Lady Anne's Lover (The London List)

by Maggie Robinson

  “I don’t suppose you could play valet? I can’t seem to get my tie right.” His eyes lifted from the page and lit. “Why, Mrs. Mont—Annie—you are a vision.”

  Her gaze dropped at the strength of that blue stare. His eyes really were extraordinary. “There’s no need to flatter me.”

  “I disagree. If I’m to be your affianced husband, I need to be convincingly smitten.”

  Anne pulled the sewing basket from the shelf. “No, you don’t. Your neighbors already know that I’m your housekeeper. They will simply think I trapped you in some way. Go fetch your coat.”

  “A honeyed trap indeed,” he said, his lips quirking. He disappeared down the hallway and Anne sank into the rocking chair by the hearth. The threads were a tangle, the needles rusty in their paper packet. Cecily had not been as vigilant with the mending as she had with the pantry.

  Gareth returned holding a jacket of dark blue superfine. It was shiny at the elbows and seams. “I’ve nothing better save my uniform, and I’m not going to peacock about in that. When I sold out last year I was relieved I wouldn’t have to wear it.”

  “Where were you serving?”

  “In India, until my father’s letters became desperate. By the time I got back, he was in way over his head. I should have come home after Waterloo. There might have been a chance to set Ripton Hall to rights if I had.”

  That explained the faintly golden skin in the middle of a Welsh winter, and why he was in such desperate financial straits now. Things had been left too long.

  “I was home for just three months before I had my accident,” he continued. “Ironic, isn’t it? All the French bayonets and native uprisings didn’t make a dent in my armor, but I was defeated by leaky thatch.”

  He didn’t sound as bitter as he had earlier. But in the short time he’d been home, his life had been completely up-ended. His career gone. His love, too. Anne needed to ask him about Bronwen, but would not do so now. She licked a length of navy blue thread and passed it through the needle’s eye. “Give me the jacket, please.”

  Her fingers were clumsy and the needle too blunt to poke through the thick wool easily.

  “Here.” Gareth rummaged through the basket and handed her a tarnished thimble. It helped some. She would never be an expert needlewoman—she suspected she’d never be an expert on anything domestic no matter how hard she studied Mrs. Smith’s book.

  She tied the knot and bit off the end of the thread. “What were you reading?”

  “ ‘An Excellent Way of Washing to Save Soap and Whiten Cloaths.’ I will need all the help I can get now that you’ve deputized me to do the laundry. This is the most interesting book.”

  How very strange it was for them to be sitting in the warm kitchen together talking of household chores. On their way to visit a parson. Anne watched as Gareth shrugged into his coat. “May I fasten your sleeve?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  She was nearer to him now than she’d ever been, folding up the cuff to his elbow and securing it with several bent pins. Perhaps when they were done with Mr. Morgan she’d purchase a fresh set of pins at the little shop and announce their intentions to the world.

  In a month’s time she would be a married woman. What the future held after that, she didn’t dare to think upon.

  He looked down on her, his eyes dark. “A kiss for good luck, Annie?”

  A kiss. He smelled of mint and lime, his dark hair clean and brushed back from his intelligent forehead. He was so very, very handsome, though there was pain still etched in the lines of his face. Anne realized he was as uncertain as she was that this mad scheme might work.

  If it did, he would have his home. She would be safe from her father.

  But not, perhaps, from Major Ripton-Jones.

  She closed her eyes and pursed her lips, expecting a quick peck. That was not what she received.

  At first his lips brushed hers so gently she though he was done. Her lashes fluttered open but he was still there, nose to nose with her, his own eyes shut, his brows knit. Anne felt the incremental pressure and his warmth. She trembled and felt his hand steady her shoulder. His mouth was still closed, as was hers, but she swore she tasted something even though her tongue was firmly behind her top teeth. Something dark yet delicious, like Portugal Cake. There had been no plums at breakfast—and she couldn’t bake anyway, she thought stupidly. The man tasted sweet and smelled better, and she lifted her head the better to rise toward him.

  She would have to stand on a box if they did this often standing up—he was much too tall for her. Anne needed to take a breath to fill her suddenly constricted lungs—she felt light-headed. Instead of using the perfectly good nostrils God gave her somehow her lips parted for air, and that was all Major Ripton-Jones needed.

  She had inadvertently invited him in, but he was still polite, his tongue hesitant, respectful. Anne had never been kissed like this by any of the men she’d used to toss her honor away. Major Ripton-Jones would not want to kiss her if he knew about them. Even if she never spoke of her father, her reputation was ruined—she’d eloped, committed theft and mischief, done everything she could possibly think of to shake herself loose from the paternal bondage. If she somehow helped the major prove his innocence, he’d still be a laughingstock for marrying her. How could she help him improve his standing in the community if people learned she was Imaculata Egremont? Everyone thought the worst of her, and rightfully so.

  All the more reason for her to leave him once they were married. People would understand he’d been tricked. He’d have his money and she’d have her freedom.

  And memories of his kisses. She might not sleep with him, but impulsively decided to let him kiss her all he wanted.

  It was very—pleasant. He dipped in, exploring, his breath hitching, his tongue hot and sweet. Plums again. How foolish. She could do nothing but meet his tongue with the tip of hers, and then it was he whose hand trembled against her shoulder.

  His tongue was masterful, expertly curling hers up in exquisite capture. Anne didn’t want to escape. She stood on tiptoe as he deepened contact, pressed harder, thoroughly consuming her lick by lick. Blood roared in her ears and she felt the green hat tip as he moved up to tangle in her hair. His thumb traced her cheekbone as his fingers held her still.

  Not that she’d ever run away. Couldn’t. Her booted toes were rooted to the floor, her legs quite useless, her heart skipping. She clung to his untied neckcloth as he covered her mouth, nibbling, sweeping hot muscle to soft skin. Something clenched within her, dark and impatient.

  Anne knew where kissing led, why her insides were twisting in unfamiliar desire. This kiss wouldn’t do at all. It was too much.

  It wasn’t enough.

  The neckcloth jerked in her hand and she pushed Gareth away.

  “Too much l-luck,” she stammered.

  His looked down at her, the knowledge of his conquest plain on his smiling face. “One can never have too much luck, Annie.”

  “Be quiet and let me do up your tie.”

  Her hands shook. She had no idea what she was doing, having untied a neckcloth or two in her time rather than tied one. Gareth’s would not resemble any of the useless foppish men she’d found and played with to make her father angry. His clothing was too severe, his buttons brass instead of gold or silver, his hair not clipped a la Brutus. Anne stifled the urge to brush it behind his ears, then wondered how ridiculous she looked in her crooked hat and own untidy hair.

  His fingertips on her scalp—she shivered as she recalled each warm point of contact. He’d cradled her head so gently she could have stayed in his grip forever.

  She stepped back, wobbling a little from removing herself from his orbit. He was a drunkard, she reminded herself. Weak. “That will have to do.”

  “My turn.” Pulling the strings from the bonnet, he tucked her errant curls back under her hairpins, then set the hat back. “You’ll have to fasten it again yourself. Bowknots are the very devil.”

&n
bsp; How difficult the simplest things must be for him. “Thank you.”

  He looked her over critically. “Ian should be charmed. He has an eye for a pretty woman.”

  “A minister?” she asked, skeptical.

  He nodded with no trace of a smile. “He was Bronwen’s lover. No one knows that save I. So I think we just might be able to make him do our bidding.”

  CHAPTER 7

  That was the answer. Maybe Mr. Morgan was responsible for Bronwen’s death. However, she couldn’t very well accuse the man when she was begging for a favor. Anne trooped out after Gareth through the fog to the stable. Old Martin helped her onto the back of a stolid-looking animal, and Gareth hauled himself up on the livelier mount.

  It was not an auspicious day for riding, though she was grateful she wouldn’t have to slog her borrowed skirts through the mud and wet down to the village. Gareth offered no further conversation as he rode on the narrow lane beside her, keeping his horse in check with a determined hand. The distant mountains were dark smudges against the gray sky, the soft ground littered with shards of ice. She cheered to see smoke from the chimneys of the scattered houses of Llanwyr once they turned onto the main road.

  “How many people live in the area?” she called over the biting wind. The fog was now slanting sideways, changing into sleet.

  “Less than two hundred. Six or so families live on what’s left of Ripton lands. Morgan travels the circuit to neighboring villages, but he lives here. He preached yesterday and so should still be home.”

  They passed a plain stone building set back in a field, its graveyard the only hint of its purpose. “Is that his church?” Anne asked, surprised. “It looks like a barn.”

  “It was once, believe it or not. A secret meeting place a hundred and fifty years ago. Some say Cromwell once visited. We Welsh are a practical lot for all our religious fervor. Why waste a good solid building? There were many such places all around the countryside here, although some have fallen into disuse now that the Puritan fever has cooled. You have to ride into Hay for a proper Anglican church. But at least we have no Jumpers here.”

  “What are Jumpers?”

  “Oh, they’re a sight to behold. They, well, the congregants jump during service. And sing and shout and clap and stamp their feet. They think it brings them closer to God.”

  How very extraordinary. Anne could remember many a governess pinching her black and blue to make her sit absolutely still in church. She might have been a happier little girl in a Welsh Nonconformist church.

  They continued on the road until they got to what passed for the high street in Llanwyr, stopping in front of a double cottage hard by the edge of the road. Both doors were painted bright green, a welcome splash of color on this cheerless day.

  “We’ll see if he’s in. I don’t think anyone hereabouts is at death’s door waiting for a pastoral visit, so the chances are good.” Gareth dismounted and knocked on the left side of the building. Anne waited, her nervousness becoming more pronounced for every minute Gareth stood shifting his feet on the step.

  A lace curtain twitched, then pulled back. The man who stared at her from behind the window could have been Gareth’s twin, dark, lanky, with the same piercing blue eyes. Anne found she couldn’t stare back.

  The door opened. “What do you want?”

  No greeting, just hostility dripping from each word.

  “We need to speak to you, Ian. Mrs. Mont and I have something important to discuss. We won’t take up much of your time.”

  Ian Morgan looked at her, nodded, then turned back into his house. Gareth tied the horses to a post and put his arm around her waist. “I can get you down, but you might have to sweet-talk Ian to get you back up.”

  Ian didn’t look like anyone could sweet-talk him into anything. “He could be your brother!”

  Gareth shrugged. “A cousin only.”

  “The family resemblance is striking.”

  “We are nothing alike, believe me.”

  “Except for your taste in women,” she muttered.

  “Oh, everyone wanted Bronwen, Annie. Even wrinkled old Martin, I expect.” He held out his elbow. “Into the fire and brimstone, Mrs. Mont. Are you ready?”

  The narrow hallway opened up immediately to the parlor. Ian Morgan was seated on a hardback chair in front of a fitful fire and didn’t rise at their entrance. He pointed to two equally uncomfortable-looking chairs opposite him. There was no upholstered furniture of any kind, not even a footstool, no decorations on the wall, no knickknacks on the mantel or tables. The lace curtain on the window seemed luxuriously out of place. Here was a man who took his abstinence from worldly comfort very seriously. “Sit and tell me why you dare disturb my morning.”

  Gareth obliged, his long legs relaxed before him. “I believe it’s almost afternoon, coz, and we shan’t disturb you for long. Mrs. Mont and I intend to marry. We’d like you to call the banns.”

  “What?”

  “It’s time I married, don’t you think? Better to marry than to burn, as someone or other says in the Bible. Mrs. Mont has agreed to be my wife.”

  “She hasn’t even been here a week!” The minister turned to Anne. “Has he forced himself upon you? It’s a scandal that the two of you have been up there without a chaperone. Everyone is talking.”

  “No! Of course not. Gareth and I have decided we suit.” Anne gave what she hoped was a confident smile, but Morgan’s burning glare was hard to withstand. If she were a member of his congregation, she’d be frightened out of her wits every Sunday and the rest of the week besides.

  Morgan turned his glare on the major. “A housekeeper, Gareth? That’s a new low, even for you.”

  The judgmental bastard. “About that,” Anne said, trying to appear unruffled at his insult. What kind of clergyman was he if he had no heart for the poor? ‘And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done unto me.’ “Gareth, will you excuse us for a few minutes? I have something to speak to Mr. Morgan about.”

  “I wish you’d let me stay, darling,” Gareth said with a wink.

  Anne had no idea he could be so playful. Charming. It quite transformed him.

  “You promised.”

  Gareth rose. “I did, didn’t I? A gentleman keeps his promises, even if my cousin doesn’t think I’m much of one. I’ll wait at the inn. Will you be done in half an hour?”

  “You promised about that, too,” Anne said, her voice edgy. She didn’t want to haul an inebriated Gareth out of the inn.

  “So I did. But a cup of Mrs. Chapman’s hot rum punch won’t harm me. You can join me for one for the ride home. Look outside. It’s snowing.”

  Fat flakes swirled beyond the lace. Anne was cold now, even sitting before the fire. The ride home would not be pleasant, particularly if she could not get Ian Morgan to agree to her scheme.

  “I’ll take the horses with me. Cousin, may I depend upon you to escort my fiancée to the Silver Pony? You may of course join us for a bowl. Family unity and all that to celebrate the New Year.”

  Morgan looked appalled. What a stick he was.

  “I do not consume spirits, as well you know, Gareth. I am not you.”

  “I’m not sure I’m me either. Annie has set out to reform me.”

  Morgan sniffed but said nothing else.

  Gareth put on his hat. “Cousin, I trust everything Annie says to you will be held in the strictest confidence, and I also trust you will be amenable to her proposal. Your spotless reputation depends upon it.”

  Morgan shot out of his chair. “Are you threatening me?”

  “I believe I am. Good luck, Annie.” Gareth gave her another wink and was gone.

  Morgan remained standing, bristling in indignation, his fists clenched.

  “Surely it’s not sporting to want to hit a one-armed man? Aren’t you supposed to turn the other cheek?”

  “I’ll not have you lecture me on my Christ
ian duty, Mrs. Mont.”

  “I should never be so impertinent, Mr. Morgan. After all, I’m only a housekeeper.”

  He seemed to really see her for the first time, taking in the damp velvet bonnet and woolen riding habit. “Those are my late aunt’s garments.”

  “Yes, they are. I was obliged to leave London on very short notice and left most of my things behind.”

  He sat down again and sighed. “Knowing Gareth, I’m sure there’s some scandal attached. Are you a prostitute?”

  Anne counted to ten to keep her temper. She was rather proud of her temper, a ferocious thing when necessary. It had garnered her plenty of attention in the past, but it was best kept squelched today. “I am not a whore, although you are correct in thinking my reputation is tarnished. I am Lady Imaculata Anne Egremont.”

  His face was blank. “I have not heard of you.”

  “You must be the only man in the British Isles who hasn’t. Don’t you ever read The London List?”

  His lip curled. “That scandal sheet. Of course not.”

  “Well if you had, we could get through this conversation much more quickly. You’d be shot of me, which is clear you’d like nothing better. My name is a bit of a byword for bad behavior, I’m afraid. For the past two years, I’ve done nothing but try to enrage my father.”

  “Why is that?”

  She steeled herself and said what she’d practiced. “Because he touched me in places I did not want to be touched, Mr. Morgan.”

  He’d looked appalled before, but evidently there were degrees. He was as pale now as the whitewashed rooms in his neat cottage. “Does my cousin know?”

  “He does not. I—I can’t tell him. Not yet. I will before we marry—it seems necessary to be honest with him.” It would go a ways to explain why she couldn’t ever bed him.

  “What would you have me do that Gareth threatens blackmail?”

  “I took a false name when I took the job. My father is an earl, Mr. Morgan. He has a great deal of influence and will do everything in his power to get me back. If you call the banns and use my name, he’ll find me, I know it. I’m sure he’s offering a reward.” Could she trust Morgan not to collect it?