She would be seeing her father soon, though. Anne wouldn’t let that grim reality depress her happiness. Gareth would be at her side, sober. Honorable. Too handsome for his own good. Now that he was not drinking, the lines on his face had eased, and she believed he was putting on a little weight. Not due to her diligence. It was he who did most of the cooking, although Anne assisted him, Mrs. Smith’s cookery book ever at her elbow.
The cart bounced up the snowy rutted lane and Ripton Hall came into view, a stone jumble of rectangles and too many chimneys that didn’t draw properly. Once she had her money, she would see to their refurbishment. Gareth planned to establish a horse breeding business and would expand the barn and outbuildings, but surely there would be some money left over for the house itself.
And servants. Anne was very keen on hiring a few people as quickly as possible to give her blistered hands a welcome break. Someone could be persuaded to come from the village once Gareth’s name was cleared. Old Martin could not be the only person in the area willing to work at the Hall, and it would be delightful to hire people who actually spoke a few words.
Anne’s chatter had quickly dried up as the man made only grunting responses on their trip to Llanwyr. She hadn’t really bothered to converse on the way home, and that seemed to suit him just fine. Anne knew he had been loyal to Gareth and was good with horses, but he made her uneasy. Or perhaps she made him uneasy. The end result was the same, awkward silence.
Martin let her out at the broad front step and drove the wagon around to the kitchen ell, telling her tersely not to worry about helping him to unload its contents. The blue door deserved a fresh coat of paint, and the brass dragon’s head knocker needed polishing. The Welsh were fond of dragon stories, the ancients allegedly luring them with mead and burying them to prevent dragonish mischief. In the stories, dragons were mixed up with Merlin and Arthur, but neither of those gentlemen was around to magically help her clean the brass.
Anne let herself in, noting a significant puddle in the front hallway. She looked up to the ceiling for the evidence of a leak, but the plaster was its usual unstained dingy-white.
“Gareth! I’m home. Where are you?” she called, pulling off her cloak. She was immediately sorry she did—the air inside felt frigid.
The house was quiet, or as quiet as it ever was with its wind-rattled windows and creaking floorboards. She headed for the kitchen, then thought the better of it. From the sound of the scrapes and thuds, Martin was unpacking the groceries without saying a word, and she’d just as soon avoid him if he wasn’t in there talking to Gareth. She’d put a kettle on to warm herself with a cup of tea later. She was not a bit hungry anyway after tasting Mrs. Chapman’s wedding menu.
Gareth might be hungry for a proper tea with sandwiches and the little cakes Mrs. Chapman had packed, though. His study door was open, but there was no trace of him, just the usual raft of papers spread across his desk and under his blotter. He must be upstairs digging through the dirt of his bedroom. Anne was looking forward to loving him in his great ark of a bed, once there was a clear path to it.
She climbed the main staircase and walked down the wide hall, passing half-a-dozen shut-up bedrooms. She’d already cleaned them all of years’ worth of dust, then tossed the Holland covers back on. One day they might open this section of the house. Gareth could move into the squire’s bedroom and she’d settle into the lady of the manor’s suite. There was a convenient connecting door between them. Anne had never shared a bed all night with anyone and wasn’t sure she could. She was a light sleeper, aware of the slightest noises by necessity—it was how she had defended herself from her father. A loving husband’s snore might be another thing, however.
She stepped down into the oldest part of Ripton Hall, the original dwelling that currently housed the kitchen and its adjacent work rooms, Gareth’s study and his bedroom above them. His door was closed, so she knocked.
“Gareth?”
There was no response. She pressed the worn latch, expecting to find an empty room. Instead she saw her fiancé flat on his back in bed in the middle of a mess. It was clear from the haphazard hills of clothes and books on the floor he’d attempted some order, but had abandoned his mission for a nap.
Well, she had kept him up wickedly late the night before, she thought with a grin. She had struggled herself to get up in time to keep her appointment with Mrs. Chapman.
Anne tiptoed around the piles on the threadbare carpet and stood over him, watching his eyelids twitch as he slept. It was a good thing Gareth was no longer in the army—she could be planning to slice his throat and he wasn’t stirring at all.
Heavens. Was he passed out from drink? She sniffed but smelled nothing but male sweat and stale air despite the open casement window.
He looked much younger in repose, thick lashes shadowing lean tanned cheeks, his arm thrown over his forehead. His mouth was open and he did in fact snore—very quiet short bursts of breath which sounded almost mechanical in their regularity.
It would be a pity to wake him, but it was far too tempting to not join him in his afternoon dreams, even if his bedroom was not in a state of pristine purity. Anne turned and began unhooking her gown.
“You’re home.”
She’d been mistaken about the ease of attacking him. Gareth sat up in bed, his dark hair disheveled. He was very much awake, all his instincts on alert.
“I am. And I thought I might join you, if you don’t mind,” she said, feeling a bit shy suddenly.
“Join me?”
“In—in bed. You looked so comfortable.”
His lips twisted. “I assure you, I am far from comfortable at the moment.”
“Are you unwell?”
“I have a devil of a headache. But now that you’re back—” He swept his hair back, exposing the silver strands that gave him such distinction, and swung off the bed, moving to an armchair near an almost-dead fire. He pointed its mate opposite. “Come here, Annie. I need to talk to you.”
There was something in his voice that gave her pause. “That sounds ominous,” she said lightly.
“That depends.”
Her heart stilled. “On what?”
“I think it’s time you were honest with me. Imaculata.”
Oh dear God. She collapsed in the chair, feeling the color leach from her cheeks. The proximity to the fire was not enough to stop her shivering, but Gareth didn’t seem to notice despite his blinding blue stare. He seemed to expect her to say something, but her mind was a perfect blank.
And what was there to say anyway? Any excuse or explanation would seem feeble.
“I—I would have told you.”
“When? Once we were married and it was too late for me to change my mind?”
So it was over. Anne knew it all had been too good to be true lately. The delicious, sinful seduction. The companionable conversations. The sharing of a simple life so far and different from her past. It was as she feared—she had opened her heart against her better judgment and now waited to have it broken. “D-do you want to? Change your mind? I won’t hold you to anything,” she said, her voice wooden. “You are free to do as you please.”
“No man wants to be made a fool of, Annie.”
“I didn’t mean to make a fool of you! I would have told you. I just wasn’t ready.” She picked at a hole on the arm of the chair, which was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the room.
“Are you ready now?”
She’d never be ready. Anne shrugged. “I don’t know where to begin, really. How did you find out?”
“Ian came to taunt me. And then I read back issues of The London List.” His fist clenched in his lap. “There is something to be said for being a packrat. I read at least a dozen issues before my eyes failed me. You were a very busy girl.”
How much had Ian told him? Whatever he’d said, she owed it to Gareth to finish the story. She forced herself to meet his eyes.
“There were reasons.”
“I know
what they were, or think I do. But I’d like to hear them from you.”
Somehow she’d imagined confessing when they were in bed, entangled in each other’s arms, her sins washed away by his strength. She lost her courage. “I know I’m no matrimonial prize, despite the money. You are released from your obligation to marry me,” she repeated.
He raised a dark eyebrow. “Obligation? You proposed to me.”
“And I was wrong to do so.” She leaped from the uncomfortable chair and meant to leave the room altogether but stumbled on a boot half-buried under a soiled pillowcase. Gareth caught her before she pitched forward onto the floor.
“Don’t run away, Annie. I didn’t say I didn’t want to marry you.”
“You can’t be that desperate!” she cried. “You deserve more.”
“Do I? I’m of the opinion we usually get what we deserve one way or another.”
“Rubbish! Did I deserve—” She stopped herself. Maybe Ian hadn’t explained everything, and she just couldn’t.
He held her close. “I can feel your heart. I want to know what’s inside it. Do you—do you think you can learn to trust me and love me just a little?”
Love him a little? The idiot.
“You will not ever love me if I tell you everything.”
“You don’t know that. Here, you’re making my shirt wet. Come sit down again.”
He led her back to the chair and wiped away the tears with his thumb. “Take your time, Annie. I’m here to listen, not judge. But I think we should be open with each other. You know every sorry thing about me, do you not?” He crouched down, adding coals to the hearth. No matter how hot he made the fire, she would still be stone cold inside.
She supposed she knew all about him, and most of the things were not sorry at all. So he’d been a bit of a rake once he’d had his heart shattered by Bronwen. And he’d lusted after her even when she was married. One could almost view that as a sort of fidelity. His drunkenness was in abeyance—if he hadn’t drowned himself in the bottle after talking to Ian today, Anne had hopes of his reformation.
And he was no murderer. She knew that inside her heart.
He straightened, kicked his chair closer to hers, and held out his hand. “Take a deep breath and talk to me.”
“My name is Imaculata Anne Egremont.” Her hand trembled as it touched his.
“Poor thing.” His eyes were lit with merriment, of all things.
“Quite. I grew up in Dorset with my mother. We never came to Town, and my father rarely came to Egremont Reach to visit. He preferred his political life to his family, and my mother’s health was not up to tonnish amusements. She died when I was fifteen.”
“I am sorry.”
She nodded in acknowledgment. She was sorry, too. If her mother had lived, the nightmare of the past four years would never have happened. “He—he sent for me then, telling me I might become his hostess once I was out of mourning. I would be old enough, and he would train me. I—I didn’t know quite what he meant by that, but I soon learned. So I jumped at the chance to come to London.”
“As any young girl would.”
“Oh, Gareth. Part of me was glad my mother was gone and I could go early. I was so bored in the country. Apart from riding there was nothing to do, and she was always sick. I couldn’t wait to make my debut and take the ton by storm.”
“And you did that, I understand,” he said softly, squeezing her hand.
“Not in the way I first planned. I missed Mama dreadfully once I got to London. I felt so guilty. She and I had spent many months talking about my come-out, but she wasn’t there to help me get used to my new life. And Papa was—difficult. He said seeing me was like seeing my mother when they were first married. I don’t know why it mattered to him. He never had time for her when she was alive.”
“Perhaps he was feeling guilty, too. For neglecting you both.”
“He had a funny way of showing it,” Anne said bitterly.
Gareth looked as he was searching for words. “Some men forget themselves in grief.”
“It’s been four years,” Anne retorted. “And his attentions to me have only become more pronounced. He—he touches me. Tries to kiss me. I’ve had to lock myself in my room and shove furniture against the door. Have my maid Helen sleep in my dressing room. I was foolish to think if I misbehaved in society he’d let me go. He beats me for it, and I believe he likes that just as well as the other.” She shivered again. She’d rather take the hits than the kisses.
“Your father sounds like a monster, Annie. It’s no wonder you ran away.”
“How can you be so understanding? There must be something wrong with me to provoke him to such wickedness!”
He smiled, but there was no mirth to it. “There is nothing wrong with you. You’d provoke any man, Annie. You’re a lovely girl.”
“But he is my father,” she whispered.
“And not alone in his perversion. I’ve read the Bible.”
“Ian seemed shocked enough. I trusted him to keep my secret.”
“He has, more or less. He thought I knew.”
Anne shut her eyes, closing off the hurt she saw in Gareth’s. “I couldn’t tell you.”
“Well, now you have. Was it so bad, this belated confession?”
“There’s a lot more.”
“You mean your spirited rebellion.”
Anne choked back a laugh. “That’s one term for it. I am not quite the thing, Gareth. The newspaper reported only a fraction of what I’ve done.”
“Yet you said you hadn’t murdered anyone.”
“Of course not! And I never slept with the men—or the women—reputed to be my lovers,” she added, mortified and anxious that he know she had not fallen down into sin completely.
Except with him. It was not so much falling down as flying up, either.
“I know you were a virgin. Even if you had not been—” Gareth shrugged. “I’m not one of those men who insists on one rule for gentlemen and the opposite for the ladies. I would be an utter hypocrite after the life I’ve led.” He grinned suddenly. “The women?”
Anne felt herself blush to her toes. “Just one. Rosa Parmenter. It was just a bit of nonsense designed to enrage my father.”
Gareth gave her a devilish laugh. “You underestimate the effect on the average man, my dear. The sight of two lovely girls together—”
“Gareth!”
“Oh, it holds no titillation for me,” he hastened to add. “But you really are an innocent.”
“I don’t feel innocent,” she said mulishly.
“Well, we’ve got to remedy that. The two of us are in a scrape now, aren’t we? Me a bloodthirsty killer and you a regular Delilah. Or perhaps Salome, what with the dancing in the fountain. I’d better watch my head or I’ll wind up like poor St. John the Baptist.”
“I thought Ian was the religious one.”
“One could not grow up here without hours and hours in chapel, my love. Some of it sunk in.”
Anne marveled at his teasing. Whenever she had imagined this conversation, she had expected disgust and disappointment from him. Tears for her. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my past first. But I didn’t want to spoil what was between us.”
“It has been a lovely week, hasn’t it?”
It had been a miraculous week. But Anne no longer believed in miracles. “Y-you still wish to marry me?”
The only sound in the room was the rattle of the casement window and the hiss of coal in the fire. Anne’s heart dropped.
CHAPTER 23
A lovely week, and the potential for a lovely life.
If he could figure out how to manage it, and find the right words to assuage her fears.
After a moment, Gareth rose from the chair, bringing Annie up by the hand he still held. “Of course I still wish to marry you. Do you still wish to marry me? You’re an earl’s daughter, even if he is a blackguard. I am a nobody. You can never go back to the kind of life you were expected to lead.�
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“I don’t want to go back! I don’t give a fig for the rules of the ton or what my father wants. I believe my past behavior tells you that much.”
She looked almost angry, and she had every right to be. London had been a severe disappointment in ways too horrible to contemplate.
“It’s very quiet in Llanwyr.”
“I like quiet.”
“I think,” he said carefully, “that if my neighbors discover your true identity, things might become difficult for you. For us. They are the strictest of Methodists, you know.”
“I’ve changed. Surely they will see that.”
“One would hope.” From very personal experience, Gareth had seen how quickly one’s good reputation turned bad. How to turn a bad reputation good was out of his ken.
“They don’t need to know, do they? Ian promised to fiddle about with my name. They all think I’m just your housekeeper, and never need to know any different.”
“Once my financial situation takes on such a spectacular turn, there are bound to be questions.” He was becoming tired looking down at her bristling little form and began edging her across the room.
To the bed. Where questions could go unanswered for the next hour at least. Was he a coward for wanting to lose himself in the most primitive way?
“You can say my great-aunt died and left me an unexpected inheritance.”
He brushed a tendril of hair from her warm cheek. “Do you have a great-aunt?”
“There is no one.”
Save for her bloody father. She’d had no one to turn to.
“We can plot and plan later. Right now, I want to show you my intentions toward you are most dishonorable.”
She almost smiled. “I thought you said you still wanted to marry me.”
“Aye, but if I were not such a rogue, I wouldn’t touch you until the ring was on your finger. I find I cannot wait that long, Annie.”
Her eyes darted around the room. “Not here.”
Blast. She’d been ready to crawl into bed with him earlier, but she’d changed her mind. He should have finished cleaning the room, but he’d been overwhelmed with head and heartache. “I’m afraid I have to agree. This is no place for the Infamous Lady I.”
Lady Anne's Lover (The London List) Page 21
