Lady Anne's Lover (The London List)

by Maggie Robinson

  But Gareth did. He looked down at her, his eyes dark as uncut sapphires. “I will not take you before we are wed. Unless you want me to.”

  Oh, she wanted. That was not her plan at all. Her confusion must have been written all over her face, for he gave a satisfied, feral smile.

  “A marriage of con-convenience,” she stuttered. “That’s what I said I wanted.”

  “Can you say the same now, Annie? Do not lie to me.”

  “N-no sexual congress,” she ground out.

  “None at all? It seems a shame to let what is between us go to waste. You are too desirable to live all your long life as a maiden.”

  “I cannot think when you are so near!” The trouble was, she could think, could imagine what he was capable of doing in the next few minutes. She would be swept away—

  But somewhere in the middle of that wave, she might think of other caresses, other kisses and it would all be ruined.

  She could not take the chance.

  Could not let him think he was the reason for her disgust.

  Gareth blurred before her as her eyes filled with tears. When she’d been a girl, she’d gone fishing with some of her father’s tenants’ children in the River Piddle. She felt now like one of the caught fish, flopping about. Not quite alive, not quite dead. She needed to decide.

  “Don’t cry,” he whispered. “I swear I will not hurt you, will do nothing you don’t want. I can bring you pleasure without finding my own, you know. And I can think of nothing right now I’d rather do.”

  “I—” She swallowed hard. “I have had a bad experience. I am afraid.”

  He brought her to him again. “The bastard.”

  He didn’t ask for any details, and for that Anne was more grateful than he could know. He just held her, his hand rubbing up and down the silk on her back. She’d gone from fish to dog, she thought, her mind more or less lost in ridiculous analogy. As he soothed her, she felt his heartbeat, steady, strong.

  What an odd day they’d had. And now, if she would let him, their night could be just as singular.

  She didn’t think she was ready to give her tarnished virginity to him. She’d fought too hard to retain that scrap of membrane to blithely cede it to a stranger, even if he was to be her husband. There would be pain and blood. No matter how gentle he was with her now, it couldn’t last.

  Tomorrow he could revert to his drink-addled self and there would be no doubt that she was a proven fool.

  “I just cannot.”

  “Kisses only then,” he whispered into her temple. She felt the stubble of his beard against her skin, not unpleasant. “I will be the very soul of honor, and you will sleep the night away in all the bliss I can give you.”

  She bit down on her swollen lip. “You promise?”

  “I do. Let me swear it on the family bible or on Mrs. Smith’s cookery book, whichever you prefer.”

  She stifled a giggle. She couldn’t let him amuse her out of her virtue. “I shall tell your cousin you blaspheme.”

  “That will not be news to him, Annie, and impossible. I intend to leave you so breathless you will lose the power of speech for days.”

  Brash, bold words, but there was an expression on his face she had not seen before. He looked . . . shy. “Are you so sure of yourself?”

  “If you only knew. I haven’t touched a woman in more than a year. I may have forgotten what to do. Which end is up, so to speak.”

  “Somehow I doubt that.” Was she ready to put herself in his power? Under his lips and fingers? It was a new day, a new year. He’d promised to be a new man.

  But she, alas, was not new, even though she wore a clean dress. Her fingernails were tipped in black, and other less visible areas needed a good long soak. Anne needed a wash in the worst way.

  She placed her hand over his heart and gave a little push. “I am flattered by your interest, Gareth, truly. But I would not be comfortable being intimate with you unless I had bathed. I’m sorry.”

  “Then it will behoove me to ready your tub for you immediately.”

  “N-now? Don’t be silly. It’s the middle of the night.”

  “Very well. Later this morning. But not too late. I shall be patient until then to fulfill my promise to you.”

  “In the daytime?” Anne asked, shocked.

  “The better to see you come apart, my dear. You need not lift a hand in any domestic duties. I will be waiting on you.”

  “Kisses only,” she reminded him.

  He nodded. “Kisses everywhere.”

  Oh, dear God. What had she agreed to?

  CHAPTER 12

  Anne lay in the narrow bed, imagining all the things Gareth would do to her in a few hours. Her heart raced, and she tossed and turned, perspiring despite the chill of her room. She wondered if she’d lose her resolve if she ever fell asleep and woke up to the morning and a tub full of steaming water. Would he give her privacy, or lurk in the shadows waiting for her to emerge slick and scented with the lilac soap? Could she really let him touch her everywhere? Where exactly did he plan to kiss her, and how many times?

  To her shame, she knew what it felt like to orgasm. There were times when her father hit her. Was cruel. Those were the nights he seemed to actually prefer, since she would not give him what he wanted. Her only defense was to touch herself when he left her, to replace his touch with her own clumsy efforts. Sometimes she got lucky and lost herself for a few minutes of mindlessness.

  She should have just done it with Gareth tonight before she had time to second-guess, even if she was less-than-pristinely clean. She really was that fish, flipping from side to side in an agony of indecision. Smelled like it, too, no doubt. If her head could be turned with a few pretty words and endless kisses, she was no better than most of the girls of the street. She didn’t want to be at any man’s mercy, especially a man like Gareth with a troubled past. He was an accused murderer, for heaven’s sake.

  Anne tried to focus on that, but her heart just wasn’t in it. She knew to her toes he was innocent of that particular crime. He might have killed in battle, though he’d skirted over the details tonight so as not to offend her maidenly sensibilities. Gareth had sacrificed much in his service to his country, the best years of his youth. Anne was under no illusion that all soldiers were noble, but there was honor within him that was crystal-clear now that it was not obscured by drink.

  Honor, and recklessness, too. He’d agreed to her marriage proposal without a lot of contemplation. Of course, he was desperate. Desperately poor, and desperately deprived of female companionship.

  She would never fall asleep. Anne tried counting sheep. White ones. Black ones. For fun she tinted their imaginary fleece all the colors of the rainbow, yet she was as wide awake as ever. Switching from wooly things to enumerating all the silk ball gowns hanging in her dressing room at Egremont House, she tried to remember the fancy trimmings she’d so painstakingly chosen to set herself apart from prim society misses. Sequins, fringe, tulle rosettes, and miles of ribbon to draw attention to the plunging bodices she’d fancied. Some of her dresses had been very naughty indeed. If Gareth had seemed impressed with her bronze dress, he would love the transparent ivory-pink that matched her skin so well that from a distance, she appeared nude.

  When they were married, she’d get her dresses back, if her father hadn’t burned the lot. He must be very angry being thwarted. She’d bring Helen to Wales, too—

  Ah. What was she thinking? Reclaiming her dresses and rehiring her maid? What about her escape to independence? One pleasant evening with Gareth and she was considering all the evenings with him she could have.

  Time to stop thinking. Time to sleep. But it wasn’t until the sky turned gray that she finally slipped away, her own troubled past too stubborn to ignore.

  Gareth debated waking her, but not a sound emanated from her room, not even a sweet feminine snore. If she hadn’t woken up from when Martin clunked the tub down on the floor and the door blowing shut between treks to the pu
mp and the pots bubbling on the stove to heat her water, she must need her rest.

  At least she hadn’t run away. He’d peeked into her room and saw the rise and fall of the blankets and the back of her head, her braids undone. Her hair must fall to her bottom, it was that long, waving across the bed like a muddy river. And it seemed to change color daily. Gareth was more than convinced the fading brown was a cover for living flame.

  As for his own night, he had fallen into miraculous deep sleep. One would have thought the anticipation of seeing his intended bride in all her natural glory would have made him too excited—like a child looking out the window for Father Christmas all night long. Despite the precipitous change in his circumstances and fortune, something felt so very right about it all he relaxed for the first time in months. There had been no gin-soaked dreams to get through, no resulting headache. He’d washed himself in scalding water most thoroughly in the happy expectation of being able to go well beyond kisses in an hour or two.

  But if kisses were all Annie could countenance, that’s all he’d deliver. He’d promised. Gareth hadn’t asked her for the details of her fears last night—he sensed she was not ready to confide in him. He would deal with whoever had hurt her in good time.

  If she had been raped, it was no wonder she didn’t want marital relations.

  He pushed the thought of Bronwen’s last hours out of his mind. In the Peninsula, he’d seen what happened to women in times of war, but he’d never expected to see its like in his home village. The person responsible walked beyond his gates—hopefully far away. To think that any of the men he’d seen in The Silver Pony yesterday might have had a hand in the killing—

  The looks they’d given him in the taproom told him otherwise. He was the one under suspicion.

  If he was clearheaded enough, he might piece some of August’s events together and solve the mystery of Bronwen’s death. Annie seemed anxious to help him.

  He didn’t mind his blackened name so much for himself, but it was unfair to Annie to subject her to a lifetime of isolation. If she agreed to stay with him, she would come to resent her curtailed circumstances. A girl who owned a dress like she wore last night would not be satisfied with no amusements save for listening to his cousin Ian in church every Sunday.

  That dress—it had been spectacular, though Gareth had wanted to strip her of it almost as soon as he saw her in it.

  He’d heated water in every pot he possessed to fill the old tub. If Annie didn’t waken soon, he’d have to heat them all over again. The coffee was brewed and much better than anything the poor girl had made for him. He’d have to teach her some basics until she came into her funds and they could hire a housekeeper.

  He should feel like less than a man, depending on a woman for money. By God, he was a bloody fortune hunter now, wasn’t he? But it had been all her idea. He would have been content to drink himself to death in poverty before Annie came along, and almost had.

  There had been nights when he might have burned the house down with a careless candle, one step closer to the hell he thought he deserved. But here he was, thoroughly alive, with a beautiful heiress sound asleep in the next room and willing to be touched by him when she awoke.

  Gareth decided he’d have to round up all the gin bottles he’d stashed around the house before Annie found them and raised hell. She seemed to have a particular aversion to the stuff, and he could see why. Drinking it had done him no favors, but it was cheap, and he was poor. His need for it should be over. Why should he blot out the present when his future looked so bright?

  The remains of his father’s wine collection could stay—Annie might enjoy them. Civilized people drank wine with dinner, did they not? A glass of the stuff would not harm him, and might make anything she cooked somewhat more palatable. A man needed ale to wash down his beefsteak and breakfast as well. The local cider had a kick to it, so a small tankard or two would be all he’d ever allow himself. He’d heard the gruesome tales of men who stopped drinking full stop and regretted it. Weaning oneself from alcohol was almost as bad as casting one’s opium pipe aside. Gareth had no wish to become a shaking, raving thing. He would imbibe with moderation—surely Annie would be satisfied with that.

  He was glad he had been honest with her about the seduction. With her mysterious past, she was too vulnerable to take advantage of, and he was sorely out of practice. Best begin as he meant to go on, his warts visible, his hopes reasonable.

  There was finally a faint stirring from the room off the kitchen, and Gareth heaved some more hot water into the tub. His arm ached from the preparations, but if a bath meant that Annie would reveal her body to him, he’d be willing to walk all the way across Wales to Anglesey to get the water. He checked the place setting on the table, pulling the napkin off her bread and pouring coffee into a white ironstone mug.

  He smiled when she poked her head out of the doorway, her eyes widening at his efforts. “Good morning, Annie.”

  “My, you have been very busy while I’ve been a slugabed.”

  “Tut tut. You deserved to sleep in. It’s your day off. Come and have your breakfast.” He snapped one of his mother’s embroidered linen napkins open and handed it to her.

  She had donned one of her housekeeper-y dresses and pinned her long wild hair back under a cap. He couldn’t wait to divest her of it all. She blushed prettily as she seated herself at the table, covered her lap and took a tentative sip of coffee.

  “Oh! This is very good.”

  “Told you I had some skill in the kitchen. Enough to keep myself alive after Cecily died, and enough to keep us from expiring from hunger while I teach you to get on here. I’m afraid it’s just porridge this morning.” Gareth joined her at the table. “I’ll go down to the village later and buy some bread. I need to bring poor old Penny back from the inn.”

  He couldn’t help notice the combination of disappointment and relief sweep over her face. She’d misunderstood completely.

  “But first, I intend to bathe you. Get at all those nooks and crannies,” he said with a wicked grin.

  “B-bathe me! That will not be necessary! I can take care of my own nooks and crannies, thank you very much.”

  “I imagine you’re used to the services of a lady’s maid. Someone to scrub your back and rinse your hair and so forth. Keep the jugs of hot water coming.”

  Annie set her coffee mug down hard. “You are not a maid! And it—it wouldn’t be proper.”

  “Nothing I have planned for the next hour is proper, Annie. Have you forgotten our bargain?”

  “As I recall, it involved a kiss, maybe several, not a wash. And you don’t know how much I’ve been longing for a bath. For privacy.”

  “I won’t say a word. Vow of silence. Quiet as a tomb. You can pretend I’m not here.”

  “That’s just impossible. You’re much too big to ignore.”

  “If you only knew,” he muttered. “We’ll discuss it later. Eat your breakfast.”

  Looking positively mulish, she pushed her bowl of mush away. “I’m not hungry.”

  Time for a new maneuver. Sometimes one had to retreat today to ensure victory tomorrow. Or in his case, in a short while from now. If he had to wait until tomorrow to taste her, he might as well start drinking again. “All right, all right. Forget everything I’ve said about bathing you. I was only trying to be helpful. Please eat. I’m sorry if I spoiled your morning. I’ll do just as you ask. It is your day off, after all.”

  She stared at him with suspicion, then took a dainty spoonful of oatmeal. “You said an hour. That sounds much too long for a kiss.”

  “At least that. Of course, that included assisting you with your bath and a bit of massage. Your muscles must be strained after all your hard work this week. You seemed awfully tense on the ride home yesterday.” Keeping her secrets must take a toll, too.

  “I hope Penny has recovered.”

  So she didn’t care to talk about how their bodies had fit so perfectly on the ride back from Llanwyr.
“As do I. I expect he’ll welcome a relaxing rubdown even if you won’t.”

  “I am not a horse, Major.”

  “No, you certainly aren’t. Call me Gareth, please. Let’s start the year off right. We are affianced, after all.”

  He’d given her too much time to think, and with this “major” business she was making him as nervous as she was. What if she was changing her mind about everything? He stood up abruptly. “I’ll leave you alone. I’ll be in the study if you need anything.”

  Damn. This morning was not going as he wished. He reminded himself that anticipation was often more compelling than the actual endeavor, although he harbored great hopes for those kisses. Gareth wondered how long she would take in her bath, then decided not to torture himself with images of Annie naked, dripping, pink. He would simply wait in his old chair, read a book or go over accounts. That should depress his ardor sufficiently.

  The minutes crawled by. Gareth stared out the window over the frost-laden open fields, the Black Mountains looming in the distance. In spring he might have horses and a few sheep grazing out there, with or without a helpmeet at home. He did hope with—and he’d do everything in his power to gentle Annie into staying.

  Too bad he couldn’t ply her with some champagne this morning—she’d been good company last night, relaxed, laughing at his stories.

  He waited as long as humanly possible, imagining Annie’s freckled form, diamond-bright beads of water vying with the gold spangles. At length he simply couldn’t stare at the bleak landscape outside or the fitful fire within. Perhaps he’d go to the village and see to Penny now. Save himself the agony of rejection. He was just getting ready to rise from his chair in defeat when he heard a faint tapping.

  Annie pushed the door open and Gareth stopped thinking of horses and winter and loneliness. She had donned the bronze dress again, and her hair was a damp tangle of bronze itself. Whatever she had used to conceal her natural hair color had washed out in the bath.