Lady Anne's Lover (The London List) (10 page)

Gareth made quick work of his own meal, and had the audacity to stare at the contents of her plate when he was through.

“Do you want the rest of mine?” Anne asked tartly.

“No, no, my dear. You’re a growing girl. You need your sustenance.”

Anne cut the remainder in half and dropped it on his plate. “Next time, fix more.”

“I’ll need more bread. Are you baking tomorrow?”

“I’m
bathing
tomorrow. I’ve decided it’s to be my day off.”

“New Year’s Day. A fresh way to start the year to shuck all your grime. Perhaps I’ll follow suit.”

For one awfully intriguing moment Anne envisioned his long body sinking into a tub with her. She had an imprecise idea of what a totally naked man might look like, despite seeing statuary. She had been spared, thank the gods, from seeing her father in the altogether. Gareth Ripton-Jones was nothing like him anyway—he was much taller, angular, with not an ounce of fat to be seen under his strong chin or felt on his hard body. The ride home had been revelatory in that regard. He needed to eat more Welsh rabbit, to take care of himself better. Anne shouldn’t really care, but somehow she did. He did so need a proper housekeeper, and that was not she.

“Where is the tub anyhow? I haven’t seen one.”

“That’s because Martin is mending it. He must have done so by now. It’s been weeks.”

“It’s been
weeks
since you’ve bathed?” Anne squeaked.

Gareth laughed at her horror. “I have sponge-bathed, but didn’t have anyone to impress before you came, nor did I particularly care how much I reeked most of the time. And I’ll let you in on one of
my
secrets. There’s a stream not far from the house. The current’s too strong for it to freeze up, and I’ve taken a few dips in it to clear my head.”

“In
December
?”

“Aye. I’m tougher than I look.”

He looked plenty tough, but it was a wonder he hadn’t caught his death.

Perhaps that’s what he’d been after.

“Could you see if the tub is fixed? I’ll clear up.” She reached for his plate to stack over her empty dish, but his hand caught hers fast. The jolt was immediate. She frowned at him, but her disapproval only deepened his smile.

“Certainly, my lady. Your every wish is my command.”

“Stop teasing.” She tugged her hand away and grabbed the plate.

“I’m only stating the truth, Lady Anne. It’s as clear as glass you’re above my station. I’m just a humble retired soldier. A failed farmer. You should be dancing at a New Year’s Eve ball tonight instead of washing up cooking pots and dreaming of baths in a dented copper tub.”

“I’m much too sleepy to make it until midnight anyway.” It was full dark already. She was dreadfully sore from her short ride into the village, and they’d gone at a snail-slow pace. Would she ever have the opportunity to ride wild and free again? Her aching body rebelled at the thought.

What had she been doing last year at this time? Something foolish, no doubt. The lure of her solitary bed was much more appealing than twirling about with some chinless peer.

“So, no champagne then?”

She heard the wistfulness in his voice. It must be difficult to stop drinking all at once when he had walked about in an alcoholic fog for months. “You’ve had both ale and punch today. I think champagne would be superfluous, don’t you? And quite against our bargain,” she said, sounding like one of her old governesses.

“To my knowledge, there are just a few bottles left that my father laid up in the cellar. Champagne is not gin, Annie. Or brandy. I think we may as well drink it to celebrate the end of this hellish year, if only to get one bottle out of the way so I may lead a purer life next year. Unless you want to save all of them for our wedding.”

Theirs would not be the usual wedding celebration and would require no champagne. Anne planned on leaving for London immediately afterward with her marriage lines in hand to see her trustees.

“I don’t think we should,” she said doubtfully.

“Should. Most of my life I’ve done just as I ‘should,’ and where has that gotten me? I swear to you that from tomorrow on I will drink nothing but your bitter coffee and overly-sweet tea. Adam’s ale, too, since our well is good. Come, I’ll invite Martin down for a glass. What’s the harm?”

A bottle split three ways would not go far. “Very well. Since it’s New Year’s Eve.” Anne had always loved champagne, although not the headache that sometimes followed the next morning.

Gareth left for the stables and Anne quickly scrubbed the dinner dishes, lamenting the roughness of her hands. In a few weeks, she wouldn’t have to lift a finger, and Ripton Hall and its owner would just be a memory.

T
he snow had stopped, but the air was still blood-chilling. Gareth turned up his collar and crunched through the drifts to the stables, hoping he could persuade Martin to help him get the tub to the house. He had a comical vision of balancing it over his head and blindly missing the door altogether as if he were drunk.

If Gareth was honest with himself, thirst raged through his body. He was thinking a bit too clearly for comfort, and could see his chances of winning over Anne Whoever-she-was slipping away. However, if he succumbed to the deliciously numbing effects of drink, Annie wouldn’t stay around long enough to wed him anyway and his future would be grimmer than ever. For now that he’d gotten to know her a little—what she had let slip unguarded—he felt the tiniest flare of hope.

His future might be different if he could convince her to remain at his side. True, her money would be useful, but her presence was better. She was so young, yet seemed an old soul. She was solidity and warmth and life, for all she tried to keep herself apart. Gareth was sure that she would be heaven to bed, once he assuaged her fears. Her kiss this morning had been so full of passion he’d barely been able to leave the kitchen without tripping over his cock.

The ride home with all her curves against him had befuddled his senses as well. He had been unable to think of anything but stripping her out of the riding habit and feeling the softness of her skin. She was adorable even in an ancient apron as it dragged along the slate, her brown hair tousled from the silly hat.

He even liked to watch her eat his humble offering, her enjoyment evident by the flush of her cheeks, her eyes closing with that first bite of melted cheese. If he could duplicate that look on her face, he’d read the whole of the damn cookbook and make every dish therein.

“Martin! Are you decent?” He climbed the stairs to the groom’s rooms, the light from the open door shining the way.

“Aye, Major. What is it? Are you all right?”

Martin wore an apron of his own. His supper, a half-eaten meat pie of some kind, sat on a tin plate, a tempting glass of ale beside it. Gareth tried to put his desire in a dark corner.

“I don’t want to keep you from your dinner. The bathtub is repaired, is it not? I have need of it.”

“It is. Soldered the hole right and tight. I should have brought it to the house before now.” The groom rose from the table.

“There’s no need to do it now. Mrs. Mont wishes to take a bath tomorrow, though. I can help you bring it over after breakfast.”

“There’s no need. It’s not heavy.”

No, it wasn’t, just unwieldy. Two arms were needed to carry it. “All right. We also wondered if you’d like to toast the New Year with us. There’s a bottle of French champagne older than Napoleon in my father’s cellar. Hell, it may well be vinegar.”

“Ale’s good enough for me, Major. I wouldn’t want to intrude between you and the lady.”

“She
is
a lady, Martin. I’ve asked her to be my wife and she’s accepted.” Well, it really was the other way around, but Martin didn’t need to know that. The man’s face showed his disapproval. His expression was quickly masked, but Gareth saw something other than ordinary shock.

“It may not be my place, but I’ve known you since you was a boy. You hardly know
her,
Major. Are you sure this is wise?”

Martin was just looking out for him, as he’d done since a young Gareth used to beg him to help curry the horses. “I know enough. She comes with a dowry that will set this place to rights again.”

“Then what’s she doing earning her living as your housekeeper?”

It did sound odd. Martin had a right to be suspicious. “I haven’t quite got the answer to that. I fear she’s running away from something unpleasant. So I will ask you as my oldest friend to make sure she finds nothing unpleasant at Ripton Hall. I’d like to be happy here again, Martin.”

“You was never happy here, Major, exceptin’ for when you was a little fellow, if you forgive me for saying so. That Bronwen was no good for you.”

Martin may have been right, but it still annoyed Gareth to hear his lost love maligned. In loyalty, he checked his angry response. Martin had come to Ripton Hall as practically a little fellow himself many years ago, and was Gareth’s last dependable servant. He was entitled to his opinion, having watched Gareth grow up and make all his many mistakes. The man had stayed on when Gareth’s father had no coin to pay him, and Gareth had relied on him far too much this past year. A man Martin’s age should be in comfortable retirement instead of catering to a drunken wastrel.

“Be that as it may. It’s all water under the bridge now, isn’t it? Time for a fresh start and a new year.”

“I s’pose. Mrs. Mont’ll treat you right, won’t she? Be faithful and obedient?”

Gareth’s lips quirked. Somehow he couldn’t picture Annie as precisely
obedient
. “I shall do my best to be a good husband to her. The rest will follow.”

“Congratulations, then.”

Martin’s doubt was plain, but Gareth didn’t want to waste any more time talking. “Finish your meal. I’ll see you in the morning. Happy New Year.”

“And the same to you, Major.”

Gareth hurried back across the yard to the house, somewhat relieved to be spared Martin’s taciturn company. He’d been no fun himself since he got out of the army and discovered the morass of debts his father had incurred. And once he’d had his accident—

Martin had been there, nearly clairvoyant, tending to everything that needed tending to.

Most especially supplying him with liquor when he was too sick to go to the village and get it himself.

Those days were over. Gareth had a woman to woo and his character to correct.

Annie wasn’t to be found in the kitchen or scullery. The dishes were stacked neatly on the draining board, so she’d been efficient while he was across the yard. He tapped on her closed bedroom door.

“You haven’t changed your mind and gone to sleep already, have you?”

“No.” Her voice was muffled. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

“I’ll just take a candle downstairs to get the champagne. If I don’t come up before midnight, send a search party.” There was no reason for him to linger below stairs. His father’s cellar had been drunk up long before Gareth returned from India. There were but a few dusty bottles lining the shelves. Wine had never been his drink of choice, but knowing there were still a few down there was like keeping money in the bank. If he were sufficiently desperate, help would be at hand.

No, not help. Opening those bottles would do nothing to further his cause. He’d better be man enough to break the bad habit of half his lifetime.

Gareth paused on the top step, imagining spiraling down to the bottom to dash his brains on the stones below. His gut twisted, remembering his endless fall from Sam Kendrick’s pitched roof. He’d been foxed that day a little more than a year ago. Oh, not completely. He and his tenant had shared the fall harvest’s new run of cider. A few pints? Harmless. A man needed to stay warm to keep the December wind at bay. Snow had been in the air, the very reason the damn roof needed fixing. The family couldn’t very well enjoy their Christmas goose as if they were eating it outdoors in the elements. Gareth’s father had let all the cottages on the estate fall to wrack and ruin—it was no wonder most of the tenant farmers had left, some even as far as America to make new lives for themselves.

But Gareth had returned home from another faraway land, and had stood on the roof with his bundles of thatch and hazel sticks and the wild hope that he’d finally be with the woman he loved. Just like Sam on the ladder below, with his bonny wife, Molly, and their children looking on, he’d know a bit of comfort. Family life with two built-in daughters, perhaps children of his own someday. He was determined to do better than his father.

And he had not. In fact, he’d done worse.

Gareth made it down the rickety cellar ladder safely and ducked under a cobwebbed beam to locate the bottle he was seeking. The last he’d tasted this particular vintage, he was celebrating his betrothal to Lady Bronwen Lewys. May he have better luck with the liquid tonight.

He blew out his candle, secured the bottle of champagne under his chin, and hauled himself up the ladder, hoping the bottle wouldn’t roll out from under him and crash to the floor as he avoided the missing rungs. Something should be done about access to the cellar—some regular stairs with a railing. Cecily had refused to store anything down here, and rightly so. It was nigh on to impossible to go up and down with ease, and cold enough to freeze one’s bollocks. Rivulets of water had seeped in and clung to the walls like stalactites, and the heavy wet air cramped his lungs. He’d not come down here willingly again, even if the wine cellar was full of the fanciest French wine.

When he climbed back up to the kitchen, there was no sign of his new fiancée, though her bedchamber door was open. “Annie?”

“In here.”

Gareth walked down the hallway with the bottle. She had chosen the formal drawing room for their early celebration. He barely recognized it since she had rearranged his mother’s furniture and covered over the ruined upholstery with bed sheets. It was clean for the first time since Cecily became ill more than two years ago. Gareth’s father had shut up most of the house since he couldn’t afford to hire anyone to replace her. A weak fire flickered inside one of the Italian marble hearths.

Annie had removed her apron and his mother’s riding habit and was brushing ashes from her hands. She looked stunning in a bronze silk dress which was cut so low Gareth required no imagination to estimate her charms. He was nearly robbed of breath.

“My.”

She looked up at him shyly. “This is my only good dress. I was wearing it the day I made plans to run away. Quite frankly I never expected to have reason to wear it again, but I suppose New Year’s Eve is a special occasion.”

“Thank God for the end of 1820. You look . . . beautiful.” Such an inadequate word. Gareth had never in his life seen such lusciousness. She was dappled with tiny freckles everywhere beneath the embarrassed peachy flush of her skin, marred only by some bruises on her upper arms. She had worked much too hard the past week trying to shove heavy furniture around to make his house a home. Her hair was drawn back into a simple twist, and he could swear he saw copper strands mixed in with the dull brown.

She gave an unsuccessful tug on her bodice. “Do you think it will shock your cousin if I wear it to the wedding? I can find a fichu before then.”

“I think it would be criminal to cover yourself with a fichu. But Ian is not worthy of a glimpse of your perfection.” If the man dared to look at her as she deserved, Gareth would pluck his eyes out.

She sat down on the sofa. “I don’t intend to stay awake until midnight. I’m much too tired after all the activity today.”

“Even so, let me do something about the fire. The fireplace has not been lit for an age.”

“I know. The entire ground floor was a disgrace.”

“You’ve done much to remedy that,” Gareth said as he poked into the feeble flames. “I barely recognize my own home.” For months, he’d not left his father’s study except to find his bed, and sometimes nights went by when he dozed in the old leather chair, too drunk to mount the stairs.

But now he had a chance, with a clean house and a lovely young woman.

If he could make her stay.

“There are glasses in the corner cupboard, perhaps not too dusty. My parents used to sit here of an evening. We were a more proper family then.”

Annie went to the bow-fronted cabinet and removed two stemmed glasses. He watched as she smoothed a finger on the rims of each testing for chips. “I’d better wash them. They are a bit sticky.”

Odd how something shut up behind glass could still be dirty. His father had closed off all the rooms upstairs and Gareth expected they were as grimy as the glassware. He couldn’t expect Annie to do any more cleaning before the wedding. She was a lady, not a housekeeper. Once they had her money he could hire a raft of servants.

If they would work for a suspected murderer.

Gareth sighed and tossed another log on the fire. Money would not solve everything, but it would be a start. In his experience, it went a long way to persuade one to do things one might not wish to do. For example, Anne’s money had made him reconsider marriage. Gareth had given up that dream long before Bronwen died.

He truly had not expected to feel anything for a woman ever again, especially now that he was maimed. But apparently there was just enough of him left to suit his Annie’s purposes.

And she stirred something within him that had been dormant for months. It would frighten her to know how much he wanted her. She was already skittish when it came to men. He’d seen her shyness at the Silver Pony with those louts, felt her fluttering pulse as he kissed her. He would have to be careful. Gentle. Slow.

Trouble was, he didn’t know if he could restrain himself.

She returned to the parlor, the glasses now gleaming in the firelight as brightly as her silk dress. He yearned to stroke a bit of the fabric between his fingers and pretend it was her skin. It would be difficult to be a gentleman tonight—Annie’s transformation from housekeeper to future wife had unsettled him all day, had awakened his inner brute. He’d not advanced in the army by being a milquetoast. He’d learned to take what he wanted, whether it was yards on a battlefield or favors in the bedroom.

Gareth had better leash his brute tonight, or he’d scare off his bride.

He rose from his haunches, satisfied that Annie’s lovely exposed skin would be warm enough now. The bottle was sufficiently chilled from its years in the cellar without cooling it in a snowbank. But Gareth realized too late he’d never attempted to pop a champagne cork one-handed.