. “I do not wish to go to the parlor; I wish to see my wife.”

“Yes, of course, milord. It's just that Lady Ashton is a little busy at the moment.” Charlie nudged Ralph toward the staircase. “I'm sure—”

Bloody hell!
He could guess what Jess was busy with. He lunged forward and grabbed Ralph's arm before the man could escape. “On second thought, I shall announce myself. You may attend to my horse.”

Ralph stared at Ash's hand as if it belonged to Death.

“But, milord,” Charlie sputtered, “please. You will truly be much more comfortable in the parlor while Ralph fetches Lady Ashton.” He smiled nervously. “I'll bring you a nice bottle of brandy.”

“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.

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.