Lady Anne's Lover (The London List)

by Maggie Robinson

  “Good. It will help you relax. Let me hunt down the salve—some willow bark, too—and get supper started. Why don’t you rest until then?”

  “All right. It has been a busy day again, hasn’t it?”

  She gazed up at him through gold-edged lashes, and his mind traveled back to this morning, when she was spread beneath him like a banquet. He might have her in such a position again tonight—she couldn’t run away, could she?

  But he’d be a devil if he forced his attentions on an injured girl. Her head was likely to be pounding, too. Gareth would have to take it slow.

  He’d once been a man of action. Confident. Deliberate. It chafed a bit to subdue the warrior within. But this campaign needed a different strategy, and Gareth was nothing if not adaptable to circumstances in the field.

  CHAPTER 16

  Anne had heard something in the cellar, she was sure of it. Not mice. The odd scraping sound below had roused her from her book and she’d peered down, unable to make out anything in the dark. She’d done a foolish thing stepping on the ladder—she should have rucked up her skirt and gone down backward. Her foot had slipped as if the rung were greased and she’d flown straight down, hitting her head before she could break the fall. She remembered her left foot hitting the treads all the way down, so it was no wonder it gave her such agony now.

  But in all other respects, she was exceedingly comfortable. She’d eaten a delicious dinner and drunk quite a bit of Gareth’s forbidden brandy, feeling rather grateful he hadn’t poured it out as she’d asked him to. Even a piece of the fruitcake had reappeared and been consumed. She was wrapped in blankets, and the little hearth in her room hissed and crackled merrily. Gareth had made her willow bark tea and was currently cradling her as he lay on the edge of her bed, his fingers lost in loose coils of her hair. Earlier he’d played lady’s maid, brushing her tangled hair so gently she hadn’t felt a thing, and helping her to dress in her nightgown without taking any liberties. Well, hardly any. Perhaps his fingers had skimmed over her skin more thoroughly than they might have, each fingertip inciting a tiny spark of awareness. Anne had shivered, and Gareth had mistaken her arousal for cold and bundled her up.

  He’d ordered her not to get up or peer in a mirror, so Anne supposed she must look a fright. But she was too languid to care, resting against his chest. They hadn’t spoken for an age, just lay next to each other in quiet companionship. Anne had not been so relaxed since—she could not remember when. She was not a relaxing sort of girl. Her childhood had been spent in one scrape after another, and she’d done nothing since to improve her character.

  Even as a little girl, she’d been restless, pushing boundaries and making her mother accordingly vexed. They had lived apart from Lord Egremont most of the year in their own little queendom, ensconced in the Dorset downs not far from the sea. Her father had been involved in government and had little time for his wife and only child.

  Until her mother died, and Anne was sent to London. All her girlish expectations of entering society had been cruelly shattered almost at once.

  She was not going to spoil this pleasant evening thinking of her father. She burrowed her head into Gareth’s shoulder and closed her eyes.

  Could she fall asleep in a man’s embrace? No, not any man. Gareth specifically. Did she trust him enough to find her ease? She wasn’t sure.

  “Penny for your thoughts, Annie,” he rumbled quietly.

  “Oh, I’m not thinking much. Too muzzy-headed from all the brandy. However did you function all these months?”

  “Not well, I’m afraid. And that was the point.”

  “Well, you have all the reasons in the world to stop drinking now. Thousands of pounds worth.”

  He turned her face to him. “It’s not about the money now, Annie. It’s about you.”

  Anne felt heat wash over her. “Never tell me you’ve fallen in love with me after a day. I won’t believe it.”

  “Nay. It might not be love. Not yet. Maybe never. And I’m not even sure I believe in love anymore. But there is something between us.”

  The something she felt was lust, plain and simple. “Nonsense. You’ve just been lonely, and I—”

  He reached around and tapped a finger to her lips. “Hush. Don’t ruin this. Let a man have his fantasies—like having a warm compliant young woman at his side, ripe for the kissing. Someone soft. And freckled.” He winked at her.

  “As if freckles appear in anyone’s fantasy,” she said dismissively.

  “Ah, but you don’t know me, not really. Who’s to say that I have not always desired a copper-haired beauty spangled with gold spots? Everywhere, I might add, in all the most intriguing places.”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “You are full of moonshine. I liked you better when you were quiet.”

  “I liked you better when I was kissing you. May I again?”

  She couldn’t claim a headache, although she was sure there would be one tomorrow. But tonight she was floating on a cloud, her past troubles somewhere down below and out of reach. A kiss—or three—would be delightful. She nodded.

  Clearly the key to kissing Gareth was to do so in a bed. His mouth was just where it needed to be and she didn’t have to pull any muscles to stretch up to him on tiptoes. Not that she could stand on two feet at the moment. But she could lie, and press her body to his, and receive the benediction of his kiss.

  Anne had spent the last two years kissing too many men trying to drive away her demons. No one had ever been as persuasive in banishing them as Gareth Ripton-Jones. She breathed in pleasure as he took control, licking her doubts to the farthest corner of her mind. She might not love him, but she loved kissing him. He was tender, yet she felt the steel behind each thrust and parry of his tongue. Here was a man who knew what to do with a woman in the most profound way.

  Anne had been pawed at and used, but Gareth touched her now as if she were some kind of holy relic. Immaculate indeed, if not in deeds. He had eased his arm out from under her and was unfastening the buttons of her night rail with welcome nimbleness, not breaking the kiss although his body had risen and shifted so he could gain access. His hand slipped between the gap of fabric and cupped a breast. She spilled into his hand, her nipple peaking. Gareth flicked it, almost idly, sending a slither of desire straight to her clenching womanhood. Anne fell deeper into the kiss, her body awakening. Suddenly the cheap cotton of her nightgown was too heavy, the blankets too burdensome. She was hot everywhere, most especially between her thighs, where moisture seeped waiting to be discovered. Her own traitorous hand tossed the covers aside and fisted the gown, tugging it upward.

  Gareth broke the kiss, his brows lifted in question. “Do you want me to kiss you there again, Annie?”

  She shook her head, unable to explain. She wanted his mouth on hers, to be close to him, heart to heart. Kissing as if tomorrow and rationality would never come.

  “Ah. Perhaps I may just touch you there, aye?”

  Aye, that would do. He threw a leg over her and climbed to the other side of the bed, taking care not to crush her with the transition. His back was squashed now up against the wall, but his hand was free—his beautiful, long-fingered hand, brown and callused and perfect. He sent the obstructing bed linen to the floor and parted her folds.

  “Soaked,” he whispered into her neck. “Sweet honey, all for me. I thank you.”

  Anne didn’t want any lover-like speech at the moment, so she parted her thighs and opened her lips, consuming his mouth in one desperate swallow. He gave her the reins to the kiss, which was not half as skilled as his but twice as needy. Anne had no idea what had come over her, but she gloried in the hot dark sinking of her body. She felt as though she was plummeting to a mysterious landscape, but knew Gareth would catch her and make her rise up again. With a deftness that left her breathless and silently begging, he inserted one slow finger into her wet slit. He was lodged snugly within her, but it was not enough.

  Somehow, he knew. Of course he did—he was a
rake, or had been before his unhappy homecoming. Gareth circled and pinched the knot of flesh buried by her curls with his thumb and forefinger until she felt herself stiffen and swell. The finger within slid out, then plunged back in as he tugged her to erect bliss. His tongue worked in absolute mastery with his hand until she was lost to his taste and touch, cresting higher, her bottom leaving the mattress as scorching waves coursed through her body.

  Sweet heaven. He did not stop until she rose up again, her skin damp, her eyelids sparking with stars.

  And then he kissed the bridge of her nose, as if she’d been a very good girl.

  Anne didn’t want to be good, not with all the black lightning crackling through her. With grave deliberation, she placed her hand on the placket of his trousers.

  Duw. His whole body shook. He had done without a woman’s touch too long—he would disgrace himself in minutes. Her hand was small but determined, unfastening, revealing, stroking. She bit a kiss-swollen lip and stared as if she were committing the shape of him to memory.

  Gareth wanted her luscious mouth on him, but he supposed he could be satisfied with the vigilant little hand that pumped him slowly from root to tip. Her touch was fairy-light, too gentle, but he’d take it. Gladly. She did not seem horrified, but curious, assessing. Then she shut her beautiful gold-flecked eyes but didn’t stop her hesitant touch.

  He wondered how many men she’d seen in such a state—surely no one could have been bursting with such desperation as he.

  Annie said she’d had a bad experience, but Gareth was almost positive she was still a virgin. He’d worked his way past her hymen to her tight passage with one finger—she could not have taken two. But there was something about the way she expressed herself physically, something she might be ashamed of. Worse still—frightened. She was shy and skittish still, after all that they’d already shared, as if she were forcing herself to overcome an insurmountable barrier.

  It didn’t matter to Gareth what she had done or with whom she had done it in that cesspit of vice that was London. There was no need for her past to catch up with her. He would keep her safe and secure in Wales.

  If she would let him.

  He covered her hand with his and showed her what he needed and how hard he needed it. He watched her as her cheeks flushed and her lashes flicked.

  “Look at me when I come for you, Annie. I want you to see what you do to me. I’m humbled by you. Unmanned.”

  “Hush,” she whispered, but she obliged, her eyes large and dark. Dark and soft as moss in an ancient forest and somehow just as old. A thread of understanding knit and braided between them until Gareth felt his balls tighten and his heavy cock twitch. “I am yours,” he rasped. “At your precious mercy, my love. Duw!”

  The orgasm seemed endless. His belly and her hands were slick with come and still he spurted. Her eyes never left his as she performed this miracle for him. Someday he would have the right to more from her, but now this was exquisitely enough.

  She lay back onto the pillow, breathing almost as raggedly as he. How ridiculous that he was still clothed, if bootless, and she wore her wrinkled night rail. Gareth wiped her hands with the tail of his shirt, then his stomach. More laundry for him to do.

  He sat up unsteadily. “I’ll fetch some water. God in heaven, Anne.” It seemed right to call her by the formal name he’d marry her with—Annie seemed far too light-hearted for tonight. This congress between them had been as serious as a wedding vow.

  “I p-pleased you?”

  “Need you ask? I’m not sure I can even walk to the kitchen. I may trip and sprain my ankle. You’ve bewitched me.”

  She gave him a shy smile. “You pleased me, too.”

  “Today was simply unsurpassed. Better than Christmas, I think.” Certainly better than last week when he shut himself up all day with his gin, no Christmas goose in sight. “We have gifts to give to each other, I think. If you will receive them.”

  “I—I might now. You are very—” She blushed, unable to find the right words.

  He wanted to lighten the mood, keep her at ease. He didn’t want to frighten her off, make her think too much on what she’d just let herself do. “Skilled? Large? Most certainly biddable where you are concerned. You may lead me around by my cock all you like, Lady Anne. I’ll be your devoted serf.”

  “Gareth!”

  “I’ve shocked you. I’m sorry. No, I cannot be. I find you delightful, whether you are trying to rule my life or surrendering to me. Thank you, either way. I’m quite looking forward to our marriage. I hope you are, too.”

  A shadow passed across her face. “I’m not very steadfast in my resolve, am I? A marriage of convenience was what I wanted. This”—she waved a hand between them—“was not precisely convenient.”

  “I should say just the opposite. It is most convenient to satisfy one’s urges. Healthy, too. I am not so decrepit that I’ve lost all my manhood, just my arm. And you”—he cupped her cheek, tracing a constellation of freckles with his thumb—“you are young and fresh and perfect, your life just beginning. You have honored me to begin it with me.”

  “Perfect! You really are full of rubbish.” She frowned but didn’t pull away.

  How could she not know what a treasure she was? “I cannot stifle my tongue where you are concerned, Annie. Don’t ask me to try. I may follow your edict about the drink, but not the topics of conversation. You make me want to spout poetry and quote Shakespeare.”

  “Make yourself useful instead and fetch the water. I’m sticky.”

  He took one sticky hand in his and brought it to his lips. “I am at your service, my lady. But you should know we Welsh have a strong bardic tradition. Expect a few verses now and then.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him. It was pink and pretty and irresistible. His departure from the bed was delayed by necessity, and Gareth didn’t think Annie minded much at all as he kissed her most thoroughly—no simple peck, but a pledge straight from his heart, solemn and sincere. If he didn’t disengage soon, he’d wind up on top of her and in her, God willing.

  He knew it was too soon. What would it be like to spend all night in her bed, buried inside her for much of it? Well, not this bed. It was much too small for a fellow like him to share, no matter how small in stature his bride was. Gareth’s parents had not shared a room, however, and they had been devoted to each other. It was not done in ton circles, and his mother had aspirations in that direction. The Riptons were one of the oldest families in the county, more established even than the Lewyses. His grandfather Jones had readily agreed to tack Ripton to his name to inherit the property from his father-in-law. According to Ripton lore, a dwelling had been standing here since the time of Llewelyn the Last.

  He was Gareth the Last now unless he could share a bed often enough with Annie to ensure the continuation of the family name. And that could not be done with a marriage of convenience.

  CHAPTER 17

  How extraordinary. The sky was bright blue, the sun was shining, and Anne had slept straight through the night without any torment from her ankle. Gareth had rewrapped it before bidding her good night after too many luscious kisses to count, and she was in just the position he’d left her in, her leg raised up on pillows, her body secured under a mountain of quilts.

  But no matter how warm and refreshed she was, she needed the chamber pot. Gingerly she set both feet on the rag rug by her bed and experienced a shooting pain clear to her left hip bone. Damn it all. She would be laid up for a few days more, dependent on Gareth and shirking her duties.

  He probably thought that was just as well, she thought with an inner grin as she completed her business and gave a cursory wash to her hands and face. Her cooking was truly atrocious. And if she stayed in bed, she would be readily available to his searching hand and mouth. She got back under the covers and folded her hands across her lap, waiting for him.

  She had lost her mind. In its place was a veil of sensuality she hadn’t ever expected to possess. Being with Gar
eth was—

  She had no words for what she felt. Yesterday—apart from falling down the stairs—had been indescribable from morning until late into the night.

  Gareth has kissed her until she was breathless, senseless, heedless. She’d almost begged him to do more last night, but had lost her courage. Infamous Imaculata Egremont with her saucy tongue had stuttered into shyness. But, oh, how she longed for Gareth’s touch.

  Everywhere.

  Anne wished she had another woman to talk to. Her new friend Evangeline might have helped her understand her sudden craving, but London was far away. Anne didn’t want to attract unwelcome attention to herself by posting a letter to The London List office, or to Evangeline’s home. Her father would have his spies out, was very possibly placing an ad in the newspaper even as she lay cozy in carnal bliss in Gareth’s house. No doubt Mr. Mulgrew and his associates were already on the case eager to earn her father’s reward again.

  The earl had spared no expense the first time she ran away. He was bound to be even more furious that she’d escaped him a second time. But he couldn’t keep her under lock and key forever, and she’d convinced him she’d be on her best behavior. Anne had told him she was tutoring orphans when she was really selling chestnuts and stalking the editor of The London List in hopes of becoming front-page news again. It had been a silly plan in the beginning, but had turned out well in the end. She was here in Wales, safe, and waiting for her lover.

  Anne didn’t have long to wait before Gareth tapped on the door and entered.

  “Awake, I see, and bright as a new penny. How is the ankle?” He adjusted the pillows behind her and smiled down at her.

  “I’m not ready to dance a waltz yet.”

  To her chagrin, Gareth pulled a battered chair to the side of the bed and sat instead of climbing in with her. “I used to love to dance. I was much sought-after at our regimental balls, you know.”

  What color was his uniform? Red probably, with lots of shiny buttons. She tried to picture him in a silly hat with a cockade and feathers and failed. He’d never look silly anyway, no matter what he had on his head—he was simply too tall and handsome. “There is no reason why you cannot dance now.”