Free Loving Lord Ash by Sally Mackenzie

over to the table. Fortunately, Kit followed her.
    She pushed aside her plate, pulled a sheet of paper and a pencil out of the case, and, as Kit looked over her shoulder, wrote: Jessica, Lady Ashton, swears that she is not with child, but if she were, that child is not her husband’s.
    “Will that do?”
    “And add that you swear not to engage in sexual congress with any other man during the months we are together.”
    She glared at him.
    Kit had the grace to blush. “If we should come to an agreement, I will still need to be certain our first two sons carry my blood. After that you may do as you please.” He cleared his throat. “You don’t have any reason to, er, think that you can’t have children, do you?”
    Idiot. “No. Do you have any reason to think you can’t?”
    His brows snapped down. “No.”
    “Fine. Here you go, then.” She further swears she will not allow any man into her bed —
    “You said you didn’t need a bed to cuckold me.”
    Oh, dear Lord, she had. Her lamentable temper.
    “So I must ask you to refrain from allowing any man but me access to your person.”
    Access to her person? She glanced up at Kit; he looked stiff and uncomfortable. She’d never fit into his orderly life, had she? He preferred things to be all straight lines and right angles where she was swirls and shades of colors. But she’d loved him anyway . . . or perhaps she loved him because he was so different from her. She’d always found him steadying. When she got caught up in her emotions, his was the calm voice of reason.
    Which had been why she’d so wanted to see him after Papa had died.
    “All right.” She changed it to any other man access to her person . “Does that suit?”
    “Yes, that will do. Now if you will just sign it, we can—”
    “Oh, no, I’m not finished yet.” This would never work if she were the only one making promises. She started writing again: I, Christopher, Marquis of Ashton, in consideration of my wife forsaking all others, swear that I will not— hmm, how to put it? Perhaps best to be as blunt as he had been— that I will not engage in sexual congress with any other woman.
    Kit made an odd, strangled sound.
    She put down her pencil. “It is only fair.”
    “The situations are not the same.”
    Of course they weren’t. She understood why he needed to know any child she might bear was his. If it were a boy, the baby would inherit the vast Greycliffe holdings someday. The poor mite. The nasty ton would likely look down their damn aristocratic noses at him for being the grandson of an Irish groom.
    Well, they would have her to contend with if they tried to do so . . . unless Kit exiled her to the manor again once she’d done her duty.
    Ha! If he tried to do that, he’d have quite a battle on his hands. She wasn’t going to desert her children.
    If she ever had any.
    “That is true, but I find I don’t care to be just another woman you spill your ducal seed into.”
    Which she wouldn’t be if she kept saying things like that. She must learn to control her tongue.
    Kit’s head jerked back. His mouth twisted in disgust, but his eyes had an odd, intent, almost hot gleam. “Ah, but my seed is only ducal when it’s spilled into you, isn’t it?” He looked away. “Or into my wife, whoever she should be.”
    She barely heard his qualification; she was too busy trying not to drown in the heat that suddenly flooded her. Oh, dear God. Her breasts felt swollen and sensitive, but worst, the place between her legs ached, throbbed—
    She was losing her mind.
    She hadn’t felt like this when she’d had her horrible encounter with Percy. Then she’d felt nothing but desperation, her heart numb from her father’s death and Kit’s absence. She’d been willing to do anything to guarantee she’d have a place to live and food to eat.
    And then she’d discovered Percy had never been offering marriage at all.
    “Very well,” Kit said. “I am willing to control my carnal urges if