block out the light. On his next visit, he must remember to request a westward -facing room. He lifted the pillow just enough to speak and be heard. “Is James awake?”
“He is, Your Grace.”
With a heavy groan, Ashton threw the pillow aside and lifted himself up onto his elbows. The white sheets were tangled around his legs and a flash of color in his periphery drew his attention. A dark-red substance was smeared across the mattress. He squinted and drew his brows together. It looked curiously like dried blood. A quick assessment of his person revealed no open wounds, thank heaven. “What in the devil happened…?”
“I couldn’t begin to guess,” Owens replied in his usual monotone.
Ashton stared down at his ruined sheets. Perhaps it was Gwen’s time, and she’d been too overcome with lust to wait until her courses subsided. That must be it. Ashton smiled to himself. What other reason could there be?
The breakfast room was filled to the brim with guests, all mingling politely, taking their breakfast and talking about the tour around the lake that was planned for later that morning. As he moved to the buffet, a familiar voice rang out from across the room.
“There you are, old man. I was wondering when you’d finally show your face.” James Leventhorpe, his friend and host, was sitting at the breakfast table, a newspaper spread out in front of him.
“I was up late.” Ashton poured himself a cup of coffee. He sat in the empty chair beside James and lowered his voice to a conspiring whisper. “She came to me last night, and she was quite extraordinary.” Ashton winked and sat back in his chair, awaiting James’s gentlemanly praise.
“You couldn’t mean your pretty little widow.”
“The very one,” Ashton said.
James threw his head back and laughed.
“I fail to see what is so damn funny.”
“Gwendolyn isn’t here, old man. You’re getting your women mixed up, you fortunate bastard.”
Ashton lifted a questioning brow, which prompted James to elaborate. “Margaret received a letter from her this morning. She’s been delayed—her mother’s health or some such nonsense. She isn’t due to arrive until early this afternoon.”
No, that wasn’t possible. He’d ravaged the woman, for God’s sake. Clearly it was a misunderstanding. “Well, whatever that letter said, I’m certain it was her. She must have arrived earlier than expected.”
James shook his head. “Afraid not, ol’ chap. That one isn’t likely to escape anyone’s notice.”
Ashton had to concede to that fact. She wasn’t likely to slip past the servants or the other guests. But if she wasn’t here, then who had climbed into his bed?
Ashton narrowed his gaze on James. “Someone climbed into my bed last night, and when I awoke this morning there was blood on the sheets. If you’ve orchestrated this as a joke…”
James raised his hands in surrender, looking far too amused by all this. “I wouldn’t dream of risking my wife’s anger by causing discord among her guests. I swear it.”
And Ashton believed him, damn it. And besides James, there wasn’t anyone else present who’d play such a cruel joke. He could only conclude that the woman had purposefully placed herself in his bed.
Ashton reflected on the woman herself. Even in his brandy-induced haze, he remembered the heat of her breath on his skin, the sweet taste of her as he licked and savored those pert little breasts. He paused. Pert little breasts.
“Christ.”
“What is it?” James asked, taking a sip of his coffee.
How much should one reveal of one’s own stupidity? Ashton let out a sharp, aggravated breath.
“I’ve only just realized that the woman in my room last night had rather small breasts.” He remembered how perfectly her breasts fit in his palm, how splendid they felt brushing against his chest as he slid into her.
“Then we can safely rule out your widow. Aside from the fact that she isn’t present, her breasts aren’t
“He is, Your Grace.”
With a heavy groan, Ashton threw the pillow aside and lifted himself up onto his elbows. The white sheets were tangled around his legs and a flash of color in his periphery drew his attention. A dark-red substance was smeared across the mattress. He squinted and drew his brows together. It looked curiously like dried blood. A quick assessment of his person revealed no open wounds, thank heaven. “What in the devil happened…?”
“I couldn’t begin to guess,” Owens replied in his usual monotone.
Ashton stared down at his ruined sheets. Perhaps it was Gwen’s time, and she’d been too overcome with lust to wait until her courses subsided. That must be it. Ashton smiled to himself. What other reason could there be?
The breakfast room was filled to the brim with guests, all mingling politely, taking their breakfast and talking about the tour around the lake that was planned for later that morning. As he moved to the buffet, a familiar voice rang out from across the room.
“There you are, old man. I was wondering when you’d finally show your face.” James Leventhorpe, his friend and host, was sitting at the breakfast table, a newspaper spread out in front of him.
“I was up late.” Ashton poured himself a cup of coffee. He sat in the empty chair beside James and lowered his voice to a conspiring whisper. “She came to me last night, and she was quite extraordinary.” Ashton winked and sat back in his chair, awaiting James’s gentlemanly praise.
“You couldn’t mean your pretty little widow.”
“The very one,” Ashton said.
James threw his head back and laughed.
“I fail to see what is so damn funny.”
“Gwendolyn isn’t here, old man. You’re getting your women mixed up, you fortunate bastard.”
Ashton lifted a questioning brow, which prompted James to elaborate. “Margaret received a letter from her this morning. She’s been delayed—her mother’s health or some such nonsense. She isn’t due to arrive until early this afternoon.”
No, that wasn’t possible. He’d ravaged the woman, for God’s sake. Clearly it was a misunderstanding. “Well, whatever that letter said, I’m certain it was her. She must have arrived earlier than expected.”
James shook his head. “Afraid not, ol’ chap. That one isn’t likely to escape anyone’s notice.”
Ashton had to concede to that fact. She wasn’t likely to slip past the servants or the other guests. But if she wasn’t here, then who had climbed into his bed?
Ashton narrowed his gaze on James. “Someone climbed into my bed last night, and when I awoke this morning there was blood on the sheets. If you’ve orchestrated this as a joke…”
James raised his hands in surrender, looking far too amused by all this. “I wouldn’t dream of risking my wife’s anger by causing discord among her guests. I swear it.”
And Ashton believed him, damn it. And besides James, there wasn’t anyone else present who’d play such a cruel joke. He could only conclude that the woman had purposefully placed herself in his bed.
Ashton reflected on the woman herself. Even in his brandy-induced haze, he remembered the heat of her breath on his skin, the sweet taste of her as he licked and savored those pert little breasts. He paused. Pert little breasts.
“Christ.”
“What is it?” James asked, taking a sip of his coffee.
How much should one reveal of one’s own stupidity? Ashton let out a sharp, aggravated breath.
“I’ve only just realized that the woman in my room last night had rather small breasts.” He remembered how perfectly her breasts fit in his palm, how splendid they felt brushing against his chest as he slid into her.
“Then we can safely rule out your widow. Aside from the fact that she isn’t present, her breasts aren’t
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