“Can you manage this?”
“I-I think so. I’m stronger than I look.”
“I have no doubt.” For all that she was gently reared, there was distinct determination in her expression. Annie would be a formidable foe, but Gareth had no intention of crossing her. He wanted her on his side.
He wanted her in his bed.
He watched as her fingers slipped uselessly around the swollen cork. “Perhaps you need more friction. Something to grasp onto. I’ll fetch a towel.”
“No. I can do this. I can.”
She screwed up her face, looking like a wicked pixie. Her little fist curled around the bottle top, struggling for purchase. If they remained married, it would be unlikely they’d be drinking champagne very often. He didn’t dare to smile as she took her duty so seriously. With a strangled yowl, she pulled the cork up, the bubbles frothing over her hands.
“Now I will get a towel. You don’t want to ruin that dress.”
She smiled up at him in triumph. “I told you I could do it.”
“I imagine you can do most anything you set your mind to.”
“Do you know? I believe I can,” she replied, sounding a little surprised.
He was back in a trice with a clean dishcloth. She had already poured the champagne into the glasses, and wiped her hands quickly.
He lifted a glass. “To new years and new beginnings.”
“To independence!” She took a sip and wrinkled her nose.
“Has it gone by?” He took a sniff but held off tasting.
“No. It’s lovely. I merely thought my toast was insensitive. Independence is all well and good for me, but perhaps more difficult for you.”
He set the glass down on the mantel among his mother’s porcelain figurines. “Do you think I need a keeper?”
She colored. “Of course not. A companion, more like. When I leave you can hire a proper housekeeper.”
“What if I don’t want a proper housekeeper, but a very improper one? You’ve spoiled me for anyone else.”
He said it lightly, as she seemed to have difficulty accepting compliments. A girl like her should have had more than her share of pretty words from love-struck swains. He could see her now in some glittering ballroom, dancing until dawn. What had possessed her to conceal her identity and hare off to Wales to become a housekeeper?
“I’ll see that you’re settled before I leave. Evangeline can find you someone.” She settled herself in a chair by the fire. He retrieved his glass and took the one opposite. A pity she’d not picked the couch again. Couches were far more suited for seduction.
“Who is this Evangeline you’ve mentioned?”
“I suppose I can tell you. It’s not as if you’ll be going down to London any time soon to expose her. Evangeline Ramsey. She’s the editor of The London List.”
Gareth frowned. He’d seen the name Ramsey often enough on the masthead of the paper. “A woman?”
“She’s in disguise much like I am.”
“Who is she running from?”
“Oh, she’s not running. It’s just easier for her to conduct business dressed as a gentleman. Women are not taken seriously by you men. We have no say in our futures. We’re meant to be empty-headed playthings.”
He swallowed a mouthful of champagne, wondering at her bitterness. “Surely all men are not so shortsighted. An accomplished, intelligent woman is far more stimulating company.”
“If you believe that, you are a rarity. Most men of my acquaintance want one thing and one thing only.”
Though he thought he knew the answer, he asked the question anyway. “And what is that?”
“Domination.”
This was not exactly what he expected. Who had tried to bully her into submission? Her father? He’d probably promised her to some friend of his, or a man who would be useful to him politically or financially. Gareth would bet a bottle of champagne that Annie had wanted to marry for love.
At least until she had come up with this plan to rescue him.
“A man would be a fool to try to push you around. You scare the devil out of me.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t reply. Her glass was empty and he filled it only halfway.
“Steady now. Champagne can go right to your head if you’re not careful.”
“I’ve had champagne before. Lots of it.”
“And here you lecture me to give up my wicked ways.” Gareth had found the taste of the stuff pleasant enough tonight, but had no urge to down the bottle. Maybe he was about to turn some corner, and if so, his reason sat before him. Her face was flushed, either from the heat of his robust fire or the champagne. There were coppery tendrils curling about her forehead, and her green eyes gleamed like a sun-filled glen. Dressed in what was obviously an expensive and perfectly fitted gown, her lush body needed no jewels to rob him of cogent thought.
She had agreed to be his wife in name only. He might as well fall from a roof again, this time to his death. He’d be honor bound not to touch her, and it would just about kill him.
Did she notice he was growing hard in the tattered chair? He didn’t want to frighten her. It had been so long since he’d sat companionably with a beautiful woman that his social graces were petrified. All he wanted to do was spring across the hearth and drag her to the sofa, rip her lace-edged bodice, and ravish her. Kiss her lips until she begged. Watch her fox-colored lashes flicker as he sent her on her way to paradise.
Instead, he made small talk. Spoke of many New Year’s Eves spent far from home. She asked suitable questions, and was soon ready for more champagne. He set the empty bottle at his feet, wondering if there was another in the dust and gloom of the cellar. He’d even risk life and limb to fetch it. Gareth didn’t want the evening to end. Did not want to return to his lonely bed. He’d spent enough restless nights there, wondering how he was going to extricate himself from the mess he was in. He had not dared to dream of someone to share his troubles with, had lost his faith in women as surely as Annie had lost her faith in men.
He hadn’t talked in years of his soldiering. Bronwen had been disinterested, nearly resentful of it, despite the fact he’d been hailed as a hero since his time in Canada as a fresh-faced ensign. And one didn’t brag anyway. Tonight he found himself opening up as he had never done, especially when sober. Sitting with Annie was so easy that they barely noticed it was midnight until the hall clock chimed.
Gareth noted ruefully that it was he who had done most of the talking. He knew as little about her now as he had yesterday. “You must be half-asleep. I hope I haven’t bored you.”
“Not at all! Happy New Year, Major Ripton-Jones.”
“Don’t you think you had better call me Gareth? We are to be married by the end of the month, after all.”
She smiled. The effect was so dazzling that his weary body woke up again. Lord, but she was lovely.
“Happy New Year, Gareth.”
He rose and extended his hand. “Let me escort you to your room, Annie. Sleep in tomorrow. I’m sure I can fend for myself. The tub will be ready for you when you awake.”
She looked pleased he’d remembered. He’d like to see that particular look on her face often.
For a lifetime.
What in hell had come over him? It was more than lust. He didn’t even know her real first name, for heaven’s sake. Was he so desperate that a few hours of quiet conversation had convinced him she was The One?
He’d thought he’d found The One before. He and Bronwen had been soul mates since childhood, parted only because of the ambition of her father and brother. Lord Lewys had far more to offer the family than seventeen-year-old Gareth. All the years he’d spent rising in rank was still short of providing security for her, especially when he discovered his father’s cock-up of the estate.
Yet she’d agreed to marry him when he came home anyhow. But not for long.
Damn, he was a fool. Why waste precious minutes of the evening thinking of Bronwen’s perfidy? Annie Whoever-sh
e-was was soon to be his wife. He had a job—to seduce her and stop her from running away from him.
It was time he got started.
CHAPTER 11
The night had been surprisingly pleasant. Cozy, even. Now that Gareth was clearheaded, he’d been self-deprecating and amusing. He’d spoken of his service, glossing over the battles to get to the more entertaining activities of thousands of men far from home. His description of India whetted her appetite to see that distant lush land, though she knew Englishwomen often fell victim to the climate and the politics. Anne had no desire to be slaughtered in her bed or die of fever. Travel to France was by far a safer choice, America even better, since her schoolgirl French left a great deal to be desired.
She’d been an indifferent student, the bane of her revolving set of governesses. She wished now that she’d paid more attention to all those who had tried to hammer the hellion out of her. Were Gareth to discover all of the unamusing activities she’d indulged in, he likely would not be looking at her as he’d been all night.
She couldn’t fool herself—he was attracted to her. He’d been needlessly complimentary, and the evidence of his earlier arousal was nearly imprinted on her hip. The kiss this morning had been much more than a friendly, bargain-sealing peck. But he was just a man who had been left alone too long in difficult circumstances—no doubt any woman would pique his interest.
She wasn’t that special. In her debut year, she’d received some offers, but Anne had known her dowry was the draw. She’d been so uncomfortable in men’s presence that she’d blushed and stammered and recoiled at any physical contact. When her father refused to let her wed, she realized the shy virgin needed to become a vixen to break away from his control. She’d set the ton on its ear and her feet on the path to infamy. No one would guess that she had a thought in her head for anything but naughty fun.
It had been an empty life in the end. Anne had quite simply run out of ways to outrage her father. But this marriage scheme might work—by towing home her major, the earl would have no choice but to instruct her trustees to release her funds.
Right now, the major was towing her in the direction of her bedroom. His hand was warm, his fingers callused. They brushed gently over her own sensitive hand, his thumb rubbing her knuckles. He was holding her hand up as if they were about to promenade through two lines of dancers. Anne wondered what it would be like to dance with such a tall man. If they waltzed, she’d get a face full of buttons.
Warmth crept into her cheeks as she imagined him in another position. Over her, his back bent, his lips close, his arm cradling her.
She’d had too much champagne. Her day had been long and full of rather life-altering events. It was no wonder she was muzzy-headed and dreamy. Gareth Ripton-Jones was not the man for her.
He didn’t seem to know it, though. He paused by her open door, his blue eyes drinking every inch of her in. She should not have succumbed to the urge to wear her one good dress, but she was tired of being a frump. And it was New Year’s Eve. New Year’s Day now.
“Isn’t it customary to kiss at midnight?” he asked softly.
“It isn’t midnight any longer.”
“What’s a few minutes here and there? Indulge me, Annie. Indulge yourself.”
She stiffened. “I don’t particularly crave anyone’s kiss.”
He raised a dark eyebrow at her blatant lie. “Give me a chance to change your mind about that.”
She should have said no. Jerked her hand away from his. Slammed and locked her door. Instead she stood still as he dropped her hand gently to her side and cupped her face. He lifted it, the pressure of his fingertips almost imperceptible. His expression was solemn, probing, as though he were counting her eyelashes and needed to give the correct answer on an exam. Anne wondered what he was thinking. She herself felt more or less witless so near to him.
One thing she did know—he was not the man for her. There was no man for her, she reminded herself. But somehow she rose on tiptoes and met his mouth again.
He began gently as he had earlier in the day, the softest brush against her, nearly tickling. She expected him to back away now that she’d yielded, but he did not. His determined tongue licked along the seam of her lips, deftly gaining entry, smoothing under her teeth, finding hers. Blazing heat seared through her as he slowly swept and tangled and nuzzled. He kissed her as if they had all the time in the world. There was nothing clumsy or hurried, just steady strokes and softness. Anne was both relaxed and enervated, held captive by his hand and his desire.
The man knew how to kiss, she’d give him that. No slobbering. No force. There was a certain confidence in his kiss that told of the man he was before his accident. His cousin Ian had claimed he was a rake, but there was nothing predatory about this moment. She tried very hard to concentrate on the mechanics of it all, though his skill pushed coherent thought to the very back of her mind.
The knot of her hard-won self-possession unraveled as Gareth Ripton-Jones made a very thorough assault on her senses. She’d been kissed. Scores of times. She’d even initiated kisses when she somehow thought they’d gain her freedom.
Nothing had ever tasted or felt this good.
They were just steps from her bed. For once Anne understood the need to feel her body press against another to ease the ache of her breasts and the quivering of her lower belly. What was he doing to her? His hand had not left her cheek, and she wanted it to. Wanted him to touch away the taint. To make her feel normal. To kiss her until she forgot.
Could she let him? What if all this loveliness was shattered when he gained physical mastery of her? She would lose her virginity and perhaps add another horrible memory to the ones she already had.
He sensed her hesitation and ended the kiss, wiping away a tear she hadn’t known she’d shed. His voice was rough, his breath ragged. “What is it, Annie? What’s wrong? Do I repulse you?”
“No!” If anything, she wanted him too much. “This isn’t wise.”
He grinned in the shadowed hallway. “I’ve never been known for my wisdom. Have you?”
“Far from it. You would not want to kiss me if you knew everything.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that, Annie. I can’t imagine why I wouldn’t want to kiss you. I don’t think such a reason exists.”
“This is meant to be a marriage of convenience,” she reminded him. Reminded herself as well.
“Devilishly inconvenient when I want you so badly.”
She waved him off. “You don’t even know me! And you’re just lonely.”
“Aye, that I am. Do you see yourself as my port in the storm?”
Those were exactly her thoughts. She nodded.
“You are such a little fool. Who could resist you, storm or no?”
“Stop the flummery. It won’t work.”
He shook his head ruefully and smiled. “I had planned to seduce you with my vaunted charms. I see you are still resistant.”
“You are telling me you’re bent on seduction? Aren’t I supposed to be tricked into it?”
“I find I want to be honest with you, Annie. I’m beyond tired of games.” He ran his hand through his dark hair, mussing it even more than she had as he kissed her. The strands had been thick and slippery between her fingers. She hadn’t dared touch anywhere else.
“Look, I know you don’t trust me. I haven’t given you much reason to. I’ve been drunk most of the week and an ass. But suppose I court you?”
She felt a burble of laughter. “There’s no need. It’s a little late for all that—I’ve already proposed and you’ve accepted.”
“There’s every need. I’m not talking about silly ton conventions—sending you flowers that mean some secret code. Where would I get flowers in the middle of winter anyway? But we should get to know each other. Talk. Touch. This evening was very pleasant, was it not? You were comfortable with me, and I with you.” He paused for breath. “I think things could be good between us, Annie. Better than good.”
&n
bsp; Anne was afraid he was right. The carefully constructed layers around her heart were loosening.
“We deserve it,” he added.
Did she? For years she thought she’d brought ruin upon herself. Been punished for some lack or other. Her father said—
No. It didn’t matter what the man had said. Evangeline had not faulted her for running away, had helped her. She could not have known that she sent Anne straight into trouble of a different sort altogether.
Gareth’s hand was back on her face, tracing her cheekbone. She looked up and felt her resolve waver. What if her father asked for proof that the marriage was consummated? Anne imagined his physician poking at her and shivered. The earl might do anything within his power to get her back.
“I—I don’t think I can be what you want.”
“You already are. You must know after today the effect you have on me. I haven’t been very good at hiding it—it’s a little more difficult for a man to mask his urges.”
“It’s only lust.”
“There’s nothing ‘only’ about it, Annie. I admit when I woke up this morning I was not thinking about making you my wife, but I did want you in my bed, sharp tongue and all. Especially your tongue. I can think of a thousand ways to soften it.”
“Oh, st—” He bent and sought her tongue again, and she was obliged to return his kiss. It was as honest as his words—forthright, simple, entirely perfect. Could he kiss away all her good intentions?
It seemed he could. A shiver raced through her as he deepened his thrust, continuing to slide his thumb along her face. Anne stepped into his embrace, the tips of her breasts crushed against his chest. She was doing the crushing—she wanted the closeness, the heat, the fiery lick of her own lust aflame for the first time in ages. She’d made desperate forays in the dark with other gentlemen—no, they really were not precisely gentlemen no matter that “Sir” and “Lord” were attached to their names—but nothing had ever come close to the way this man made her feel.
Safe, yet in such danger. The kiss was so heady Anne felt dizzy. Hot. Nearly sick from something sweet and addictive. Nothing prepared her for the change which blazed through her body like a comet in the night sky. Every hair rose on her neck and she felt liquid pool between her thighs. This was madness. Wrong. So wrong. But she couldn’t stop.
Lady Anne's Lover (The London List) Page 10
