They were silent on the way back, keeping a space between their bodies. Anne hoped they could eventually bridge the distance between them.
She had forgotten the dismal condition of the house. The smell of smoke was still heavy in the air despite all the windows being open. Anne led Gareth to the double drawing room, where at least everything still was in order, if freezing. She didn’t remove her cloak.
“Please sit.”
“I take it you don’t want me on my knees again. Don’t you want me to make a fire? I can see my breath.” He leaned up against the marble mantle, looking exhausted.
“No. We shouldn’t be too long. Your gesture was lovely, truly it was. But I don’t want you making promises you can’t keep.” She sat on the edge of the old sofa and wrapped herself up more deeply in her cloak.
Gareth’s face darkened. “Do you think I’d go back on my word?”
She didn’t want to remind him that he already had. Yes, she’d been annoyed last night, but ultimately it wasn’t really the drunkenness that had bothered her. It was what he’d said in that state. “Gareth, I’m not really worried about your drinking. I expect we’ll both be too busy with the house and the horses. And when we have our successes, we can toast each other. In moderation.”
“Then you’ll marry me after all?”
“I think so.”
“Then what in God’s name is this all about?”
“You resent me because I am Lady Imaculata Anne Egremont. And a woman.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“I hold the purse strings, or will. And you’re afraid that somehow makes you less of a man.”
His mouth dropped open. “I said that?”
“Not in so many words. There was a lot of talk about canines and leashes.”
“Oh, God.”
“And I think,” she said with a tremble in her voice, “that the loss of your arm is still troubling you. There are things you need help with, and you don’t like to be dependent on anyone. On me.”
She watched his ashen face as her soft words hung between them.
“What do you want me to say?” he asked at last.
“That you will let me help you. Without resentment. I am really helping myself, Gareth. Doing this for both of us. And legally, all the money will be yours once we marry anyway, no matter what arrangements we make between us. You could turn me out of your house.”
“Who would be here to lecture me?” He almost smiled.
“I know how frustrated you are. You—you don’t have to be perfect. I love you as you are.”
“What’s left of me. I’m sorry—I’m still full of self-pity, aren’t I? I’m a whole lot luckier than a lot of men I once knew.” He ran his hand through his hair. She had trimmed it again for the wedding, and now she thought she preferred it the old way.
To her dismay, he did not join her on the couch, but sat down in a chair in the corner. “I think you’re right, Annie. Smarter than I am in a thousand ways for such a young girl. Why would you want to tie yourself to me for life?”
“One can’t help whom one falls in love with.”
He sighed. “I’m not sure I deserve your love.”
“Then we’re even.”
He lifted a brow. “Come now. You’re beautiful, rich—not a great cook, true, but you could have any man.”
“You’ve read The London List,” Anne said dryly. “I think we’re pretty evenly matched in our assets and debits. We both have our faults and shortcomings. I want a marriage of equals, Gareth. I want to be your partner. In all ways.”
“You have been reading Miss Wollstonecraft.”
“Who?” She had read nothing lately but those amusing Courtesan Court books.
“Never mind.” He got up from the chair and poked a toe into some ashes in the empty hearth. “I feel like a failure, Annie. Ever since I left the army, everything I’ve touched turns to dross. I even made a cock-up of our wedding day.”
“Stop, just stop. You can’t keep dwelling on the past and blaming yourself for everything. It’s—it’s tedious.”
She did not expect the laughter and didn’t quite know what to make of it. When he was done, Gareth wiped what appeared to be a tear from his cheek. “You are the most extraordinary girl I have ever met. I have been put in my place. All right, my love. I will not bore you. I will not resent you. I will not curse my recent history. Or at least I will try. I have a feeling if I stumble, you’ll help me get up. And I will thank you. Now can we get married?”
“Someone will have to clean the church first. And give Ian some brandy when he comes back. He’s had a terrible shock.”
“Let’s go to the Silver Pony and set your plans in motion.” He reached out his hand. “Meet you halfway.” He took a step.
Anne got off the couch. She took a step, then two. She was in Gareth’s embrace before she knew it.
The party had carried on without them, and managed to last after Gareth had a few quiet words with some of the men there. They disappeared for a time, after visiting the inn’s broom closet for rags and buckets first, and Gareth actually ate a ham sandwich and a piece of his wedding cake. He did not touch the cider, ale, or the champagne that Parry Lewys had donated. He had meant what he said to Annie, no matter what she thought of it.
When the men returned, they had a chastened Ian Morgan with them. Dr. Cole had come and gone, and no one mentioned the reason he had been summoned. Ian’s eyebrows raised right to his hairline when Gareth explained what he wanted him to do, but he nodded in agreement. No one noticed when he, Annie, Mrs. Chapman, Sally, and Ian slipped away from the assembly room, one by one.
A large rug lay in front of the lectern in the chapel, taken from the inn’s second-best bedroom. Ian’s voice was barely audible as he read from a worn Book of Common Prayer, but Gareth and Annie repeated their vows with conviction. He slid his mother’s ring on her finger, and was reminded that the bag of jewelry still sat on the pew behind them. Some of his mother’s lesser pieces might help finance their trip to London. He’d take what was his and give the rest to Parry Lewys for Mared and Gwyn.
He gave Annie a conspiratorial wink when she stumbled over the word obey.
And then it was done. Annie signed the register, using her real name. He signed his with a flourish. Their adventures as Mr. and Mrs. Ripton-Jones had begun with two witnesses, a near-mute preacher, an empty chapel, and a bloodstained floor.
CHAPTER 30
March 1, 1821
He didn’t like it. For every mile closer to London, his Annie seemed to shrink deeper into the squabs of the private carriage he’d hired. It was like watching a bright flame extinguish—even her fiery hair seemed duller, her face paler. He knew she was nervous, so nervous she’d cast up her accounts this morning in the horrible inn they’d stayed at. She was terrified to return to get what was rightfully hers, because she’d have to see her father to do so.
She had made one excuse after the other to delay the trip, supervising the whitewashing of the kitchen walls, ordering a stove and new clothing for them both with the proceeds from the sale of a rather ugly ruby brooch and a pair of diamond earbobs that she said made her ears itch. There had been enough money left over to send to his creditors with a promise of more to come.
And now it was time to collect it. But first she had insisted they go see Evangeline Ramsey. The announcement of her engagement had been front-page news in The London List. By now he knew all about the woman and the role she’d played to get Annie to Wales. Gareth was tempted to kiss her when they met, but no doubt Lord Benton Gray would object. Annie, too.
His wife was so unnaturally quiet on their last day of travel that it was making him nervous. He could think of one thing that might very possibly distract her, and provide them both with some pleasure. Their bed last night in the coaching inn had been infernally lumpy, the sheets stained, the walls thin. He wound up half-sleeping in a ratty wingchair with Annie in his lap, trying to remember to hold onto her so she
wouldn’t fall to the floor.
“Sweetheart.”
“Mm.” She turned from the window and tried to smile.
“I believe it’s my day for you to obey me.” There was a great deal to be said for halfway measures.
“What onerous task do you have for me, Major Ripton-Jones?”
“Not so onerous, Mrs. Ripton-Jones. Ah, I do like the sound of that. It’s been four whole weeks and it still seems fresh and new.”
“Just wait until it’s been four years. You’ll probably consign me to the cellar with the mice.”
“Never there.” Seeing her at the bottom of the steps was a recurrent nightmare. “Come here.” He patted the space between them.
She wore a deep blue velvet traveling costume, with a fetching matching hat, which he was going to remove as soon as she got close enough. The hat for certain—the skirt would probably remain for the sake of convenience but would definitely be lifted.
“I want to kiss you, and as lovely as that hat is, I’d prefer to keep my nose in the center of my face.”
Her hand went to her bonnet strings, and she tossed the offending item on the seat opposite. Her red hair was dressed simply, but in her fine new clothes, he could see traces of Lady Imaculata in her countenance. She shimmied over the distance between them, closed her eyes and puckered her lips.
“Oh, Annie, Annie. That won’t do at all.” He traced her bottom lip with a gloved finger. “Take off my glove. I want to touch you.”
Her blush was lovely to see. Her hands shook a little as she removed his glove and placed it next to her hat. “Take yours off, too. I want your hands on me.”
There were too many buttons on her wrist, but then he felt that way about all buttons in general. He’d like to invent something that would keep him clothed without the daily struggle, and make it easier to undress his wife. Something that would just stick without tying or fastening. He wasn’t angry about the inconvenience, though—marrying Annie had eased his frustration at his limitations in so many ways.
She held out her palms and wiggled her fingers. “There. Where would you like them?”
He dropped a kiss on one, then the other. Her hands were still too rough even though they had temporary help in the house now. Once they got to London they’d advertise for a proper housekeeper. He planned on visiting Tattersall’s, too. If he could make progress with that damned disloyal Job—who had spent three days visiting a neighboring farmer’s filly and skipped the wedding—he had hopes that a horse breeding and training operation could be lucrative.
But what was he doing thinking of business when he had his pretty little wife next to him? He gentled her closer, fingering a curl that had been dislodged when she took off her hat.
“Your hair is like fire.”
“Let’s not throw that word around needlessly.”
He grinned down at her. She did seem to have bad luck with stoves, even with the most up-to-date example of its kind. Devilish expensive it had been, too, for all the good it was doing. They still ate dinner most nights at the Silver Pony, walking hand and hand to the village in the starry dusk. “You haven’t had a problem with the new stove in at least a week.”
“That’s because we’ve been on the road to London for half of it.”
“I didn’t marry you for your skill in the kitchen, wife.”
“Oh? Why then did you marry me, husband?”
“For this.” He lifted her chin and covered her mouth with his. She tasted of tea and mint. She hadn’t managed much breakfast after being ill, and he hoped the inn they’d stop at would have a decent luncheon.
But not stop too soon. He was not hungry for food.
Annie put both hands to his face and drew him down, meeting his thrusting tongue with a sweet parry of her own. Gareth let her toy with him, encircling her with his arm, rubbing the velvet and comparing it unfavorably to her soft skin. He knew when she had stopped fretting—her body relaxed into the curve of his embrace and she kissed him back with even more determination. Her hands had slipped into his hair, and his scalp tingled. She made every inch of him aware.
She set him on fire. He smiled through the kiss at the thought.
He slowed the wave of his tongue so he could savor each second. Anne gave a protesting whimper but eased the kiss, so they were suspended in a gentle, hazy exercise of bliss. They had all the time in the world, or at least until the miles ran out to the coaching inn he and his hired driver had agreed upon.
He had taken his Lady Anne slow, fast, and every speed in between since their no-frills wedding. He didn’t have a preference—he was nearly always ready for her as she was for him. Whether she was leaning over the scullery sink or spread naked for his delectation in a feather bed, it really didn’t matter. The lust for each other might wear off in time, but not the love. She was so dear to him, so necessary—he, who had never expected to love again. Annie was his miracle.
Not that she was perfect, or even patient. In fact, her impatience was rising as she clambered over his lap. She unhooked her spencer, exposing a sliver of collarbone over her modest bodice, all without breaking their languid kiss. He settled her more comfortably over his cockstand and thrust up between the layers of clothes.
“You are a mind reader, my love.”
“Your mind is a naughty thing. We have never done this in a carriage.” Her hazel eyes, so haunted before, now held mischief.
“Too true. We have so many venues left to consider, don’t we? I wanted to do it on a horse, once—that time we came back from the Silver Pony in the snow. I was in agony all the way home.”
“That will be our next challenge.” She smiled and arranged her skirts around them. He caught a flash of bright nether curls before she placed her hands on his shoulders.
“You are a hoyden.”
“You knew that when you married me.”
The coach was not as well-sprung as it might have been. Just then they rolled over a rut in the road and she bounced down deliciously on his desperate cock.
“Free me, sweetheart. I want to be inside you.”
He lifted her skirts to look as she expertly unfastened his falls. If she had ever doubted the sincerity of his words, she could not possibly doubt now. She grasped him with her small hands and drew him up against her rounded belly. Even the outside of her body was warm and lush, and half of him was very happy to be flesh-to-flesh with his wife. She rubbed him against her, petting him as if he were particularly obedient.
Which he was at the moment, even if it was “his” day. They teased each other about her sharp tongue and his army-bred expectations, but the truth was they had found a balance to make their fledgling marriage work. When he felt the blackness creep into the corners on occasion, he knew Annie was there to shine her light. When she regretted her many indiscretions and impulsive behavior, he reminded her she would not be his wife if she hadn’t held a gun on Evangeline Ramsey and run away to Wales. That would usually earn him a poke in his ribs, followed by a kiss.
As she was kissing him now. He covered her hand with his, putting exquisite pressure on his member. But he was being selfish. His thumb dipped down and tangled in her curls as he parted her legs wider and sought her center. She wasn’t quite wet enough for him yet, though she squirmed in response to his dedicated probing. Gareth had refined the parameters of her response—he’d learned just where to touch her to the most effect. Even in the dark. Even, once, blindfolded, when she’d taken him up on his challenge to be tied and at her mercy. He had no recollection making that offer the night before their wedding, but had not objected much to the result, especially as she had left his hand free. For her benefit, not his. It was a novelty to cede all control and discover he liked it.
But there was daylight now, and he could see Annie’s pink folds parting for him, feel the glistening juices of her arousal, hear her soft cries. She was rigid and pulsing at her apex as he circled, marking his territory as if he walked an endless labyrinth. Around and around, ever closer, e
ver deeper into the mystery. Her kiss became complicated when she shattered against his hand. There were no more lazy licks, but harried clashes of teeth and tongue, her own hands wild everywhere she could touch him. No more pale face, but a heated flush even to her thighs. Another coil of copper hair had spilled from its pins and stuck to her damp throat. He tucked it behind her ear and whispered, “On your knees, Annie. Take me where I need to be. Where I belong. Where you want me.”
She shifted up and guided him within. Duw. She was the sweetest, tightest heat. He hissed in pleasure as her tremors pulsed around him, drawing him deeper.
He loved it when she rode him, couldn’t get enough of this kind of control. He might not want to jump to her every domestic command, but he was more than willing to be dominated in the bedroom—or convenient chair or carriage, he laughed to himself. Annie was so artlessly inventive. Now that she had discovered her own satisfaction, she was eager he find his as well. Arching up over him, generous to a fault, masterful—or was that mistressful?—she lost no time in bringing him close to a shamefully swift completion.
He watched her as she did it, delighting in the glorious blush and secret smile on her face. Her eyes were not on his but at their joining—it excited her to watch him disappear inside her, briefly reappear, then vanish again in her honeyed prison. It excited him, too. Gareth was a willing inmate, helping her ruck up her skirts to enable the view. He wanted her to come again with him, so he released the fabric and splayed his hand on her belly, intending to move lower to help his cock with a finger or two.
She was fuller there, her skin slightly taut. He traced the curve of her stomach and she looked up uncertainly.
She was pregnant. Somehow he just knew.
Of course she was—they’d been lovers for most of two months and he’d taken no precautions. Nightly. Daily. At any time of the day, really. His Lady Anne had been a gifted pupil once she’d trusted him with her sensual tutelage. It explained her illness the past few mornings, and her wan cheeks. Gareth felt a surge of boundless joy, beyond anything he’d ever experienced in all his thirty-three years. He spilled into her, claiming her, loving her.
Lady Anne's Lover (The London List) Page 28
