Lady Anne's Lover (The London List) (5 page)

“Sh-should I cut your food for you?”

His face darkened. “I’m relatively efficient.” He proved it by quartering the slippery egg onto his plate and sprinkling it with a fearful amount of pepper. He then picked up the ham slice and bit into it rather savagely, alternating forkfuls of egg and cheese in rapid succession. Anne would remember to cut his meat next time, feeling ashamed she had not thought to do so this morning.

“Go on. Or am I too fascinating to watch as I eat? I feel like an animal in a zoo.”

Goodness. She couldn’t help but stare at him—he
was
right there in all his masculine forcefulness, his blue eyes velvety dark this morning. “All right.” Anne wiped her hands on her apron and joined him at the table. “I’ve been giving your financial dilemma some thought, and I believe I might have a solution.”

He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Are you an heiress then, Mrs. Mont? If you are and this is a proposal, I accept. You’ve seen me at my worst, and if I haven’t frightened you off, we might do very well together.” He gave her a cheeky grin and took a sip of some ale.

Anne felt her cheeks flame but forged ahead. “You secured my employment through
The London List.
Why not find a wife the same way?”

The mug nearly slipped from his hand. “I beg your pardon?”

“People advertise for all sorts of things in the paper. There is a matrimonial section in every edition. Surely you’ve noticed it?”

Gareth Ripton-Jones set the mug down and gave her a blue glare. “Hiring a housekeeper is one thing. I am not yet desperate enough to shackle myself to a stranger for money.”

“But she needn’t be a stranger, your wife. You could invite the candidates here, interview them, get to know them. Pick the lady you like the best.”

“Blast it! I didn’t even interview
you
! I’m no good at charm and small talk. And what kind of women would come here alone to visit a man? She’d have to be more desperate than I am. Ugly, too.”

“Beauty is only skin-deep, Major,” Anne replied tartly. “Character should count. Not everyone is as blessed as you.”

Gareth’s mouth dropped open. “Blessed? Are you daft? I’ve only got one arm.”

“But the rest of you is very comely. Or comely enough,” Anne amended, retreating from her praise. It would do the major no good to think he had turned her head. She needed to keep him at bay for both their sakes.

But he was tall and lean and really quite lovely now that he’d washed and didn’t stink of gin or whatever he’d been drinking. His eyes were framed by thick lashes she was envious of—no lamp-black needed for him. Her own were red and blond-tipped and made her feel like a rabbit. She blinked his beauty away and adjusted her mobcap.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Mont. No doubt you mean well. But I can’t have a parade of women coming to Wales all winter. The neighbors would talk, not to mention there would be difficulties getting here from London.”

Anne bit a lip. “What if you advertised locally instead of in
The London List
? Hay-on-Wye and Hereford must have several newspapers.”

“And everyone hereabouts knows me. I’m famous. Or infamous,” he muttered.

“What is your reputation?” Anne stilled. Was it so awful that he had to advertise in
The London List
so unsuspecting idiots like her could come here?

He sat as still as she for a full minute, looking as if he was searching for the right words. “Yesterday, I made a confession to you about my troubles. I’m afraid things are a bit more dire than I said.”

“What could be worse than losing your ancestral home?”

His lips quirked. “Come now, Mrs. Mont. The Ripton-Joneses are not a ducal family. Ripton Hall isn’t even entailed—that’s why I can sell it. We have been around these parts a while, I grant you. Hundreds of years, for all the good it’s done us. But there will be no neighbor woman, rich or poor, who will consent to be the Hall’s mistress. You see, there are whispers about me. People say I killed someone.”

Anne was grateful she was still sitting down. “P-pardon?”

“You’ve gone quite white—I say, what a lot of freckles you have. I didn’t kill anyone, except in war, so don’t look so horrified.” He casually speared the last of the cheese and chewed, keeping Anne on tenterhooks to hear the rest of the story.

The ancient case clock in the front hall chimed the hour. When the major did not volunteer any more once the house was quiet again, Anne couldn’t stop herself.

“Why do people think you did such a thing?”

The major pushed himself away from the table and rose. “You’ll have to ask them. I suppose it makes a good story on a long winter’s night—the war hero who came home to claim his childhood sweetheart once her rich old husband had the good grace to die. With all the marital stars finally aligned, the banns called, the invitations sent, what should happen? The soldier loses his arm in the Battle of the Roof. One careless step, one fall, one putrid arm, and the widow refuses to take him after all. And once the hero has more or less recovered, what should happen but they argue over some trinkets she should return? A week later she’s found dead in her bed, strangled, but not before she was sexually assaulted. It’s a shocking story, is it not? There’s a villain somewhere about, but it’s not I.”

He delivered this speech in a mocking tone, daring her to believe him. But somehow she did. There was pain behind the cynical sentences, and loneliness.

Murder
. Such an accusation gave him every justification to drink himself to death.

H
e turned his head and walked out. He didn’t want to see the doubt or dismay on his housekeeper’s face after his ill-timed confession. Why hadn’t he kept his bloody mouth shut? She didn’t need to know the true misery of his life. Bad enough she though he was an impoverished drunken cripple about to lose his home. Now throw accused murderer into the mix, and he estimated she’d be gone by late morning.

The poor girl had not known what she was getting into, had she? She was just one of many across the British Isles in search of security in these uncertain times, seeking work, no matter the conditions or pay. She’d made a bad bargain when she’d come here.

But there was no way for Gareth to make it up to her. He couldn’t change what was said about him, couldn’t offer her sufficient coin to ignore the rumors. He was frankly surprised that someone hadn’t bent her ear the other day when she went to the village store. Mrs. Mont’s presence here must be a subject of even more gossip. No doubt wagers were being laid as to when her body would turn up brutalized.

Gareth had seen what was done to Bronwen. Lovely little Mrs. Mont did not deserve such a fate—no woman did, not even Bronwen. He should warn her to be careful—hell, he should accompany her to the village himself when she went to the shops. Wouldn’t
that
cause talk?

His bitterness rose as he mounted the stairs, choked him. He slammed his bedroom door, then punched it with his fist. The breakfast he’d been served threatened to make a reappearance, and he gasped for air. His room had not seen any of Mrs. Mont’s earnest efforts yet, so the air was foul enough to make him sorry he was breathing. Stumbling to the set of windows, he pushed open the leaded panes against the rain-soaked wind and gulped. The blast of fresh wet air was not enough to wash his mind clean. There was only one thing that came close. He kicked aside a pile of clothes on his way to the bedside cabinet where the dependable and not-quite-full-enough bottle resided in the dark.

The insistent knock on his door stopped him in his tracks.

“Go away, Mrs. Mont. I’ll understand if you want to leave. I’ll get Martin to take you into the village. Someone can drive you into Hay-on-Wye for the mail coach.”

The click of the latch lifting told him the blasted girl was not satisfied to stand in the hallway. He waited patiently to receive his dressing-down. Lord knew he deserved one.

“Major Ripton-Jones.”

There she stood in the doorway, the graying lace on her mobcap twittering in the breeze blowing down from the Black Mountains. Her stunned face matched her headgear, save for the golden spangles that covered her from forehead to her pointed chin.

“Speak your peace, Mrs. Mont, then leave me be,” he said, feeling utterly exhausted.

“Who do you think murdered your fiancée?”

Gareth had not expected that question and found he had to sit down on the edge of his rumpled bed. “I have no idea.”

“What do the authorities think?”

Gareth gave a hollow laugh. “
I’m
the authorities. I’m magistrate here when Lord Lewys is away, and don’t think that hasn’t caused a stir. Most people believe I’ve tainted all the evidence. If Cecily hadn’t sworn I was home with a fever the day Bronwen was murdered, I’m sure I’d be in prison.”

“Were you? Home with a fever, I mean?”

“Home, yes. But dead drunk, I’m afraid.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I suppose I could have killed Bronwen and not remember a minute of it. Cecily was too sick then to know if I was abed or not.”

Mrs. Mont was quiet for a long minute, then clucked her tongue. “This room is a disgrace. How can you live like this?”

He
had
expected that. “Don’t you have enough to do?” He watched as she entered the room and bent over to pick up the soiled clothes that covered his threadbare carpet. Gareth stifled the urge to take her over his knee and spank her pert little arse. What was she thinking coming up here? He’d told her his study and his bedroom were off-limits.

“I do, and it’s time you helped me.” She turned to him, clutching shirts to her bosom. “It’s time you helped yourself. You cannot let what other people think and say ruin your life.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “My life
is
ruined.”

“Why? Because the woman you loved is dead?”

“God, no. Bronwen killed my love just as surely as someone killed her.” He thought he meant that, but he couldn’t help dreaming of her. She had been his first—and his last—lover. But when she had turned on him, poisoned the community against him, he had finally exorcised her from his heart.

“Then is it your infirmity? You seem to do well enough.”

Gareth did. He’d practiced hard, although there were days when his single hand failed to achieve its objective. But he was proud that he needed no one to button his breeches or cut his food. He might never hold a rifle again, but that was just as well. He might turn it on himself.

“Mrs. Mont, I’ve explained. You seem like an intelligent girl. I’ll have no home, no occupation in a few months. You’ve come from London. Last time I visited, there were still veterans—some even able-bodied—sleeping on the streets, begging. There have been food riots and unrest. At least Napoleon helped with the employment rate. When decent men can’t find work, it does not bode well for someone like me.”

“Rubbish. Evangeline can find you a job.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. You could become someone’s estate agent, couldn’t you? You’ve managed this holding.”

Gareth laughed. “Aye, and run it into the ground.”

“Nonsense. You said that was your father’s doing. If you are good with numbers, and honest, I’m sure we could find you a place if you lose your home.”

All traces of her Cockney speech had vanished. She sounded like a little duchess, looked regal even when holding his gin-stained shirt against her bountiful chest. “You forget the cloud over me, Mrs. Mont.”

“Well, you’ll simply have to get to the bottom of the murder and clear your name instead of drinking all day. When did the woman die?”

“Her name was Bronwen,” he said softly. “It was last August.” Just a few months ago, but long enough for the rumors to take root and flourish.

Time enough, they said, for Gareth’s rage over her rejection of him the previous winter to fester. Time enough for her to take another lover and ensure his jealousy. His recovery had been agonizingly slow, his crops had failed and he was a desperate, angry man. A man used to killing in time of war.

He fit easily into the role his wary neighbors had assigned to him. He’d been gone from home so long they didn’t know him anymore. From the moment he lay delirious drinking the pain of his mangled and then missing arm away, he had put himself on the path of suspicion. He couldn’t blame them for what they assumed—he might do the same.

Mrs. Mont shoved the clothes at him. “The first thing you’re going to do is bring these downstairs to the sink and wash them.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I am?”

She nodded. “If you cannot afford someone to help me, you’re going to have to pitch in. You’ve nothing better to do now, do you?”

Gareth gave a fleeting glance to his cupboard. “No, I suppose not.”

She was too smart for him. Opening the door, she pulled out the bottle and handed it to him. “You should pour this down the sink, too.”

“I can get more.” He’d need to if he complied with her ridiculous demands.

“Major Ripton-Jones, for a man with limited income, you need to allocate your resources more appropriately. For seed, machinery, etcetera.”

“Why should I bother planting when I’ll never see the results?”

She looked him straight in the eye. “Because, if you give up drink, I will marry you and you can stay.”

“I am, as it happens, an heiress. Once we marry, I will come into enough funds to allow you to keep this place. But I will expect something in return.”

Gareth’s head spun, and not from his unfinished breakfast ale. Of course she wasn’t a housekeeper—her skin was fine as porcelain, her skill in the kitchen execrable. True, she could clean, but anyone could grab a rag and make a difference to his hovel.

“I am as notorious in London as you are in Wales. More so, I should think, although no one has accused me of murder. Yet.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t.” She folded her arms, obscuring her breasts. Did she notice his hungry look? He could smell lilac and clean skin. How he longed to pull the cork from the bottle in his hand and drain the whole damn thing. “I will help you with your reputation, and in return, once we set this place to rights, you will let me leave to make a new life with at least half my money.”

She was speaking gibberish. Was this some sort of delayed alcoholic delusion? He shook his head to clear it.

“You are absolutely mad.”

“I suppose I am,” she agreed. “It would have been so much easier for you to advertise for a wife. That was my original plan, but I see things are more complicated than I thought.”

“Who
are
you?”

“That’s immaterial at the moment. Suffice to say that we can be useful to each other. I can help you with your investigation as well. But”—she gave him a stern look—“you must promise to cease spending your days wallowing in self-pity.”

“I—” He was about to deny the undeniable. What she’d said was true. He’d just passed the worst year of his life. With no honor and very little wit.

“Are you on speaking terms with the local minister?”

“Not really.” The Reverend Ian Morgan thought Gareth was Satan incarnate. A heathen. An inebriate. An adulterer. A murderer.

“Well, you shall have to go see him anyway. It will take three weeks to advertise our intention to marry. You can’t afford a special license. Do you want me to go with you?”

This was becoming more and more absurd. He hadn’t even known Mrs. Mont a full week.

He didn’t even know her first name.

“You said I’d have to do something for you.”

“Of course. But we can discuss my leaving later.”

“We’ll discuss it now, I think.” He patted the bed.

Mrs. Mont hesitated, as well she should. Gareth was a dangerous man to sit next to. With one gentle push, he could tip her over on her back and fuck her. Find some relief, for however long. He was so randy he expected it wouldn’t be very—he’d spend as fast and hard as a schoolboy.

As quickly as he had with Bronwen once they were old enough to know what their dissimilar parts were for. As they grew older, they’d taken more time, learned their rhythms, fell deeper into lust, although he’d been very certain it was love, at least on his part.

The times he’d had leave from his commanding officer to come home, they hadn’t been able to keep their hands off each other, the vows to her husband be damned. He had ached with wanting her, although he’d been no saint for fifteen years. There had been women. Lots of them.

He hadn’t had a woman in a year. Perhaps Mrs. Mont should ride him once she became Mrs. Ripton-Jones—he wasn’t sure he’d stay upright supported by just one palm. He’d learned how to do lots of things one-handed—making love to a woman would probably be the most diverting.

“Very well.” She sat down gingerly about as far away from him as she could without falling on the floor. “This will be a marriage in name only. Once we go to my trustees in London with the proof of our wedding, a considerable amount will be released to you. I expect you to keep what is reasonable to pay your debts and get the estate functioning again, then turn over the rest to me.”

In name only?
What the hell. There went his fantasy. Was he so repulsive she wouldn’t consider bedding him? Just like Bronwen. Did Mrs. Mont really expect to tie him up for life with no expectation of marital relations? No children? He didn’t have much to offer sons or daughters now, but someday he might.

True, he was a stranger to her. There probably had never been a Mr. Mont, so most likely she was a runaway virgin. She was fleeing from her past, and proposing to flee from her present.

He struggled to keep his voice steady. “Where will you go?”

“I don’t quite know yet. France, I suppose. Or America.”

“Alone?”

“If you’re asking if I have a lover, I do not. And don’t want one.”

Gareth saw the shiver she tried to repress. Her chin was raised, and she looked as determined as any general he’d ever served under.

But she was frightened
. There was fear beneath the bravado, just as there should be. He’d seen it in the army. Life was enough to scare the shit out of the most decorated soldier, and the best were scared to death and fought accordingly.

What had he done with his fear lately? Certainly not fought back. He’d drunk himself stupid. Mrs. Mont was right—he’d wallowed, bathed, almost drowned in self-pity.

He could agree to her terms and save his home.

Or pretend to agree.

He was awfully rusty in the seduction department, but suddenly Gareth wanted more than anything to soothe his prickly housekeeper. To cup her rounded freckled cheek. To part her lips and see what she tasted like. To bury his face between her lovely breasts and inhale her lilac fragrance. To feel the wet of her core around his cock.

His future
wife
. Whom he had no intention of letting go—to France or America or anywhere else. It was time for him to be happy, and if Mrs. Mont could do her part to make him so, he would try his best to return the favor. He’d spent too many months—too many years—deferring his pleasure. No more.

Although some would say he’d raised plenty of hell in his time. The righteous Reverend Ian Morgan, for example.

“Mrs. Mont, I thank you for your generous offer. I’m afraid I don’t know your Christian name. I’ll need it to give Mr. Morgan.”