She kissed his cheek. “I’ll make the tea right away. Go on up.”
Grateful she didn’t buzz around him, he climbed the main staircase. The delicate furniture in the room was still shrouded in Holland covers, but the bedding had been smoothed over from yesterday’s lovemaking. Gareth was too weary to start a fire, and lay down on the bed still wearing his clothes for the second day in a row. There would be no striptease today.
He fell into near instant slumber, never hearing Annie bring the medicinal tea or strike the tinder box to light the hearth. Never feeling the sag of the mattress or the softness of her body when she joined him as the skies darkened.
When he woke, his headache had retreated and Annie lay on her side next to him, lashes fluttering from afternoon dreams, her fist curled under her stubborn little chin. The room was dim, the fire casting pale golden light on her sleeping form. This was the face he’d see every morning for the rest of his life, and he felt a surge of possessiveness that startled him in its intensity.
Gareth had never thought to love again. And looking back, he wondered if what he’d felt for Bronwen was a combination of lust and obsession rather than love. He’d learned to his detriment she was not a very nice woman. The girl of his youth had disappeared.
Gingerly so as not to disturb Annie, he rose from the bed and pushed open the casement window. He filled his lungs with ice-cold air, then frowned. An acrid tang of smoke had tagged along with the crystalline air. He sniffed.
Something was burning.
“Anne! Wake up!”
She blinked at his bark, then sat and stretched. “You’re not supposed to leave the bed until I tell you to,” she admonished with a sultry smile.
“I think the house is on fire. Put your shoes and clothes on.” He tossed her slippers at her.
“What?” She scrambled up and shoved the shoes on her bare feet. She wore only a shift—her brown dress, stockings and stays lay neatly folded over a canvas-covered chair back.
“Stay here until I find out what’s happening.” Before she could object, he sped out of the bedroom and turned left down the hallway to the back stairs’ landing. As he descended, the scent of smoke was sharper. He put his hand on the kitchen door. It was reassuringly cool, but when he pushed it open, smoke billowed out.
Duw. There were no flames, just a gray miasma coming from the direction of the old stove. Gareth spotted the problem through stinging eyes. A dishtowel had been wrapped loosely around the tea kettle’s handle and had drifted down to touch the hot iron cooktop. By some miracle, it had not ignited, but the smell of scorched fabric made him want to stop breathing. Annie must have been in a rush to bring him his willow bark tea, which he imagined was stone cold by now. He could use a cup again. He threw open the kitchen door and flung the towel and kettle into a snowbank, then opened all the windows.
“Oh my goodness!”
Gareth turned. Annie had misbuttoned her dress and stood at the door clutching her bodice, her face white as a sheet.
“I told you to stay upstairs.” Gareth was annoyed, both with her carelessness and her unwillingness to obey. He reckoned he’d better get used to both.
She coughed and covered her mouth. “What happened?”
“You left a cloth on the hob. I suppose we should consider ourselves lucky that we didn’t fry in bed.”
“A cloth?” Annie looked over to the stove in puzzlement.
“I threw it outside.” And blistered his hand in the process. “It was tied to the handle of the kettle, but it slipped.”
She was even pale now. “I-I’m so sorry, Gareth. I must have been in such a hurry to get upstairs to you,” she said, sounding crushed.
“No matter. Nothing’s really damaged.” He glanced involuntarily at his reddened palm.
“You’ve burned yourself!” She flew across the room to the Welsh dresser where Mrs. Smith’s book sat among the chipped teacups. “Common alum, eggs whites—do we have a feather?” The pages flipped between her trembling hands. “Or lime water and linseed oil. Those seem to be recommended remedies. There’s something here about dragon’s blood, too—”
Her guilt was palpable. “How about I just go outside and stick my hand in some snow? That always used to do the trick,” he said with a strained smile. It would be devilishly inconvenient to lose the use of his remaining hand for any length of time, but he was used to inconvenience and incapacitation by now. The important thing was that he still had a functioning brain, and it was telling him to soothe Annie before she fell into a full-fledged panic over what she’d done. “Love, why don’t you fill up a bowl with snow for me?”
“Of course!” She grabbed a tureen from the Welsh dresser and disappeared out the open kitchen door. He watched her rounded backside as she bent to the snowdrift by the door. Another part of him began to function as well.
She returned, her cheeks flushed. “I’m so sorry, Gareth—I cannot say it enough. I don’t remember leaving the rag on the kettle.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m all right, really.” He plunged his hand in the transferware dish. The relief was immediate. He knew the burn wasn’t bad, but he’d likely have blisters. As he wasn’t planning on doing much in the way of manual labor in the next few days, he’d be fine.
Annie still looked worried, so he winked. “When we return to bed, Lady Imaculata Anne Egremont, I expect you will have to do all the work, earl’s daughter or no. And I will be a stern taskmaster, I assure you.”
“What’s all this?”
Gareth looked up from Annie’s blushes to see Martin standing in the doorway. He wasn’t wearing a coat, and looked as if he’d sprinted down the stairs and across the yard in a hurry to help.
“It’s nothing, Martin. Just a small mishap with the stove.”
“I smelled the smoke all the way up to my rooms. Are you sure there’s no fire?”
“Perfectly. Don’t worry about a thing. Enjoy the rest of your day off.” Gareth would worry enough for everyone.
“You’ll need even more coal brought in if you’re heating the whole outdoors,” Martin grumbled. Annie shivered in agreement. Gareth hoped Martin did not notice the inches of shift that were visible between her bodice buttons.
“Just airing out the house. But you’re probably right. Annie, why don’t you open the rest of the windows downstairs? The front door, too. We should have the smell out in a trice what with the wind. And find a shawl or your cloak before you freeze.”
She nodded and scurried off. “And if you don’t mind, Martin, a few more buckets of coal should set us to rights and get the temperature back up. Thank you for your concern. And all your help. I don’t think I tell you enough how much I appreciate you.”
The groom colored. “I don’t need thanks, Major. Ripton Hall’s been my home, too. I’ve been here longer than you have.”
“You’ve been a true friend.” If possible, Martin’s face turned a deeper hue of red.
Leaving the man to his work, Gareth carried his melting bowl of snow to his study and set it on a corner of the desk. He pulled the clutch of newspapers up from under the tilted blotter and tossed them aside, then thrust his hand back into the cooling balm. If his bedroom was a disaster, this room was five times worse. It was past time to get rid of the yellowing broadsheets and moldy books and papers. He’d ask Annie to help him, if it wouldn’t bother her to confront her front-page past.
The poor girl. Hounded by her father and the bloody press. Whoever this Evangeline Ramsey was, she must have made Annie’s life a living hell before she turned herself into an angel.
“Do you want me to open these windows, too?” Annie entered, wearing her cloak and mittens.
“Aye. Some fresh air in this room would do it good.”
She pushed the window open and a newspaper fluttered to the floor. “What did that one say?” she asked, not moving to pick it up.
“I’m sure you remember the time you drove Lord Crandall’s phaeton into an oak tree in Hyde Park.”
“The hors
e was fine. The traces broke and I couldn’t stop.”
“You might have been killed.”
“Well, one doesn’t plan to get into an accident, does one? I could say the same for you. How many battles have you fought?”
“That’s a little different, Annie. I was fighting for my country.”
“And I was fighting for my independence.”
“Let’s not argue, love. The important thing is that we’re both here, mostly unscathed. Come sit on my lap. I’ll keep you warm.”
Her wool-wrapped bum felt delightful. She wriggled a little and it felt even better. Another copy of The London List lifted in the breeze and scuddered to the floor but they both ignored it.
“I am sorry about the stove,” she said.
There was only one thing to be done to stop her apologies. “Stubble it and kiss me.”
One kiss led to another, which led to the beginnings of a rather amazing ride on his cracked leather desk chair. The phaeton was taking up speed when Martin entered the room with a scuttle full of coal. The groom dropped its contents in his embarrassed haste to leave, and Annie’s quaking giggling drove Gareth to even greater heights.
“Stop. Your. Laughing. Minx.” He was breathing hard, and at each word he thrust up harder.
“Oh, G-Gareth, I cannot. This is so very improper.”
“It feels. Proper. Enough. To me.”
With his last plunge, her eyes widened and her mouth softened. He knew he touched something deep and mysterious within her. So he touched it again. Suddenly, Anne ceased laughing and tore at her cloak so she could see the union of their bodies. Gareth held her up, rocking her back and forth. She clung to him as the ride turned beautifully reckless, whispering his name over and over until they climaxed together.
When they were done, she snuggled into him. “You don’t suppose Martin saw anything, do you?”
“Apart from the obvious? You were covered by your cloak, love. But I imagine he’s shocked. And I’m afraid there’s even more of a mess in here now.” He waved his arm in the direction of the newspapers littering the old carpet.
Annie looked up at him, grinning. “It’s my day off. Stubble it and kiss me.”
As he kissed her again, he almost forgot about fires and magistrates and murder. He’d have to confront Lewys as soon as possible, but not today when he had Annie’s arms around him and her lips on his.
CHAPTER 25
As Gareth’s mended bones predicted, they found themselves snowed in again at Ripton Hall for three days. It was no hardship to be by Gareth’s side as they finally made progress cleaning his bedroom and study together. Anne was almost sorry to see the sun, as they grew closer every day they were shut up alone in the house.
When the weather finally cleared, Gareth’s palm was still too tender from the burn to hold the reins and ride into the village, so Martin had been dispatched to fetch the mail and a loaf of bread to replace the sad rock that Anne had baked.
She had been unable to meet the man’s eye when Gareth called the groom into the house to ask him to go to Llanwyr. She and Gareth may have been engaged to be married, but to be caught in flagrante delicto by Martin had been very improper. Mortifying, really. Gareth had assured her that her body had been adequately covered, but the groom must think her a very wicked woman to be bouncing up and down with abandon in Gareth’s lap. She worked off her guilt by a thorough scrubbing of the formal dining room, imagining the long table set with Mrs. Chapman’s delicacies for the wedding reception.
Gareth was sorting through the mail in his study when she passed by with an armful of tablecloths she would try to iron. Most likely she’d set the wrinkles right back into them. “Is there anything for me?”
Anne didn’t really expect a letter. She and Evangeline had agreed not to communicate in case the earl’s minions somehow figured out the connection between them. Her father’s investigator Mr. Mulgrew was a demon when it came to discovering secrets. One wouldn’t think it to look at him—he rather resembled a dancing bear one saw at a street fair.
Gareth looked up, his face sober. “There’s some bad news, I’m afraid. Your father is advertising a reward for your return. There are several issues of the London List here, and the ad appears in all of them.”
Anne dropped the rumpled linen on a chair. “Let me see.”
Gareth folded back the newssheet and pushed it toward her. In the center of page three was a prominent boxed advertisement. Each black letter leaped from the page.
A very generous reward is offered by the Earl of Egremont for information leading to the safe return of his daughter Lady Imaculata. A father’s heart is broken. The young lady is dangerously ill and may not be in possession of all her faculties. Those concerned for her welfare may reply to Box 34 and will be amply compensated.
Anne’s mouth dried. He made it sound like she was a candidate for Bedlam. “My God! He’s forsaken his pride and used our names! How could Evangeline had printed this?”
“Perhaps she was amply compensated.”
“No. There’s more to it.” In desperation she searched through the pages of ads until she came to an item near the top of the Personals column.
To the chestnut seller who found gainful employment. Your secret is safe and the villain thwarted. Steps have been taken regarding any search.
For now, perhaps. “She still tries to protect me. Look.”
“Chestnut seller?”
“It’s a private joke. She might have spoken to my father’s private detective so he won’t look for me. I hope so. I don’t want to end up locked away in a lunatic asylum.”
“I’ll protect you, Annie. We’ll be married in less than two weeks.”
She bit a lip, anguished that she once again appeared in the newspaper. Where once she’d sought notoriety, she now wished to lead a far more private life. Become a respectable wife to a man she loved more each snowy day. “It must have cost him to air our family quarrel like this in public.”
“I hope the son of a bitch is miserable.”
“But don’t you see what he’s done by this? People thought me shockingly shatter-brained before, and now he says I’m truly ill. Mad.”
He hugged her hard. “You are no more mad than I am. The best thing you did was to run away. Once we’re married, you’ll be beyond his reach.”
Anne slipped from his arms. “We shouldn’t wait until a week from Saturday to marry. I wish we could marry right after the banns are called. I wish we could marry today .”
“It will be all right, my love. You want your grand party in the house, don’t you? You’ve worked so hard to get the place ready. No one save Ian knows who you are, and I’ll make sure he knows you can match your father’s reward once you get your funds. I’m sure he’s not above a bit of bribery.”
She fought back the panic. “Oh, Gareth. What if he’s not? He hates you and doesn’t wish you to be happy. He could spoil everything for us.”
“He won’t. I swear it. In fact, I’ll go into the village and see him right now. Don’t borrow trouble.” He kissed her forehead and left her standing by the desk.
He shouldn’t be riding yet. “Wait! I’ll put on your glove.” She chased him down the hall into the kitchen where he was getting into his coat. She pulled the thick leather glove from his pocket and tugged it on gently over the bandage that covered his blister.
Once he’d left, she paced the room, then slapped her hand on the kitchen table. Ian had said he never read The London List. He’d never read about her. Heard her name before she told him. Why should he ever see the advertisements? Gareth himself would give Ian the information to destroy her. If she could get Martin to saddle a horse for her, she might be able to stop Gareth before he got to Llanwyr.
Oh, God. Deacon Thomas Morgan had announced her name to the congregation that first week, and she had no idea what his reading habits were. She rushed into her room and threw the green riding habit over her dress and shoved her feet into the boots.
Th
e thought of seeing Martin again today was embarrassing, but she screwed up her courage and ran across the kitchen dooryard to the stable. The groom was currying Penny, who had already made the trip to the village once. The brush stopped midstroke.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Mont?”
He looked at her with dislike. He didn’t have to like her, and she didn’t have to like him, but soon she would be mistress of this house, and he would be subject to her orders as well as Gareth’s. She used her sniffiest earl’s daughter’s voice. “I need to go after Major Ripton-Jones. Kindly saddle Penny for me, Martin.”
“Don’t know as I should. He’s tired.”
That was undoubtedly true. The old warhorse looked at her with great liquid eyes, almost begging her to be spared. She patted his flank with a gloved hand.
“How is his breathing today?”
“Not good.”
Nothing seemed truly amiss to her, except it was clear Martin was not inclined to help her. Lifting her chin, she said coolly, “Very well. I’ll walk.” She spun on a booted heel and slid in horse dung.
Martin’s hand shot out to steady her, saving her from an unpleasant fall. So much for making a dignified departure. Earl’s daughter indeed.
“Thank you,” Anne said.
“You need to be more careful, Mrs. Mont. You’re accident-prone, ain’t you? The major don’t need that.” The words, delivered innocuously enough, sent a chill through her.
She shook his hand away from her elbow. “I’ll be more careful.”
“Watch yourself on the road. There’s icy patches.”
Blast. By the time she caught up with Gareth, he’d probably be on his way home. But she wanted to talk to Ian herself and make sure he had control over his cousin Thomas Morgan’s tongue as well as his own. A large monetary reward could be a great temptation to both men, even if they endeavored to live an ascetic life.
Anne stumbled along the partially-cleared lane, grateful for the horses that had gone before her. The hedgerows were covered in snow and served as glistening walls around her. A light wind tossed some plops of snow in her direction, but she simply tied her scarf tighter and soldiered on until she heard the jingle of a harness ahead. She scooted to the side and waited gratefully, assuming that Gareth had changed his mind and turned around.
Lady Anne's Lover (The London List) Page 23
