Lady Anne's Lover (The London List) (7 page)

And memories of his kisses. She might not sleep with him, but impulsively decided to let him kiss her all he wanted.

It was very—pleasant. He dipped in, exploring, his breath hitching, his tongue hot and sweet. Plums again. How foolish. She could do nothing but meet his tongue with the tip of hers, and then it was he whose hand trembled against her shoulder.

His tongue was masterful, expertly curling hers up in exquisite capture. Anne didn’t want to escape. She stood on tiptoe as he deepened contact, pressed harder, thoroughly consuming her lick by lick. Blood roared in her ears and she felt the green hat tip as he moved up to tangle in her hair. His thumb traced her cheekbone as his fingers held her still.

Not that she’d ever run away. Couldn’t. Her booted toes were rooted to the floor, her legs quite useless, her heart skipping. She clung to his untied neckcloth as he covered her mouth, nibbling, sweeping hot muscle to soft skin. Something clenched within her, dark and impatient.

Anne knew where kissing led, why her insides were twisting in unfamiliar desire. This kiss wouldn’t do at all. It was too much.

It wasn’t enough.

The neckcloth jerked in her hand and she pushed Gareth away.

“Too much l-luck,” she stammered.

His looked down at her, the knowledge of his conquest plain on his smiling face. “One can never have too much luck, Annie.”

“Be quiet and let me do up your tie.”

Her hands shook. She had no idea what she was doing, having untied a neckcloth or two in her time rather than tied one. Gareth’s would not resemble any of the useless foppish men she’d found and played with to make her father angry. His clothing was too severe, his buttons brass instead of gold or silver, his hair not clipped a la Brutus. Anne stifled the urge to brush it behind his ears, then wondered how ridiculous she looked in her crooked hat and own untidy hair.

His fingertips on her scalp—she shivered as she recalled each warm point of contact. He’d cradled her head so gently she could have stayed in his grip forever.

She stepped back, wobbling a little from removing herself from his orbit. He was a drunkard, she reminded herself. Weak. “That will have to do.”

“My turn.” Pulling the strings from the bonnet, he tucked her errant curls back under her hairpins, then set the hat back. “You’ll have to fasten it again yourself. Bowknots are the very devil.”

How difficult the simplest things must be for him. “Thank you.”

He looked her over critically. “Ian should be charmed. He has an eye for a pretty woman.”

“A minister?” she asked, skeptical.

He nodded with no trace of a smile. “He was Bronwen’s lover. No one knows that save I. So I think we just might be able to make him do our bidding.”

T
hat
was the answer. Maybe Mr. Morgan was responsible for Bronwen’s death. However, she couldn’t very well accuse the man when she was begging for a favor. Anne trooped out after Gareth through the fog to the stable. Old Martin helped her onto the back of a stolid-looking animal, and Gareth hauled himself up on the livelier mount.

It was not an auspicious day for riding, though she was grateful she wouldn’t have to slog her borrowed skirts through the mud and wet down to the village. Gareth offered no further conversation as he rode on the narrow lane beside her, keeping his horse in check with a determined hand. The distant mountains were dark smudges against the gray sky, the soft ground littered with shards of ice. She cheered to see smoke from the chimneys of the scattered houses of Llanwyr once they turned onto the main road.

“How many people live in the area?” she called over the biting wind. The fog was now slanting sideways, changing into sleet.

“Less than two hundred. Six or so families live on what’s left of Ripton lands. Morgan travels the circuit to neighboring villages, but he lives here. He preached yesterday and so should still be home.”

They passed a plain stone building set back in a field, its graveyard the only hint of its purpose. “Is that his church?” Anne asked, surprised. “It looks like a barn.”

“It was once, believe it or not. A secret meeting place a hundred and fifty years ago. Some say Cromwell once visited. We Welsh are a practical lot for all our religious fervor. Why waste a good solid building? There were many such places all around the countryside here, although some have fallen into disuse now that the Puritan fever has cooled. You have to ride into Hay for a proper Anglican church. But at least we have no Jumpers here.”

“What are Jumpers?”

“Oh, they’re a sight to behold. They, well, the congregants
jump
during service. And sing and shout and clap and stamp their feet. They think it brings them closer to God.”

How very extraordinary. Anne could remember many a governess pinching her black and blue to make her sit absolutely still in church. She might have been a happier little girl in a Welsh Nonconformist church.

They continued on the road until they got to what passed for the high street in Llanwyr, stopping in front of a double cottage hard by the edge of the road. Both doors were painted bright green, a welcome splash of color on this cheerless day.

“We’ll see if he’s in. I don’t think anyone hereabouts is at death’s door waiting for a pastoral visit, so the chances are good.” Gareth dismounted and knocked on the left side of the building. Anne waited, her nervousness becoming more pronounced for every minute Gareth stood shifting his feet on the step.

A lace curtain twitched, then pulled back. The man who stared at her from behind the window could have been Gareth’s twin, dark, lanky, with the same piercing blue eyes. Anne found she couldn’t stare back.

The door opened. “What do you want?”

No greeting, just hostility dripping from each word.

“We need to speak to you, Ian. Mrs. Mont and I have something important to discuss. We won’t take up much of your time.”

Ian Morgan looked at her, nodded, then turned back into his house. Gareth tied the horses to a post and put his arm around her waist. “I can get you down, but you might have to sweet-talk Ian to get you back up.”

Ian didn’t look like anyone could sweet-talk him into anything. “He could be your brother!”

Gareth shrugged. “A cousin only.”

“The family resemblance is striking.”

“We are nothing alike, believe me.”

“Except for your taste in women,” she muttered.

“Oh, everyone wanted Bronwen, Annie. Even wrinkled old Martin, I expect.” He held out his elbow. “Into the fire and brimstone, Mrs. Mont. Are you ready?”

The narrow hallway opened up immediately to the parlor. Ian Morgan was seated on a hardback chair in front of a fitful fire and didn’t rise at their entrance. He pointed to two equally uncomfortable-looking chairs opposite him. There was no upholstered furniture of any kind, not even a footstool, no decorations on the wall, no knickknacks on the mantel or tables. The lace curtain on the window seemed luxuriously out of place. Here was a man who took his abstinence from worldly comfort very seriously. “Sit and tell me why you dare disturb my morning.”

Gareth obliged, his long legs relaxed before him. “I believe it’s almost afternoon, coz, and we shan’t disturb you for long. Mrs. Mont and I intend to marry. We’d like you to call the banns.”

“It’s time I married, don’t you think? Better to marry than to burn, as someone or other says in the Bible. Mrs. Mont has agreed to be my wife.”

“She hasn’t even been here a week!” The minister turned to Anne. “Has he forced himself upon you? It’s a scandal that the two of you have been up there without a chaperone. Everyone is talking.”

“No! Of course not. Gareth and I have decided we suit.” Anne gave what she hoped was a confident smile, but Morgan’s burning glare was hard to withstand. If she were a member of his congregation, she’d be frightened out of her wits every Sunday and the rest of the week besides.

Morgan turned his glare on the major. “A
housekeeper,
Gareth? That’s a new low, even for you.”

The judgmental bastard.
“About that,” Anne said, trying to appear unruffled at his insult. What kind of clergyman was he if he had no heart for the poor?
‘And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done unto me.’
“Gareth, will you excuse us for a few minutes? I have something to speak to Mr. Morgan about.”

“I wish you’d let me stay, darling,” Gareth said with a wink.

Anne had no idea he could be so playful. Charming. It quite transformed him.

“You promised.”

Gareth rose. “I did, didn’t I? A gentleman keeps his promises, even if my cousin doesn’t think I’m much of one. I’ll wait at the inn. Will you be done in half an hour?”

“You promised about that, too,” Anne said, her voice edgy. She didn’t want to haul an inebriated Gareth out of the inn.

“So I did. But a cup of Mrs. Chapman’s hot rum punch won’t harm me. You can join me for one for the ride home. Look outside. It’s snowing.”

Fat flakes swirled beyond the lace. Anne was cold now, even sitting before the fire. The ride home would not be pleasant, particularly if she could not get Ian Morgan to agree to her scheme.

“I’ll take the horses with me. Cousin, may I depend upon you to escort my fiancée to the Silver Pony? You may of course join us for a bowl. Family unity and all that to celebrate the New Year.”

Morgan looked appalled. What a stick he was.

“I do not consume spirits, as well you know, Gareth. I am not
you
.”

“I’m not sure I’m me either. Annie has set out to reform me.”

Morgan sniffed but said nothing else.

Gareth put on his hat. “Cousin, I trust everything Annie says to you will be held in the strictest confidence, and I also trust you will be amenable to her proposal. Your spotless reputation depends upon it.”

Morgan shot out of his chair. “Are you threatening me?”

“I believe I am. Good luck, Annie.” Gareth gave her another wink and was gone.

Morgan remained standing, bristling in indignation, his fists clenched.

“Surely it’s not sporting to want to hit a one-armed man? Aren’t you supposed to turn the other cheek?”

“I’ll not have you lecture me on my Christian duty, Mrs. Mont.”

“I should never be so impertinent, Mr. Morgan. After all, I’m
only
a housekeeper.”

He seemed to really see her for the first time, taking in the damp velvet bonnet and woolen riding habit. “Those are my late aunt’s garments.”

“Yes, they are. I was obliged to leave London on very short notice and left most of my things behind.”

He sat down again and sighed. “Knowing Gareth, I’m sure there’s some scandal attached. Are you a prostitute?”

Anne counted to ten to keep her temper. She was rather proud of her temper, a ferocious thing when necessary. It had garnered her plenty of attention in the past, but it was best kept squelched today. “I am not a whore, although you are correct in thinking my reputation is tarnished. I am Lady Imaculata Anne Egremont.”

His face was blank. “I have not heard of you.”

“You must be the only man in the British Isles who hasn’t. Don’t you ever read
The London List
?”

His lip curled. “That scandal sheet. Of course not.”

“Well if you had, we could get through this conversation much more quickly. You’d be shot of me, which is clear you’d like nothing better. My name is a bit of a byword for bad behavior, I’m afraid. For the past two years, I’ve done nothing but try to enrage my father.”

“Why is that?”

She steeled herself and said what she’d practiced. “Because he touched me in places I did not want to be touched, Mr. Morgan.”

He’d looked appalled before, but evidently there were degrees. He was as pale now as the whitewashed rooms in his neat cottage. “Does my cousin know?”

“He does not. I—I can’t tell him. Not yet. I will before we marry—it seems necessary to be honest with him.” It would go a ways to explain why she couldn’t ever bed him.

“What would you have me do that Gareth threatens blackmail?”

“I took a false name when I took the job. My father is an earl, Mr. Morgan. He has a great deal of influence and will do everything in his power to get me back. If you call the banns and use my name, he’ll find me, I know it. I’m sure he’s offering a reward.” Could she trust Morgan not to collect it?

He shook his head, looking truly regretful. “I cannot lie before God, even for such a reason. The marriage would be invalid.”

“I’ve given that some thought. My new name is very close to the old. If you could simply say the rest of it very quietly, stress the ‘Anne’ and the ‘Mont’—mumble or whisper a little—you would still be truthful and I will have a chance for a future. When I marry, I’ll come into quite a bit of money. I’d be happy to share a portion of it with you. Does the chapel need a bell tower? Missals? I’m prepared to be very generous.”

“Bribery. You think as poorly of me as my cousin does,” Morgan said bitterly.

“It is you who seems critical of him, sir.”

“We were once the best of friends. But he went off to war and I found my calling. I cannot countenance his behavior.”

“The drinking?”

“The drinking, the whoring, the fighting. He was wild, Mrs. Mont. For fifteen years he did just as he pleased while Ripton Hall went to rack and ruin. His father begged him to come home, but he was too selfish.”

“He was defending his country, Mr. Morgan. That’s hardly selfish.” Someone needed to defend Gareth.

“He was running away. When Bronwen married Lord Lewys, he fell to pieces.”

“I was under the impression his drinking was a recent thing.”

Morgan snorted. “It’s worse now, I grant you. He’s no longer amusing, just oblivious. I’ve tried to talk to him to no avail.”

Anne could imagine the one-sided conversation. But Morgan had his weakness of the flesh, too. It seemed that he and Gareth had shared it.

“Are you warning me against this marriage?”

“You’re a fool if you go through with it. He’s only marrying you for whatever fortune you can bring him—he can never love another. But he might kill you as he killed Bronwen.”

Anne simply did not believe Gareth capable of murder, but it was clear his cousin did.

Or wished to steer the blame away from himself.

“I’m not some silly girl. I have to think I know what I’m doing.” But did she really? She hardly knew Gareth Ripton-Jones. Their practical need for each other might turn out to be very impractical. What if he refused to let her go? His kiss had been a shock to her. What if she lost her resolve and let him . . .

No, no, and no. Anne knew what she had to do, and why she had to do it. She would not be bullied by any man ever again.

“Will you agree to my plan, Mr. Morgan? It won’t be a lie, not really. God will hear the words.”

His face shuttered. “I’ll have to think on it.”

“Please don’t think too long. Time is of the essence. The sooner I am safely married, the better. My father will have no hold on me then, and I’ll have my money.” Anne stood. She wouldn’t beg—Morgan was made of flint. If he were a man of good conscience, he would see a way to help her.

“Your father has committed the gravest of sins.” He followed her into the hallway and pulled an overcoat from a peg.

“Not quite yet. But I fear if I return to him, he will.”

“You are still a virgin?”

Anne nodded, too mortified to speak. Discussing something so personal with a stranger was strange indeed. But then she planned to
marry
a stranger in a month.

“Be wary of Gareth if you wish to remain untouched until your wedding night. He’s a man of vicious appetites. It’s most improper you are living with him.”

“He needs my money, Mr. Morgan. He won’t abuse me.” At least she didn’t think he would. If he stopped drinking—

No. When he indulged, he had not even noticed her. It was only since his newfound sobriety that he looked upon her with a speculative blue gleam. Morgan was right. She’d have to be careful of Gareth.

And herself.

They walked silently to the timbered inn through thick snowflakes. The sign with its painted gray pony creaked and flapped in the wind. Peat-scented heat greeted them as Morgan pushed in the door to the snug taproom.

Gareth sat alone, although a few other tables held those seeking shelter from the storm. An ironstone mug of spiced buttered rum was before him. His flushed face told Anne that this was not his first. He was straying from the rules already.