Loving Lord Ash by Sally Mackenzie Page A

you, wasn’t I?”
    Her eyes widened as if she was surprised he remembered. Of course he did. How could he not? He’d been sitting by the river, sketching, when a girl he’d never seen before had come running over the grass.
    Everyone else, even his family, treated him with a certain amount of deference due his rank, but not this girl. He was mildly insulted and intrigued.
    And annoyed. She’d scared away his heron.
    She’d stopped by his side and stared at his drawing. And then she’d looked directly into his eyes.
    He’d felt as if he’d taken a punch to the gut. Her eyes—a violet shade he’d never seen before—were full of intelligence and wonder. It felt silly to think it, but she’d seemed to vibrate with life, and all her attention and energy had been focused completely on him.
    He was used to people pretending an interest in his drawings. Well, not pretending exactly. His parents, his brothers, the vicar, Cicely and Ellie and even Percy acknowledged he could draw, and his parents were clearly proud of his talent. But none of them really understood. They didn’t feel the passion—the magic—of capturing angle and light and shade, of making a scene with volume and depth appear on a flat, blank paper.
    Jess understood, and she’d wanted him to teach her how to do it right then.
    He pulled his shirt on over his head. The times they’d spent drawing and painting together in the cottage were some of his fondest memories. Or had been. Seeing her there with Percy had rather soured things.
    Jess shrugged. “I suppose I do have the straight lines you favor in your architectural designs, don’t I?”
    He picked up his cravat and tied it. Was she serious? She wasn’t buxom, true. In fact, many would call her thin—and her outdated frock certainly didn’t help matters—but he’d had his fingers on her soft breast and slender waist and swelling hip.
    “I believe I discovered last night that you have delightful curves, my dear marchioness.”
    “Oh.”
    Now he’d managed to get her to blush. He walked closer. He felt different, more . . . alive. The stuffy old Marquis of Ashton had given way to Kit, a man unencumbered by title and expectations. “So will you pose for me?”
    She backed up a step and bumped into the bed. “If you wish.”
    He grasped the bedpost and leaned in so he had her trapped.
    “Dressed only in your lovely long, dark hair.” He wished she wasn’t wearing her damn bonnet.
    “I have never posed before,” she said. Her voice sounded a bit breathless.
    “Nor have I.”
    “You will be drawing, remember. You won’t be able to”—she frowned at him—“you won’t want to do anything else.”
    “No?” Oh, he would definitely want to do something else. It was true an artist saw his subject differently, with his eyes more than with his heart, but he didn’t plan to draw Jess until he could see her as his wife. As his lover. “Perhaps you are right. So do we have an agreement?”
    “Yes.” She extended her hand.
    He took it, but he used it to pull her toward him. He intended to seal this bargain with a kiss. He had to dip his head to avoid her blasted bonnet, but he managed to find her mouth and brush her lips with his.
    He felt the contact like lightning flashing through him to lodge in his heart . . . and another prominent organ. He heard her quick intake of breath—or maybe it was his breath he heard—and leaned forward to take a deeper taste....
    And then her damn dog barked.
    “Oh!” She jerked back out of reach. “What is it, Kit?”
    He would tell her. He—
    Blast it, she was talking to the dog. It had got up and was now whining, its nose against the door.
    “Oh, you poor thing.” She slipped around him to go to her pet. “You need to go outside, don’t you?”
     
     
    Jess slid to the far side of the wagon’s seat, putting as much space as possible between her and Kit, as her dog stretched out among their valises in the back. Kit didn’t appear to notice;