Anne sipped her tea and stared into the fire. Everything depended on tomorrow.
The case clock in the hall chimed the hour, and Anne frowned. Gareth really should be home by now. The wedding was set for nine o’clock in the morning, and a hearty wedding breakfast was scheduled for immediately thereafter, presumably at the Silver Pony now. Anne thought she would have heard if Gareth had been unable to persuade Mrs. Chapman to host the event. As an earl’s daughter, Anne never dreamed she’d celebrate her marriage in a taproom, but there must be worse places.
She flew to the window at the first sound of hoof beats echoing down the drive. A swinging lantern revealed Martin leading poor old Penny with a large sack on his back. If that was her wedding present, it looked unusually large and lumpy.
And then the sack twitched and broke into song.
“Not drunk, nor yet sober, but brother to both,
I met a young man upon Aylesbery vale,
I saw by his force that he was in good case
To come and take share of a tankard of ale,
La ra la la, la ra la la,
La ra la la, ra la la, ra la la,
I saw by his face that he was in good case
To come and take share of a tankard of ale.”
“It’s gin you’ve had, Major, and too much of it,” Martin chuckled as he brought Gareth by the open window to the kitchen door. “Easy now. You wouldn’t want to fall again. A man can’t enjoy his honeymoon with a broken crown, now can he? Need your wits about you.”
“What I need is m-m-more gin,” said Gareth as he slid from the horse and crumpled to the ground despite Martin’s outstretched hand.
Anne threw open the door in horror. “What is going on here?”
“Jus’ what you think, my love,” Gareth said, looking up at her with a crooked grin. “I’m well and tr-truly foxed. Last night of f-freedom, what? Y-you’ve bought me, lock, stock and b-barrel. T-taught me my place in the sc-scheme of things, Lady Anne. Tomorrow I’ll put my head in the n-noose and you can lead me ’round like a beaten pup. But tonight, I’m all dog. Big bad dog.” He gave a gruesome baying howl that woke the chickens in their henhouse and then broke into laughter. Between the hysterical clucking and Gareth’s own cackling, Anne thought she might go mad.
“Sorry, Mrs. Mont,” Martin said as he pulled Gareth up. “Found him at the Silver Pony like this. Lost his horse, he did, then spent all day making the assembly room fit for the wedding.”
“M-made paper garlands. Not an easy thing with one hand. Give us a kiss, Annie. Hell, give old Martin one, too. Saved my life.” Gareth lurched toward her, reeking of spirits.
“I can’t even make coffee to sober you up,” Anne said tartly.
“Praise God. N-no more of your coffee, I beg you. And anyway, whose fault is that, sw-sweeting? I didn’t wreck the stove.
“The widow that buried her husband of late,
She’s scarcely forgotten to weep or to wail,
But thinks every day ten till she’s married again,
When once she shakes hands with a tankard of ale.
“That’s just what you need, my little widow. Some ale. But then you’d probably b-burn the whole place to the ground and take me with it!” He cackled again at his wit.
Anne bit her tongue almost bloody. She was not going to give Martin a show on the kitchen doorstep. But, oh, she was aching to reach for a frying pan and beat The Tankard of Ale lyrics right out of Gareth’s head. “Can you help me get him upstairs to his room, Martin?”
“Aye.”
Gareth had other thoughts. “No. Wanna go to Annie’s room and tie her up. H-have my wicked way with her. Show her who’s boss. Sp-spread her legs so wide—”
“Gareth!” This was insupportable in front of Martin, of all people. The groom gave her a leering smile and she knew what she must do. “Never mind. I’ll take care of him.”
“Are you sure? He’s a right handful like this.”
Anne had never seen Gareth drunk in quite this way. When she’d first met him, he’d been surly and morose. Depressed and drowning himself. Now he was as cheerful as could be. He was happy—too happy—but she was about to change that.
“Perfectly sure. Thank you for bringing him home.”
“My pleasure, Mrs. Mont. Heard you had a mishap in the kitchen again today.”
“I bloody well did not,” Anne muttered. “Thank you, Martin. That will be all.”
He tugged an imaginary forelock and left her alone with her singing sack. At his departure, Gareth most inadvisably began another verse of his song.
“The old parish vicar, when he’s in his liquor,
Will merrily at his parishioners rail,
Come pay all your tithes, or I’ll kiss all your wives,
When once he shakes hands with a tankard of ale.
“Do you think Ian m-might soil his lips with Mrs. Chapman’s finest tomorrow, my dear? ’Twould be worth getting hitched every day to see my righteous cousin under the hatches.”
“We are not getting married tomorrow, Gareth.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “Don’t be s-silly. There’s a cake. I’ve seen it. Licked the frosting, too, before Mrs. Chapman gave me what-for.”
“I will not marry you tomorrow,” Anne repeated. She wasn’t sure she meant it, but the words served as cold ice water. Something had to get through to him in his current state.
His jaw slackened. Not an attractive look. “But—but why? We—damn it, Annie, we love each other.”
This was a fine time for his protestations of love. He’d said the words before, of course, to tease her into bed. Even if in vino veritas was true, words were not enough. “You’ve broken your promise to me. I cannot marry a man who will turn to drink when he’s too sad or even too happy.” And she planned to make him happy, in every way she knew how. This marriage might have once been based on cold convenience, but it had strayed into much hotter territory.
“T-turn to drink? By God, you’re enough to make the soberest Methodist tip the bottle! You almost died today, minx—do you remember? If I hadn’t come home when I did, who knows what would have happened? Another dead woman on my conscience.”
“And that’s another thing. I have told you again and again I had nothing to do with the fire. Do you know what I found in the oven?” She went to the sideboard and slapped the scorched pan on the table.
He swayed and squinted. “What is that?”
“Damned if I know. I did not put it in the oven. Nor did I put the tablecloth in next to it. A tablecloth, Gareth. In the oven. Do you really think I would be so stupid?”
“All right, all right so you didn’t set the fire.” He spoke to her as if she were a child. Humoring her. She’d used just the same tone with him this morning and had gotten nowhere.
“I am going to bed. Maybe when you come to your senses we can continue this discussion.”
“Talk is o-overrated. I am a man of action. A soldier.” He pounded his chest, nearly knocking himself on his arse. “A man, Annie, not some lapdog that does everything his mistress says for a b-bit of bone or a pat on the head. ‘Do this, don’t do this, Gareth,’ ” he said in a falsetto. “Just because you’ve got all the money. Well, you’ve pulled my strings long enough. If I want to drink with my friends, I shall drink with my friends.”
She had never lorded the differences in their stations over him. Not once. His resentment came as an unpleasant surprise. “I wish you the joy of your friends, then. Consider the strings snipped.” She made a scissoring motion with her fingers that was probably lost on him. “Good night. I’ll make arrangements to leave in the morning.”
“The hell you will! We are to be married tomorrow! I m-made paper garlands!”
“And I hear there is cake. Nevertheless, we are done.” Anne was as angry as she’d ever been with anyone. Were all men doomed to disappoint her? It was one thing to raise a glass or two, but Gareth had gone far beyond that.
She tried to cut across t
he kitchen to her room but he reached for her. For all that he was drunk, his grasp was strong and his breath stronger. “I’ve dreamed about you all day, minx. How I would tame you. Tie you. Show you who’s master.”
Ice settled in her heart. “You think you’ll be more of a man if I am rendered helpless?”
“I don’t need two arms to hold you, now, do I?” The look in his eyes was wild, desperate, as though he knew he’d gone too far but couldn’t for the life of him find his way back behind the line. “I love you, Annie. Let’s not fight.”
She gazed up at him, feeling sure her heartbreak was plain on her face. Even Gareth in his drunken state must see how this was all so wrong. “I am not fighting, Gareth. I am too tired to fight. We can talk about this in the morning.”
But she wouldn’t be here when he woke up. She’d need to go into Llanwyr early, see Ian and Mrs. Chapman. She would not begin her marriage on such a fractured foundation. They could wait until they hashed out whatever gloom was between them. No one would think less of a young woman who married for money and security. Why should it be different for Gareth? He had other things to contribute to this union.
If they decided they still suited, they could stand before God in an empty chapel without people and a party afterward. They would still be as married when it was done.
It was not her fault that she was the one with the money, although she’d have less of her little nest egg once she paid for all the futile wedding preparations. It was a waste, to be sure—but far worse to marry Gareth and then regret it the next time he decided to show her who was “master.”
Anne could not help but think that somehow Bronwen was to blame for Gareth’s sudden display of inferiority. That the loss of his arm lessened his manhood, which was sheer nonsense. Gareth had proved he was an honorable man time and time again. Anne knew she could be bossy on occasion, but she had presumed they were tethered together in partnership. Gareth seemed to think he was tethered outside to a tree at her whim. In a thunderstorm. The dog references were a little hard to overlook.
What had happened to him tonight? He’d left thinking she was absentminded, and returned all but calling her a controlling bitch.
“Let me go, Gareth.”
“No.” His face was set.
“You’re hurting me.” He wasn’t really—in fact, if he’d not been drunk she might not mind much being “mastered” by him. She loved him, or thought she did.
But she didn’t like him tonight.
It was not difficult to push him over—he could barely hold himself upright. He collapsed in front of the hearth, narrowly missing a fat cinder that had popped out onto the slate tiles.
“Damn it, woman! After all I’ve done for you!” he hollered as she ran into her room and latched her door. “My horse is gone because of you! Damned Job. I ask you, who’s the real Job here? It is I, Annie, it is I.” She blocked her ears against the whoop of laughter, then checked the lock on her window. She could picture Gareth swinging a long leg into the room once he could stand up again and make his way outside.
“Annie! Lady Anne, I b-beg you to forgive me. Come, sweeting, take pity ’pon me. It’s our wedding day.”
It wasn’t yet—the clock had not chimed midnight. She put her ear to the door. The kitchen was unnaturally quiet.
Anne stripped to her shift and climbed into her bed. There was no creak on the stairs—Gareth must still be where he fell.
Should she go out and cover him with a blanket? No. She was chilled as it was. Let him suffer a little on the cold slate floor. It might teach him a lesson all her lectures never would.
Despite the gravity of her situation, she snuggled deep in her bed. Now that there was no wedding to wake to, she felt preternaturally calm. She was nearly asleep when she heard the slurred words.
“I want to fuck you, Lady Imaculata Anne Egremont. You can tie me up. I won’t mind.”
Anne stuffed a pillow over her head and willed herself to sleep.
CHAPTER 28
Gareth didn’t want to open his eyes. Judging from the sharp aches throughout his body, he had rolled off his pallet and was on the hard ground again. He didn’t hear any soldiers stirring, couldn’t smell anything tempting from the campfire. His mouth tasted as if he’d licked the insole of his army-issued boots after a two day’s march.
What had he done last night? Something he was paying for today. It was damned cold on whatever hill he’d bivouacked on, and his uniform didn’t begin to keep the damp out. He needed to rise and see to his horse, see to his men. Find a bush to piss on in peace. He must have swallowed all the wine in Spain.
He went to brush the hair from his face with his left hand and felt nothing. The hair was still tangled in his eyelashes, tickling like a housefly.
He opened one eye. No blue sky above, just a blackened beam. Was he still in the taverna?
Oh Christ.
Gareth sat up, his head breaking into too many pieces to count. He had fallen asleep in the kitchen of his boyhood home. His home now. All the dreams of oranges and dusky barmaids disappeared. What was left was ash-covered stone and cold hearth, and the still ferocious desire to urinate.
He tried to steady himself as he came up, putting down an arm that wasn’t there. It had been months since he’d forgotten it was missing. What else had he forgotten?
He finally stumbled up and went outside to relieve himself. The day was fair but bitterly cold. They’d been teased by signs of an early spring all week, but—
Where was Annie?
He bit back an oath, wishing he was still in Spain. Wishing he was anywhere else. Someone else. Someone who had not made a prize ass of himself and ruined his chances with the woman he loved.
He knew better than to call for her, knew his house was as empty as his hopes. She was gone, and he’d driven her away.
She’d told him last night she wanted to talk. He had nothing to say except he was sorrier than he’d ever been in his life. He’d broken his pledge to her, at first out of joy, and then out of a sense of mulish independence. He’d been goaded and tormented until he lost all good sense and drank at least a quart of gin.
Martin had been there celebrating with him and took him home. Annie had been disgusted, and rightfully so.
He needed to find her, tell her—what? That he was weak again, a drunkard? For he was. He hadn’t stopped when he should have, knew every time his lips touched the glass he was sentencing himself to hell. Hell without his Lady Anne.
He didn’t care about her money, but he’d said something about it last night. He’d marry her if she were as poor as he was, if she’d have him.
She must be at the church, waiting to talk. He couldn’t turn up like this. Tearing his stained and stinking clothes from his body, he ducked his head under the pump in the dooryard. Icy water sluiced down his body but he felt he’d earned the sting of it.
Somehow, he went upstairs and got dressed. He wished Annie was here to tie his cravat, but he managed. Job was gone—surely someone would recognize his horse and return him—and so were Penny and Martin again. He would walk to the village, clear his head.
The church door stood open in welcome, but the building was empty. Gareth sank to his knees on the family bench, wondering if he could conjure the words to finally ask for help. For forgiveness. He wanted it from Annie, but would take God’s mercy if offered to a lost soul such as he.
Gareth heard the footfalls in the empty church, each sound echoing in his aching head. Annie! He tried to rise but couldn’t muster the energy.
“Come on home, Major. She’s not coming. No one is. They’re all at the Silver Pony, having the party without you. Had to eat up all the wedding food before it went bad, didn’t they? No one wants to pass up Mrs. Chapman’s fare.”
It was Martin. He held a gloved hand out, and Gareth gratefully allowed himself to be pulled up to his seat in the man’s strong grasp. Martin was an old man—Gareth wasn’t sure how old—but right now Gareth felt even older.
/> “Did Annie send you?”
Martin shook his head. “Told everybody if you don’t behave she’s done with you, and that Evangeline somebody or other will get her another job.”
She was going to leave him. It was no more than he deserved. He’d been a fool to come here, a fool to fall to his knees. It was too late for prayer. He couldn’t really remember exactly what he’d said to her last night, but he could remember the look she’d given him when he said it.
Martin slapped his shoulder. “I can fix it. I always do. We’ll be fine, like we were. She’s no good for you anyway. Like the other one. Sometimes I wonder how you managed to keep yourself alive all these years—when it comes to women, you haven’t the sense God gave you, lad. ‘Man is born to trouble, as the sparks fly upward.’ You’ve had your share, lately, just like Job. But fire cleanses.” The groom chuckled. “You’re a free man now. I’ve seen to it.”
Martin was talking—more than he had in years, replete with Bible quotations—as Gareth’s head spun and his stomach roiled.
“What do you mean?”
“You know, or should.” Martin looked down at him. With pity? And something else.
Was it satisfaction on that lined face?
“I don’t.” The only thing Gareth knew for sure was that his head felt close to exploding.
“I stopped you from making the biggest mistake of your life. A few dirty walls can be whitewashed. But to tie yourself to a jezebel for eternity . . . you should have learned your lesson after that Bronwen,” Martin spat. “She was a worthless whore. Just like this one—a lord’s daughter, running all over London naked. Getting her hooks into you before you discovered who she was. I read all about her in those old papers in your study, left out for anyone to see her shame. ‘Can a man take fire in his bosom, and his clothes not be burned?’ She would have brought you down, lad, and that’s a fact.”
Gareth felt his bruised heart race. What had Martin done? His worst thoughts couldn’t be true. Gareth needed him to say it. He’d trusted Martin with his life.
Lady Anne's Lover (The London List) Page 26
