Lady Anne's Lover (The London List) Read online

  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.

  He rose quickly and nodded to them. “I trust the business has been concluded in a satisfactory manner?”

  “Mr. Morgan is taking my proposal under consideration, Gareth. You will let us know as soon as possible what your decision is?”

  “I will. Good day to you, Mrs. Mont. God be with you. You will need Him.”

  With that sour blessing, he was gone. Anne sat and pulled the mug to her. “May I have a taste?”

  “I’ll get you your own.” He made to leave to find the innkeeper but Anne stayed his hand.

  “Sit down with me. I can share. The sooner we finish this, the sooner we can go back home. It’s snowing hard now.” She took a sip of the warm fragrant liquid, appreciating its instant effect. She wondered what Mrs. Smith had to say about rum punch in The Compleat Housewife, although it wouldn’t do to learn to make such a concoction. If she were trying to influence Major Ripton-Jones to leave his wicked ways behind, the less temptation provided for him, the better.

  “How did you find my cousin?” He took his turn at the mug and passed it back to her.

  “He is insufferable, isn’t he? I can see why you are no longer friends.”

  “He wasn’t always such a saint. Before I went into the army, both of us got in more scrapes than you can imagine.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Anne murmured. “How old were you when you left Llanwyr?”

  “Seventeen.”

  By her calculations, that made him thirty-three. Fifteen years in the army, one year home to fight another kind of battle. Gareth was much too old for her, really, but then she felt like an old soul despite her juvenile hijinx.

  “I can see you doing sums in your head. Yes, I’m thirty-three. How old are you?”

  “A lady doesn’t discuss her age.” He didn’t need to know how young she was, did he? Most of her acquaintances were long married by now, girls lucky enough to escape their parents during their first season. The first year, Anne had gone to all the weddings, feeling envious, chafing that her father had refused all her suitors. The next year, she had not been invited to any of them due to her scandalous conduct.

  “You look like a veritable child. How did you expect to pass yourself off as an experienced housekeeper?”

  “It worked for a while with you,” she said pertly.

  “Aye, but I was not in full possession of my faculties now, was I?”

  No, he had not been. He’d been crude and rude and dismissive, and very drunk. “What do you see when you are drinking?”

  “Nothing. That’s the point.” He pushed himself back away from the tankard. “I’ll do better, Annie, I promise.”

  “You had better. Your future depends upon it.” He watched in undisguised envy as she swallowed up the rest of the punch.

  CHAPTER 8

  She was a little shrew. A nag.

  And tasted like heaven.

  No one had been more surprised than he by their kiss. He’d been hard as a rock for the first time in months. He’d wanted to lick every freckle, ruck up her riding habit, and tumble her right on the slate kitchen floor.

  Gareth hadn’t wanted any woman save Bronwen his whole adult life. Oh, he’d fucked more than his fair share, but it was Bronwen in his head while his cock was in some other woman’s cunt. He’d been pathetic lusting after an unobtainable married woman.

  When his father had written that her husband was dead, Gareth knew it was finally time to sell out and come home. The heat blazed as hot as the Indian sun between the widow and the retired soldier just as it had between the young lovers of fifteen years before.

  Bronwen had agreed to marry him once her period of mourning was over. He’d worked like a slave on the estate, trying to make the place fit for Lady Lewys and her two
daughters. If Bronwen complained incessantly about the conditions of Lewys Abbey’s dower house, she’d be appalled by the state of Ripton Hall.

  Then he’d fallen, and her attraction to him vanished. There was no virtuous nursing or soothing palm on his brow as he’d raged in fever and agony. She couldn’t bear to look at his stump, shuddered in revulsion every time Gareth’s father begged her to visit. Finally it was Gareth who begged her to stop coming.

  He didn’t think things could get blacker, but he had been wrong. His father suffered a stroke in the spring and died. It was then Gareth discovered the true financial mess his father had only hinted at, and he’d been powerless from his bed to change it.

  Thank God he’d had no wife and stepdaughters to support. He could barely feed himself, Martin, and poor Cecily.

  He’d survived three deaths this year and almost his own. And now he had a second chance at everything. Did Annie not recognize what was between them? She’d felt like a starling in his embrace, her feathers ruffling and pulse quickening under his fingers. She was so young and fresh, her small body lushly curved. He had a powerful, primal urge to prove to her he was still a worthy man despite his sins.

  She wanted him to give up his darkest pleasure. Or was it pain? Perhaps if he had a woman by his side, he wouldn’t seek the oblivion. The pleasant taste of rum and cinnamon and tart lemon lingered, but he’d much rather have another kiss from her.

  “Let’s go home. I’ll get the horses.”

  He knew every jog and corner of the Silver Pony’s halls, and soon got to the stable without ever stepping foot outside.

  Jim the ostler greeted him. “Afternoon, Major, there’s something you should see. Your old Penny here is breathing mighty hard.”

  Gareth heard the horse before he found him in his warm dry box. “How long has he been like this?”

  “Nearly since you brought him in, sir.”

  “Why didn’t you fetch me from the taproom?”

  “You was enjoyin’ yourself with Mrs. Chapman’s punch, wasn’t you? I thought he might stop once he got a good rest.”

  It was only a few miles from Ripton Hall to the village, but Penny sounded as winded as if he’d run a steeplechase. “I’d best not ride him back. Can you take care of him for me, Jim? I’ll come back for him tomorrow.”

  “Aye, sir, it would be my pleasure. Poor fellow. He’s getting older, isn’t he, like the rest of us? You’ve had him since you was a boy.”

  “Very nearly.” Gareth’s father had given him his old horse once he’d been posted to Portugal as a newly-minted lieutenant. Gareth’s advancement in the army had been on merit—his father had not purchased him a commission. It would have been hard to do so as Gareth disappeared to impulsively enlist right before Bronwen’s wedding. With so many officers slaughtered in the endless wars, Gareth had moved up rapidly without the benefit of family influence or money.

  People thought him brave. He knew he’d been foolhardy.

  And was perhaps being foolhardy now, shackling himself for life to the elusive Mrs. Mont. She wouldn’t even tell him who she really was.

  She’d come to him through The London List, the ton’s most influential newspaper. Copies found their way even here to this quiet corner of Wales. Well, he had three weeks to worm the truth out of her, starting now. Gareth relished the thought of riding back home with her in his lap, her hip nestled against his cock. He regretted he would be unable to “accidentally” fondle her, but Job needed firm handling and it was difficult with one hand in the best of times.

  He returned to the taproom. Annie sat near the fire, her cheeks a becoming shade of pink. The patrons swiftly looked away from her once Gareth entered, and he decided now was as good a time as any to make their announcement, Ian be damned.

  “I see you fellows have noticed my bride-to-be. May I present Mrs. Anne Mont? She has done me the honor of accepting my proposal.”

  He’d known most of them all his life. Some had even lived on his land and worked for his father at one time, although they’d given Gareth a wide berth since August. They gawped and shuffled in their seats, tipping their caps and mumbling. Annie turned even pinker.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I am so pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  More mumbling, but they got to their booted feet in response. They had better treat her with respect if they knew what was good for them, Gareth thought. She was to be the mistress of Ripton Hall, for all she imagined she’d be sailing off to Boston or some such place.

  “Are we ready to leave?” Annie whispered.

  “Aye. But there’s a little problem.”

  Anne’s brows scrunched and Gareth stared. Her lashes and brows were gold and copper and bronze in the firelight, quite at odds with her mud-brown hair. All those freckles. She had the coloring of a natural redhead.

  What would happen if he lifted her shift to see her sweet pink cunny? Would he find red curls, more freckles? He thought he’d seen red through her nightgown last night, but that could have been a trick of the light or his impaired vision. His cock surged with embarrassing curiosity.

  “Penny—the horse you rode—is not breathing properly. I’m going to leave him in the stable until tomorrow, give him a rest. I’m afraid you’ll have to ride home with me.”

  “On—on the same animal?”

  “Don’t worry. Job can be a devil, but he won’t throw us. I’m afraid it’s the only alternative, unless you’d like to stay here overnight. We’d probably have to share a room. I understand from Mrs. Chapman that the inn is nearly full of stranded travelers.”

  “Of course not! That would be—inappropriate. We’ve probably caused enough talk already. Ian said so, didn’t he?”

  “Did those men bother you?”

  “N-not really. They did look at me.”

  “What red-blooded man could help himself? You are very fetching, Annie.”

  “Stop being so silly.”

  “Green suits you. Brings out the color of your pretty eyes.”

  She rolled those pretty eyes at him, not accepting his compliment. All of her was pretty, really. He’d just been too deep in his cups to notice at first.

  Tomorrow was the start of a new year. Could he face it with sobriety? Annie would be worth sacrificing his habit for. If he could gentle her into staying.

  For some reason she gave him hope. It made no sense, as he didn’t know a thing about her except that she couldn’t cook and had a sharp tongue.

  Though her tongue had not been sharp earlier, but moist and sweet and seductive. She’d tasted so innocent. So young. For a man who’d kissed scores of women, she was a revelation.

  He led her through the rabbit warren of hallways to the stable. Jim had finished cinching Job’s saddle back on, but Annie went to the box where poor old Penny huffed and coughed.

  “It isn’t strangles, is it?” she asked worriedly, patting the horse’s long red face.

  “I should hope not, miss. The other horses will catch it. I believe it’s heaves—look at his flank.”

  “I haven’t had him out much this winter, thinking to spare him,” Gareth said. “He’s been cooped up too long.” He watched as Annie’s gloved hand gently smoothed down the horse’s face and almost wanted to trade places with his animal, heaves or not. It was clear she loved horses.

  She was a Lady of Quality. Or a Girl of Quality, he chuckled to himself. An heiress. His.

  Or soon to be. If he could stop himself from being jug-bitten he might just convince her to stay and help him realize his dream.

  He’d wanted to raise horses—Ripton Hall’s lands were farmed out, the soil poor. The stable block was in better condition than the house and was currently big enough for a dozen animals. He could expand it, or build another building with the money Annie had promised him. Horse breeding was a thoroughly respectable endeavor that should not bring shame to her as his wife no matter who her father was.

  He wondered if she was running away from an arranged marriage to some
portly sexagenarian. The ton thought nothing of tossing their virginal daughters into the laps of men old enough to be their grandfathers. Hell, Gareth himself was too old for her, and he was far from being a prime specimen. That was clear right now as he had to have Jim’s help to mount Job.

  “’ere you go, miss.” In one quick lift, Annie was draped across his lap, the feather of her hat tickling his nose. His stump jerked as it was sometimes wont to do and touched her shoulder. Instead of shying away, he felt her relax into it. Snuggled. He suppressed a groan.

  “I hope you are comfortable,” Gareth said tersely. God knows he was not, with her soft wool-covered rump edging against his manhood. What he’d fancied earlier was a kind of torture.

  “I can take the reins, you know,” she said as Jim opened the stable door to a deluge of snowflakes. It was nearly impossible to see the road. “You might need to hold onto me so I don’t slip off.”

  She’d do better astride, her skirts hiked up and her legs molded against his. But he would not suggest that. He’d be completely distracted. It was going to be hard enough to guide Job home without every inch of his needy body screaming out for her. Jim should have placed her behind him, where she could have gripped his waist and not tormented him with the green feather hovering near his nose. Instead her straight little spine rubbed up against his chest and her soft bottom was about to encounter something hard.

  Blast. He’d spook her with his hunger. She’d been clear about this marriage of convenience, however inconvenient it was becoming for him. Gareth needed his wits about him to get home—Penny might do the job blindfolded but Job was a fairly recent purchase. He couldn’t fantasize about fucking her on a horse. While he was sure it could be done, a bed was much more comfortable.

  “Isn’t it beautiful!” Annie cried as the snow eddied and swooped around them. He supposed it was even romantic, when he had a warm woman against him on a cold-kissed afternoon. But Gareth was out of practice romancing, so he kept his eyes on the snow-covered road.

  “Aye.” Llanwyr and its environs were beautiful—he’d kept them in mind as he’d waded through Spanish mud and Indian jungles. In spring the daffodils would carpet the earth all the way from Ripton Hall to the village. He’d always brought Bronwen a bouquet of them when he came courting and she’d treated them as if he’d brought her rare orchids.