Sattler, Veronica (44 page)

"Ashleigh,"
he said quietly. "Look at me."

There
was a flutter of the dusky eyelashes for several seconds before she raised eyes
that were pools of deep blue water.

But
in the next instant, when Brett lowered himself to sit on the bed, she closed
them while her hands again grabbed for the sheet.

"Ah-ah."
He grinned, shaking his head. Then, before she realized what was happening, he
reached for her, and she found herself sitting in his lap.

"Mmm,
that's better," he murmured against her hair.

"Oh,
but, Brett—" she protested.

"'But,
Brett,' what?" he questioned as his knuckles tipped her chin, forcing her
to look at him.

The
blush would not go away. It had been one thing, Ashleigh thought, to be caught
up in the throes of passion from his lovemaking last night, when it was dark,
but having to endure his physical contact with her nude body now, in full
daylight... well, it seemed even more intimate somehow, more invasive of her
person... especially since he was fully clothed. Also, she began to perceive an
unmistakable scent emanating from the bed where they had made love—and, yes,
from her own body.

"B-Brett,
I—well, it's just that I—you see, I've not yet bathed and—and there's a scent
about—"

She
broke off to the sound of her husband's delighted laughter.

Ashleigh's
flaring brows drew together in a frown. "I see nothing humorous in it! I
smell like—"

"Us?"
he questioned with a roguish grin. At her increasing blush, he laughed again,
softly. "Oh, sweetheart, you are a joy, I swear!" His eyes found hers
and he lowered his voice to a whisper. "Tell me, what is the source of
this latest blush? Does it come from remembering my touch on your pretty
nipples?"

"Brett!"
Ashleigh's face deepened to a beet red.

He
grinned at her with shameless delight. "Or does it come from recalling the
way your lovely thighs parted for my—"

"Brett!"
she choked. "I
beg
you..
. please!"

He
laughed softly while he reached to kiss the tip of her nose. "Please,
what?" He grinned, and he began to touch the parts of her flesh he'd
named; then Ashleigh moaned helplessly, and succumbed once again to the
passion....

* * * * *

Later,
a very long time later, Ashleigh lay beside her husband in a tangle of sheets
on the large bed, thinking. It was a lazy process, a product of the repletion
she felt in the aftermath of their lovemaking.

She
wondered if she looked as different this morning as she felt inside, for she
knew there had been a change. It was a change in the way she conceived of
herself; heretofore, at least in her adult life, she'd always assumed she was a
self-reliant person where her emotions were concerned; she took total
responsibility for her feelings, be they joy, anger, fear—whatever. But now she
realized something new was at work, and it had as much to do with the man lying
beside her as with herself.

In
the past twenty-four hours, Brett had played the chords of pleasure that
controlled her body, much as a master musician plies the strings of an
instrument to evoke sweet music. She'd had moments of soaring joy and rapture
she'd not have imagined herself capable of. What did it signify? What was it
about this discovery that now, as she thought about it, unnerved her and sent
her scurrying for solace?

She
was afraid she had the answer. By surrendering herself to him so completely, by
allowing him such total control over her body and then, more importantly, her
emotions, she feared she had surrendered her heart and soul as well: she feared
she loved him.

And
why was it fear that accompanied this devastating realization? Ah, that part
was very simple: She had every reason to doubt her love was returned. Oh, he'd
relished the way their bodies meshed, the hours of blinding passion they'd
shared; that much was clear. But never once, through the long night and into
this morning, had she had the sense that his deeper emotions were involved.
He'd made love again and again to her gladly awakened flesh, murmuring fond
words and endearments in the process, but never once had he spoken of love, not
once had his eyes conveyed aught but desire... or repletion. No... she was sure
of it: Brett Westmont's body had been completely hers last night; but his
heart, he held to himself.

What,
then, was she to do with her own newly budding emotions? How was she to live
with them, knowing they were not returned? Well, one thing was certain: She
would die before she let him see how she felt! She could well imagine the path
that would take; at best, he would come to pity her for her youthful
foolishness; at worst, he would come to despise her for it. Hadn't she seen the
way he'd treated Pamela Marlowe? And for her, it would go worse than for the
hapless Pamela; she was his wife and would not be free to seek a new love
elsewhere.

"A
penny for your thoughts, sweet," she heard Brett say as he turned on the
bed to look at her. He was holding her very close to him, but had raised his
head as he spoke, giving her the full benefit of that devastating turquoise
gaze.

Broken
from her reverie, Ashleigh flushed at his words....
Oh, no... never... not
for a million pennies!
she vowed silently. Casting about for a safe
response, her eyes fastened on a heavy gold chain he wore about his neck, and,
dangling from it, a small, oval, gold locket. The two pieces looked incongruous
together, with the chain so obviously a masculine adornment, the locket a
small, almost dainty piece beside it, and she realized it was something he'd
donned this morning, under his clothes; he hadn't worn it last night.

"I
was wondering..." she said, tentatively. "What is this locket and
chain you wear about your neck?"

Raising
himself up on one elbow, Brett was silent for a moment as he gave her an
inscrutable look. At last he heaved a sigh, saying, "I'd forgotten I'd put
it back in place." He reached for the chain and slid his fingers along it
until he was fingering the locket.

"I've
worn this piece for more than a dozen years." Flipping the locket over, he
revealed a miniature of a handsome man who looked much like Brett himself,
except that his eyes were more blue than turquoise, and his hair was black.
"My father, Edward Westmont," he said simply. "And, actually, if
you look closely, you'll note that this is really half a locket." He
indicated the tiny gold hinge to the left of the miniature. "The missing
half, I've never seen."

Ashleigh
nodded, but he saw her eyes were curious.

"I
came by it in an unusual way," he continued. "One night, not long
after I'd returned from a long sea voyage, I made ready to retire in my chamber
at the Hall and found the locket lying on my pillow. Of course, I recognized at
once whose picture it contained, but I had no idea who'd put it there—or why. I
thought of going to my grandfather with it, thinking perhaps, in a sentimental
moment, he'd decided to surprise me with it, but when I approached him the next
morning, he was in a fine fettle of rage over some parliamentary speech he'd
read about in the papers, calling the speaker a driveling sentimentalist. At
that instant I decided my grandfather could never have succumbed to an emotion
that would lead him to place this locket on my pillow."

Ashleigh
nodded. "So you said nothing to him of it."

"Correct,"
said Brett, "but for some reason I decided to indulge in one little act of
sentimentality myself: I bought a chain to hang it about my neck the very next
day, and have worn it ever since."

Ashleigh
gave him a rueful smile. "Except for last night."

Brett's
smile echoed hers. "Except for any night I thought... I might not be
alone." He was again silent for a moment, appearing to ponder what he'd
said. Then he looked at her with a tender smile. "Ashleigh, I know there
have been moments when... when I've not been easy with you, and I would have
you understand why this might sometimes be. Take last evening, for example,
when I cut you so readily with my damnable bad temper. You'll recall it was after
you'd questioned me, rather persistently, I might add—" he gave her a wry
smile "—on some things about my past, my... family."

"Brett...
I didn't mean to pry."

"No,
and I realize that now, Ashleigh. Besides, I don't think it could be called
prying for a wife to want to know about such things. And you
are
my wife
now, Ashleigh Westmont, as well as my duchess." He tapped a playful
forefinger on her nose. "Therefore," he continued, "I deem you
have a right to be privy to certain... information.

"Ashleigh,
there are certain things in my past that are not easy for me to dwell upon.
Foremost among these is the story of how I came to lose one of my parents at a
very tender age...."

He
told her then, of the painful and largely mysterious disappearance of his mother
when he was but a small boy, of the vagueness of the story he'd been given to
explain her disappearance and then of the total removal of evidence of her
existence from the Hall, and from his life. He spoke, too, of the unhappiness
he'd witnessed in his father during the years that followed, of his father's
second marriage and tragic death when he was ten.

Through
it all, Ashleigh listened, wide eyes filled with compassion as she imagined
what it must have been like to have been that boy, and the pain he must have
suffered. At the end she had to swallow past the lump that had formed in her
throat with the telling of his story. "Oh, Brett, I had no
idea....
Oh,
how
awful
for you!"

Brett's
eyes gazed past her, as if he were looking off into the distance, into another
time and place. "No, not awful, really... just... instructive."

At
her silence, he explained. "It taught me, among other things, to keep
silent about what I might be feeling, especially if the feelings involved pain.
It's evolved into a lifetime habit, and has stood me in good stead in many of
my dealings with men... and women." He reached out to run the front of his
crooked forefinger softly along her cheekbone and jaw.

"But
with you it must be different. Because you are my wife, because even now you
might be carrying our child...." His hand moved to lightly touch her bare,
flat belly, then back to cup her cheek. "Be patient with me, Ashleigh. God
knows, I'm not a patient man myself, but if you will try to show me some
forbearance, I might just be able to... to overcome this ingrained tendency to
want to shut you out.... Well, sweet, what do you say?"

Seeing
the momentary, naked look of pleading in his eyes, and knowing it to be foreign
to his nature, Ashleigh's heart swelled with a surge of joy... and hope. He
might not love her... now, but he had taken a very important step to drawing
closer to her by sharing with her this intimacy, and she would not abuse his
trust.

"Oh,
Brett!" she cried, throwing her arms about his neck. "I'm going to
try! I'm going to try so very hard!"

Brett
let out a gust of shaky laughter. "Well done, Your Grace. Well done,
indeed, for that is all I ask."

As
he held her in his arms, Brett's turbulent thoughts spun erratically. Perhaps
he'd been wrong. Perhaps she would prove to be a woman he could place his faith
in. Perhaps....

But
deep inside, a skeptical voice warned,
Beware. Nothing lasts forever....
Life is, at best, a tenuous gamble... and woman is the ever-changing, wildest
card of all....

* * * * *

A
short while later, when Ashleigh had just finished her bath and toilette and
stood before a large cheval glass wearing a new, sky-blue riding ensemble, she
heard the sound of horses on the drive outside.

"That's
probably Old Henry with our mounts," called Brett from the top of the
stairs where he held a pair of buckets containing her now cool bathwater—to
Ashleigh's astonished delight, he'd actually drawn, and heated and carried this
bathwater upstairs for her, enough to fill a lovely rose-and-cream enameled hip
bath in the dressing room! "Join us down below when you're ready."

A
few moments later he met her at the bottom of the stairs. "There's a small
problem. It seems Irish Night's thrown a shoe. The farrier's with her now, but
it will take another half hour or so until she's ready to ride."

"Oh,"
said Ashleigh. "Well, then, I can wait here for them to bring her
over."

"Would
you mind, sweet?" asked Brett as his eyes roamed appreciatively over her
slim, fashionably attired figure. Then he reached out impulsively to place a
soft kiss at her ear. "You're lovely," he whispered.

Ashleigh
felt a thrill ripple the length of her spine, and it took her a moment to
respond to his initial comment. "No, of course I wouldn't mind. You'll be
riding back now, then?"

"I'm
afraid I must," he replied, indicating a folded sheet of paper he held at
his side. "I've just been handed a letter from Whitehall. I'm being
summoned back to London and I'll need to speak with Higgins about preparing for
the trip."