Chapter Six
Early the nextmorning, Ash braved the stinging December chill to go riding with Gill and Viscount Aylesford. They made a grim trio, guiding their mounts over the snow-covered field in mutual silence. His brother was always quiet. Aylesford seemed to be vexed over something, his countenance as harsh as a summer thundercloud.
For his part, Ash was struggling to make sense of his problem.
The problem which was growing exponentially larger by the day, by the hour, by the bloody minute. The problem was not just the ordinary variety any longer. It was all-consuming, taking over Ash’s every thought like an invading army commanded to wage war. The problem was getting stronger and more unavoidable.
It was also damned stupid.
As the product of a loveless union between a heartless scoundrel and a frivolous woman who had paid more attention to her endless string of lovers than she ever had to her sons, Ash had vowed to never seek out the infernal institution of matrimony. As the spare, he had no need to, after all. He had the luxury of choosing his bed partners, of avoiding the parson’s mousetrap, of never needing to wed at all.
Instead, he was free to spend his days in pursuit of diversion and anything in skirts. His life was his own. He was happy and complete with having no greater responsibility than finding his next bed partner. The small annual income he received—which had been out of his wastrel sire’s reach, thankfully—was enough. He needed nothing more.
Until he had first clashed wits with Pru.
And then, all the ways he had squandered his days previously—drinking, gaming, racing horses, and devoting himself to all manner of gentlemanly sport—no longer appealed. All those things which had once sustained him now felt remarkably hollow. Unsatisfying, even.
It was a hell of a realization.
A terrifying one, in fact. Bloody confusing as well. Particularly since the lady around which his problem revolved was the same lady he was meant to be assisting his brother in wooing. He was wooing her, indeed.
But he was wooing her for himself.
“Fucking legend,” Aylesford muttered suddenly, cutting through the mutual silence and Ash’s miserable thoughts both.
Ash’s gaze swung to the viscount, certain he had misheard. “What was that, Aylesford? Did you just sayfucking legend?”
“He did,” Gill said.
A vengeful gust of icy winter’s wind blasted them, nearly making off with Aylesford’s hat. He clamped a hand down on the brim, holding on to the reins with the other.
“I saidyouare a fucking legend,” he told Ash, unblinking.
Ash did not know precisely what Aylesford meant by his quip. He did not know the viscount terribly well beyond the bounds of this house party, though they did travel in the same circles. Aylesford himself was a notorious rakehell, so for all Ash knew, it was perfectly ordinary for him to congratulate another gentleman upon his bedchamber conquests.
If that was indeed what Aylesford was implying.
“Ah, but am I afuckinglegend or a fuckinglegend?” he returned wryly, grinning. “That is the question.”
“Is it true that you tupped an opera singer, an actress, and a nun all at once?” Aylesford asked, giving voice to the old rumor that had been plaguing Ash for years.
In his youth, he had considered the rumor a badge of honor. Now, it rather felt like a hollow victory. He had been a scandalous rakehell when he had been a stripling, but he had tamed his wilder ways in recent years. Some of the memories were fonder than others…
“Not true at all,” he explained, desperate for any dialogue so long as it struck thoughts of Pru from his mind. “The actress in question had been playing the role of a nun in her latest play. The opera singer did not resemble a nun in the slightest.”
“Ash,” chided Coventry. “We discussed this.”
Yes, of course they had. Gill did not want Ash’s reputation—and his well-known sins—to have a negative impact upon his brother’s ability to gain a bride. Ironically enough, Gill had far more to worry about in the present than he had in the past.
Much to Ash’s everlasting shame.
“Ah, how could I forget?” Ash could not resist casting a derisive glance toward his brother. “I am to hide my past lest it muddy the waters for brother dearest as he attempts to find himself a bride. Familial obligations and all that rot.”
“Bugbears,” Gill told him. “I am yours. You are mine.”
“Bugbears indeed,” Aylesford grumbled.
A man such as he undoubtedly had more than a few of his own.
