“Oh, good lord. I could kill Evangeline for what she wrote in her newspaper, but then she brought me here to you.”
“I’ll have to thank her. We’ll muddle through somehow, don’t worry. The important thing is that we’ll do it together.”
His reassuring words had an unexpected effect. Annie burst into tears. His shirt was still wet from the earlier bout, so he simply held her to his chest and let her weep and snuffle. The poor girl had plenty of reason to cry in her past, but Gareth was determined to change her future.
He didn’t want her to hide, but he couldn’t see how she would ever be accepted here. He didn’t mind so much for himself—he was already persona non grata, but their children would doubly suffer.
He wanted children. And the making of them. Gathering her up, he made for his mother’s room. The Holland covers were draped over the furniture, so Gareth deposited Annie in a canvas-covered chair and tugged the fabric from the bed. The mattress was bare.
“There is fresh linen in the hall c-closet,” she hiccupped. “Or fresh enough.”
Gareth remembered the Monday mornings when the kitchen yard was hung with wet sheets. He and Ian had played hide-and-seek among the flapping wall of white, inevitably getting dirty handprints everywhere and a tongue-lashing or worse from Cecily. Little boys were thoughtless creatures, and they had been more thoughtless than most. He hoped he had been kinder to the old woman in her last days.
Gareth tugged open the bowed door to the linen closet and inhaled a burst of lavender air. Grabbing a well-worn stack of sheets, he went back to his mother’s room and made up the bed as quickly as he could one-handed, with no help from Annie. She still sat sniffing, chewing on a luscious lip, her pale eyelashes brilliant with teardrops.
“It will be all right, you know,” he assured her. Somehow.
“I was never as wicked as the paper said.”
“Even if you were, I don’t care.” Gareth was fairly sure he meant this. Annie should not be made to feel guilty for trying to escape the attentions of her father, even if her schemes had been cork-brained. He swept his hand on the wrinkled sheet. “Come here.”
“I—I don’t know if I’m in the mood.”
Damn and blast. He was the one with a headache.
“Well then, I’ll just have to see that I get you in the mood.” He’d lain down for his nap in his shirt, trousers, and stockings, so there was not much to shuck. But he would take his time.
He’d once been to an amazing dinner in India, where sloe-eyed ladies removed their veils and costumes bit by bit to the music of strange instruments. To be sure they weren’t really ladies, and their effect upon the males at the table proved they were not gentlemen. There had been a great deal of whooping and hollering at each slowly revealed expanse of flesh.
Even if Annie laughed at him, it would make for a nice change. He counted to one-hundred and eleven, as good a number as any, and unbuttoned a button. Keeping his eyes downcast, he waited.
There was no music, and he did not caper around the room, but he sensed she shifted in her chair.
“Wh-what’s wrong? Do you need help?”
He raised his eyes and shook his head slowly. This time it took him only to sixty-eight before he loosened the second button, staring at her all the while. He was spared from doing the next because it had come off long ago. He fisted the bunched-up fabric at his waist and gradually pulled it out of the waistband of his trousers. Gareth knew the voluminous fabric did nothing but make him look as if he was enceinte, so he hurried his process up and tore the shirt over his head, his stump not getting caught in its casing for once.
He straightened his spine, throwing his shoulders back a little for Annie’s benefit, and tossed the shirt into her lap. He knew he was thinner than he’d ever been, but his muscles were still sound. He’d worked like a slave last spring and summer once he’d limped out of bed.
Annie’s eyes were fixed on his chest, still brown from laboring bare-chested under the sun, for all the good it did him. He would be lucky if there was enough hay in the stable loft to feed two horses over the winter.
Gareth had captured her attention. He didn’t fancy dropping his trousers only to be left standing in his much-mended mismatched stockings—somehow that picture was not particularly appealing. His hand hovered over his falls.
“I believe I could use some help now.” He walked toward her purposefully.
Her damp lashes flickered, and in a riveting instant Gareth realized where she sat in relation to his manhood. He was not fully erect yet, but the image of her opening her lips to him altered that.
Ye gods. This afternoon was meant to be for her—to soothe her and strengthen their bond. To convince her he wasn’t some shallow drunken cad who couldn’t be depended on to keep a promise. He’d had plenty of adversity in his time. The Infamous Lady I would not slay him.
Except in bed, where her tentative touch was becoming his undoing. Her hands trembled now as she dealt with the fastenings, each tremor sending a shock to his core. He was thinking with his little head now, pushing any uncomfortable bits of reality far into a corner. Gareth caught his pants once his cock sprang free.
“Are you in the mood now?” he asked, his voice rough.
“I-I’m not sure.”
He dropped to his knees before her and lifted her skirts. Lilac and feminine musk swept his senses, making him harder than iron. Canting her hips forward, he eased her to the edge of the chair, parted her legs and plunged his tongue between her curls. She stiffened immediately, gasping his name.
This was as much for him as it was for her. Gareth reveled in her taste and her compliance. Every lick brought Annie closer to losing control. He thought he might come as well just from the helpless way she rippled against his mouth. He wanted her to stop worrying about the “whys” of her life and just enjoy the “when”—to live in the moment, give herself up to sensation, allay all doubt.
He was filled with enough doubt for both of them.
Her hands were wild in his hair as she came apart. His mission a success, he dragged her up off the chair and fell with her onto the bed. His trousers were a tangle, and he kicked them off. There was no time to divest Annie of her dress and petticoat, stays and shift. So many layers of clothing, but thank God she had not been wearing drawers, the minx.
Damn it, he was still wearing his socks but she wouldn’t have time to notice. Her eyes were shut in any case, but he wanted her to look at him. To see him. To know that she was safe.
“Annie. Anne.”
She looked up, her cheeks flushed.
Once he might have slunk from his troubles and attempted to drink them away. Lady Imaculata Anne Egremont was trouble—much more trouble than he’d bargained for when he’d agreed to her addlepated proposal. But she was worth so much more than her fortune to him, and he wanted her to know it. In less than a score of days she’d almost stitched him back together.
“I love you.”
Was it true? He rather thought it was. And she needed to hear it.
A fresh tear leaked from her left eye. “You don’t have to say that to make me feel better.”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to. You have made me love you, Imaculata Anne, although I cannot love your name. Anne it will have to be.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Why not? Taste yourself on my lips and tell me how I could ever resist you.”
“It’s just sexual congress, Gareth. You’re a man, and I’m here.”
“Oh, you foolish girl.” He pressed his cock into her rucked-up skirts. “Yes, you make me hard, when I never thought to have anything to do with a woman again. That in itself is a bit of a welcome miracle. But it’s not just your beautiful body, Anne. Your heart, your spirit—what you’ve gone through—I would have had you by my side in the army, fighting off all enemies. You are a wonder.”
“You feel sorry for me.”
He nodded and watched her face fall. “Aye, I do. And I respe
ct you as well. It’s not just pity that’s made me hard, for heaven’s sake. I’d pass you a handkerchief instead of want to spend the rest of my life with you. And it’s not the expectation of your inheritance that keeps me hard, either. If you never want to confront your father again and hold on to your secrets, we can stay right here and manage somehow. With you as my wife, I’m fairly certain I can accomplish most anything.”
Her lips quivered. “Fairly certain?”
“Hubris, Anne. I don’t want to court the gods’ wrath—they’ve played about with me enough as it is.” His lone arm was getting tired as he propped himself over her, proof positive that he’d been punished for his past transgressions.
“I love you, Anne. I’ll say it as often as I must to make you believe it. I know why you have such difficulty accepting compliments—the men you’ve known have not been a trustworthy lot, have they? But I mean what I say. I imagine I’ll love you more and more as each day passes and we get to know each other even better. Can you love me back someday?”
“Oh, Gareth.” Her eyes filled. “You stupid man.”
“Guilty.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I can do a smart thing right now, though.”
He sheathed himself inside her before he even kissed her mouth. Hot wet tight perfection. Annie still flexed with the aftershocks of her climax, and he drove her to new heights, her walls clenching to a private rhythm. It was she who had control of him now, and he could not have lasted if Napoleon were to come back from the dead and hold a gun to his head.
Did she love him already? The artless kissing, the soft muttering, the sighs, the gentle touches might indicate she did. Gareth held her as her emotions crested and ebbed and he poured himself into her.
She was so very young. Even with the alleged wisdom of age, he hoped he was man enough to protect her from whatever the future held.
CHAPTER 24
Under a threatening sky, Gareth and Annie braved the elements to attend church services. They stopped to pick up Martin on the main road as he was walking alone to church. The groom had tipped his cap to Annie and refused the lift at first, but finally climbed into the trap on Gareth’s orders.
The man was stubbornly independent. Gareth thought he was a touch too old to be walking all the way to town in this weather, though he did it every Sunday. Gareth had never noticed—he’d not darkened the chapel’s door in years, and had been too hungover Sunday mornings to keep an eye on Martin’s whereabouts.
They settled on the Ripton-Jones bench, right up front, Annie between them like a scarlet rose between two thorns. Eyes were raised to heaven, hymns were sung, banns called, and the congregation seemed a bit warmer toward them today despite the cold. Mrs. Chapman could claim credit for that—she’d given her stamp of approval to Gareth’s housekeeper-bride and let everyone know it. Gareth even felt a thaw toward his own allegedly wicked self.
After everyone had filed out of the building and made for home, he told Martin to wait by the trap, then collared Ian. Annie stood subdued by his side, examining her boots as if it was the first time she realized she had feet. Gareth threw his arm around her and drew her closer.
“Just a minute of your time, Ian.”
“You had no time for me yesterday.”
“I’m sorry if I was rude. I needed time to think about all you told me.”
“I can see you haven’t changed your mind. This is a churchyard, Gareth—stop pawing your fiancée.”
Annie opened her mouth, a puff of angry air escaping. Before she had a chance to say anything cutting, Gareth squeezed her arm.
“We’d like to count on your discretion, Ian. Annie has suffered enough in her short life. I need to know that you will not cause further harm to befall her.”
“I’m sure she’s caused enough harm to herself,” Ian bristled. “May the Almighty forgive her sins.”
Pompous ass. “We’ll marry two weeks from yesterday. I trust that will be convenient, and that her secret is safe.”
“Aye,” Ian replied grudgingly. “My cousin Thomas will keep his mouth shut, too. I didn’t tell him why he had to mangle Mrs. Mont’s name when he read the banns for me, just that he had to.”
“You truly are a man of God, and I’m humbled by your mercy,” Annie said softly. “I will endeavor to be more circumspect and leave my London ways behind.”
Ian could not resist such a speech, although Gareth doubted Annie meant one word of it. She probably wanted to kick Ian in the shins for sowing the seed of discord between them.
“The truth shall set you free. Repent, Imaculata, repent.”
It was Gareth’s turn to envision kicking. “Christ, Ian, that is exactly what I’ve asked you not to do. Her name is Anne now. Forget the other.”
“No one heard me save the two of you.”
Gareth glanced at Martin, who was a good distance away. “Nevertheless. It will do Annie no good if people learn who she is before she’s ready to tell them and she has the protection of my name. Give her time, man.”
“Are we done here?” Ian asked, annoyed. “I have been invited to Lord Lewys’s for luncheon.”
“Parry Lewys is home?” Gareth had not heard of the baron’s early return. The winter crossing must have been hellish.
“He arrived yesterday evening, and was most anxious to learn the news of the investigation into Bronwen’s death.”
The baron should have spoken to Gareth as acting magistrate first. Like everyone else, Lord Lewys probably thought Gareth was to blame. Well, the man was welcome to take up the reins of the inquiry. The trail was stone cold.
“Tell him I will be happy to meet with him at his pleasure.” They had been on friendly terms once. When Gareth had left the army and come home, Lewys, like most everyone, had welcomed him as a returning local hero. He couldn’t expect the friendship to last now, though. Somehow Gareth needed to convince Parry Lewys that he was innocent of Bronwen’s murder, or he might not be marrying Annie after all.
“I will. Good day to you then.”
Sunday was a day of rest, which was a good thing, for Gareth’s head still troubled him, even more now that he knew the baron had returned to stir up trouble. Maybe he should have gone with Ian—to have all three of Bronwen’s lovers in one place to sort out the details. Three heads were better than one, aye? At least Bronwen had thought so.
His own head throbbed at the absurdity. How ironic that the pain was worse than that of the many mornings he woke up covered in sweat and stinking of alcohol. Sitting through Ian’s service had been agony, not just for the usual balance of boredom and brimstone. But there had been no question that he’d show up for the second calling of the banns. He had to show his face and impress upon Ian to keep Annie’s confidences.
They rode home in silence, after Annie’s attempts to converse fell flat. Perhaps there was to be a shift in the weather. Gareth’s entire body felt like a barometer of discomfort. His left leg buckled beneath him as he stepped down from the wagon, and Martin caught him before he slid to the icy ground.
“Your leg bothering you, Major?”
“Leg and head, I’m afraid. I bet we’re in for another storm.”
Martin gazed up at the gray sky. “Could be you’re right.”
“Do me a favor, will you, Martin? Make sure there’s enough coal and wood brought in from the shed for the next few days. The kitchen and Mrs. Mont’s room in particular. My study if you’re ambitious.”
“I can help, Gareth,” Annie said, hopping down on her own.
“I wouldn’t dream of asking you to labor so,” said Gareth, before Martin could voice his obvious resistance. “You’re in your Sunday best.”
“So is Martin.”
“I’ll go change.” He led Job and the conveyance to the stable.
“Well, what am I to do, then?” Annie asked brightly, threading her arm through Gareth’s.
“Nothing but amuse yourself. Or repent,” he teased.
Annie scrunched up her nose. “Do you think Ian can
be trusted?”
“I hope so.” Gareth sighed. Parry Lewys might be interested to know that Ian had been bedding Bronwen, too, but Gareth did not really want to sink to the level of blackmail. “Don’t worry. It’s Sunday and your day off.”
“I don’t want a day off from you,” Annie replied.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to do without me, love. My head is aching like the very devil.” He opened the kitchen door and followed her in. She put her bonnet on a hook and exchanged it for the apron hanging there.
“I’ll take care of you then, just as you did for me when I fell and sprained my ankle. Willow bark tea, wasn’t it? I don’t suppose you have any laudanum.”
No, he did not. The stuff frightened him worse than any pain he’d ever endured. He’d seen too many good men succumb to its pernicious spell. “I’ll just lie down for a while, my lady. If I revive in an hour or two, perhaps you’ll consent to lie down with me.”
“But not in your room,” Annie objected. “Though I don’t expect you to clean it today when you’re feeling unwell.”
“What a fusspot you are. What’s a little disorder?”
Annie raised a bronze brow. “Define ‘little’ for me if you please.”
Gareth laughed even though it hurt his head. “Oh, very well. I’ll go up to my mother’s room and warm the bed for us.”
“Do you want me to bring up lunch?”
The thought of food roiled his stomach. “Not now, love. You have something, but all I want to do is close my eyes.” He hadn’t felt quite like this since contracting a fever after his accident. Gareth didn’t think he was any hotter than usual, but his head ached fiercely.
As if reading his mind, Annie stood on tiptoes and placed a cool hand on his forehead. “You’re warm.”
“I may have a touch of something. Best you leave me be for a bit.” He didn’t like to worry her, and was too tired and depressed to appreciate her attentions to him anyway. The unexpected return of Parry Lewys might complicate all their plans.
Lady Anne's Lover (The London List) Page 22
