Cocky Mister: A Regency Cocky Gents Book

by Annabelle Anders

  For the first time in his life, he felt a need to make conversation to fill the silence—for her. Unfortunately, he couldn’t, for the life of him, summon a single topic that he couldn’t be certain wouldn’t upset her further.

  Trouble was, when she wasn’t dead set on lording it over most of the ton, he actually liked Tabetha Fitzwilliam. If pressed, he might admit that he’d been physically attracted to her before, but without her constantly reminding him of his title-less condition, he was discovering several intriguing characteristics that had escaped his notice before.

  “I am hungry. Or I was.” Tabetha opened her napkin and smoothed it onto her lap. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes—because of him.

  Uncertain what he could say, of whether there was anything that he could say, he instead lifted the lid on a few of the various dishes and began scooping servings of food onto her plate.

  Something about Culpepper’s name had jolted her. She was beginning to see glimpses of her past. There were moments when she had slipped, revealing that she knew things—things that she was hardly even aware that she knew. Knowing the colors that favored her, as well as her appreciation for fashion, were just a few that he’d noticed.

  What else was going on in her head?

  He rolled his lips thoughtfully. He was learning things about her that he’d not suspected before. She could be sympathetic, self-effacing…

  Passionate. Loving.

  He cleared his throat.

  “I hope rain holds off for travel.” At last, a safe topic. Good lord, he was discussing the weather with her now. What else was he willing to do for this woman?

  She glanced up from her plate and for the first time since he’d mentioned her father, she didn’t look sad. “But rain is never far off. This is England, after all.”

  “Scotland,” he corrected her.

  “But soon we’ll be back in England.”

  Why did that bother him? He stabbed his fork into a piece of gravy-covered meat and bit it off, unwilling to examine the thought.

  “Tell me about your family.” It seemed she would be the one after all, to fill the uncomfortable silences. He sifted information that he could tell her.

  “My father is a… solicitor, and I am the second son out of four boys. But the youngest of us is a girl—my sister, Natalie.” He wouldn’t mention the fact that his father was an earl, nor that his mother was perhaps the most influential lady in all of the ton. He rather enjoyed the anonymity he’d experienced with her these past few days.

  Even as a mister, none of Ravensdale’s sons went unnoticed in London.

  “Tell me about your brothers. Surely, they cannot all be as handsome as you.”

  “Good Lord, no.” He grinned, enjoying flirting with her almost as much as he liked teasing her. “Rome is the oldest.” He went on to tell her how his brother had married a lady’s maid just last year—which wasn’t nearly as interesting without her knowing that Rome was heir to an earl. “And just before he married, he introduced us to his grown son, Wesley.” Stone grinned as he brought up his nephew. “I’ve taken him to my boxing club on a few occasions, and he shows tremendous potential.”

  “You like to box?” she asked, glancing at his hands.

  Liking was a rather watered-down word to describe his passion for the sport. He nodded.

  “No, you love to box,” she corrected her opinion, her gaze intent on him.

  And from there, the conversation flowed naturally. He went on to tell her about his brother Peter, and his passion for playing the cello. “He’s spending the next nine months or so in Brighton, as a student of Sir William Crowden-Bickford—a man considered to be the finest cellist in all of Europe. Supposedly, the association will ensure my brother’s place in the musical world.”

  “You sound doubtful of that.”

  “Peter thinks his music is all he needs.” But Stone had sensed for a few years now that his brother was lonely. “I’d hate to see him miss out on having a family merely because he believes he can only have one or the other.”

  These were things he never discussed with anyone—topics he barely allowed himself to dwell on.

  She knew precisely what questions to ask, always followed by insightful observations. They drank the entire bottle of wine and consumed most of the food that had been provided.

  When she sat back, he slid his glance to the top of the wardrobe. It wasn’t quite two in the afternoon. “Care to give chess another go?”

  She groaned, but then nodded, gathering the dishes and stacking them on the tray. “Very well. Just as long as you keep your tower thingy away from my queen this time.”

  He rose to retrieve the game but then slid his gaze back to hers, wondering if she had intended the innuendo.

  “What?” She stared back at him innocently and then smoothed the sleeve of her gown.

  “Don’t expose your queen, and she’ll be perfectly safe from my… tower thingy.”

  “I’m going to take your king this time. He can’t elude me forever.” She pushed the tray aside. “I think the pieces ought to be more colorful. And have faces. Like little dolls.”

  “Like dolls?” Stone couldn’t help grinning as she concentrated on lining up her pieces. “Next thing you’ll want to give them all Christian names.”

  She lifted one of the bishops off the board. “This one is Jules and the other one is Chaswick. The queen is Bethany.”

  Stone froze. Her brother’s name, and the name of her sister and brother-in-law.

  He pointed at a knight. “What about this fellow?”

  “Blackheart,” she answered unwaveringly. She then went on to tell him names for every single pawn, all of which, if he didn’t recognize immediately, were familiar enough that he could guess they were associated with her in some way. Her memory was there; it was simply playing games with her. Not much longer, he was certain, and it would return.

  And if that was a good thing, then why was he breaking into a cold sweat?

  “This noble gentleman is King Rock.” She drew his attention back to the board. “And this lovely lady, of course, is Queen Tabetha.”

  Of course.

  “Can we play now, or did you wish to name my pieces as well?” Although he shouldn’t ask, as she was quite capable of delaying their game for the greater part of the afternoon doing precisely that.

  She scrunched up her nose. “Doesn’t really matter, since they’re all going to die anyway.” She moved her pawn to F3 with a smirk. “Let’s make this more interesting though.”

  “Make chess more interesting? I thought you said it was already too complicated.”

  “That’s why I said interesting, husband.”

  The gleam in her eye warned him that what she really meant was let’s make this more dangerous.

  “Every time you steal one of my pieces, you get to kiss me.”

  “And if you steal one of mine?” Dangerous indeed.

  “You must remove one item of clothing.”

  His initial response was that he ought to flip her ridiculous rules the other way.

  His second response was to count the items he was wearing. Shoes, stockings, trousers, waistcoat, handkerchief, of which he had two, shirt…

  Stone defeated her soundly, but over the course of two more games, wearing nothing but his trousers, he insisted that they switch to playing cards.

  Pausing after shuffling the deck, he reached across the table and touched his fingertips to her mouth.

  Her lips were swollen, and the skin around them pink from his beard. “That wasn’t fair, you know.”

  “Chess is war, husband.” Her gaze was more knowing than it ought to be. “It is war’s prize to take all vantage.”

  “Henry V?”

  “Henry VI.”

  Her memory most definitely was returning.

  As the sun lowered on the horizon, Stone was glad he’d given her a concrete reason for staying put. Because it was obvious she was feeling better. And the better she seemed, t
he more restless she became.

  Archimedes, however, wearing the pink gown again, this time, accessorized with a silk bow, was quite content to remain in the room. Perhaps the animal sensed the danger awaiting him if he was caught, whereas his mistress did not.

  At least the cat was willing to cooperate.

  “As soon as I can confirm that Culpepper and his men have left, we’ll go out walking tomorrow.” The last time they’d done this had resulted in a catastrophe. He sat up straight.

  He would make certain they were both sober when they embarked on this outing.

  Definitely sober.

  “A picnic, maybe?” Tabetha asked hopefully.

  “As long as the weather holds.”

  “And we leave the day after that.”

  “At sunup.”

  “Meanwhile, we could always…” Her gaze shifted to the bed.

  “Sleep?” He cocked a brow, making her groan.

  “That’s all I’ve been doing.” And then she stared at him from beneath suddenly sultry lashes at the same time her pretty pink tongue emerged to slide across those full, luscious lips—lips he was intimately acquainted with.

  Although not as intimately as he’d like.

  “Sleep.” He rose abruptly and crossed to the door. Because if he stayed locked in this room with her a second longer, he couldn’t be held responsible for his actions. “Lock this behind me. And don’t let—”

  “Anyone in unless I’m certain it’s you,” she finished for him. “Stone?”

  He paused, glancing over his shoulder.

  “Promise you’ll be careful?” That vulnerability returned to her eyes. “You’re the only person in the world who knows who I am—the only person who matters to me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  He swallowed hard. He’d never been anybody’s only anything before. “And you aren’t going to have to find out.”

  “Should I wait up for you?”

  “Try to sleep.”

  Chapter 15

  A Close Shave

  Tabetha sighed. The pillow Stone had placed between them had been shoved away sometime during the night, and the warmth at her back, and wrapped around her, was her husband’s chest and arms.

  And the poking against her bottom was her husband’s desire.

  She squirmed to turn and face him, but before she could roll over, Rock burst out of the bed as though the hounds of hell were chasing him. She couldn’t help smiling at the sight of him standing by the bed, thick ruffled mahogany hair, sleepy eyes, and a rather large bulge pushing out of the front of the trousers he’d slept in. He searched around and snatched up his shirt.

  “Good morning.” She pushed herself up to sit, smiling and stretching, satisfied to know that she was not the only one of them who was beyond frustrated by all this waiting.

  She was also smiling because it was to be their last day in Gretna Green, and they were going to go on a picnic.

  Her husband had unbuttoned his falls and was tucking the tails of his shirt inside. “Morning.” He turned to the side before she got more than a glimpse of his manhood.

  She sighed, disappointed. “I can’t wait to get out of this chamber. Another day inside this room, and I would just die!”

  “You are tired of my company already?” Rock glanced up from pulling on one of his boots, a teasing grin dancing on his mouth.

  “Never.” She had no reason to be coy with him.

  He held her gaze, not answering, but neither had he gone back to tugging at his boots.

  Someday, when the two of them were old and gray, Tabetha vowed she’d understand the meaning behind all his silences. But until then… “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking I don’t deserve you.” His answer came easily, and then, looking down, he shoved a foot into his other boot.

  She ought to take his answer as a compliment, but instead, it caused that uncomfortable niggling to start up again. That fear that she was missing something… and when she discovered what it was, everything would change.

  And that change might cause her to lose him.

  A bird swooped onto the flower box outside the window and broke into song, making her realize that she was being melodramatic.

  “I’ll ask Mrs. Hettrick to have hot water sent up for your bath, and tea, and breakfast.” He’d shoved his arms into his dusty waistcoat and was running his hands through his hair.

  “You are going to check on this Culpepper person?” She could tell by the tension in his shoulders, the awareness in his eyes, as he prepared to leave.

  He nodded. “But I’ll be careful. And I shouldn’t be long. Make sure you—”

  “—slide the lock when you leave,” she finished for him.

  He stilled and turned back to face her, and oh, how she wished she could read his thoughts!

  “Not much longer, duchess.” He strode back inside the room, gripped her shoulders, and in a move she was not expecting, captured her mouth in a violent kiss.

  Yesterday, they’d kissed more times than she could count. Those signs of affection had been teasing, languorous, playful.

  This kiss was nothing like those had been.

  It made her feel like she was a captured maiden and he a ruthless highwayman. He kept none of his desperation hidden from her, taking, plundering, devouring her.

  She clutched her arms tightly around his neck, thinking he was going to swoop her up, throw her onto the bed, cover her with his body, and alleviate her clawing frustration.

  Perhaps she wouldn’t mind staying inside after all.

  But then he released her suddenly. “What?” Tabetha stared at him dumbly.

  He wiped his arm across his mouth, gasping, and then walked back across the room.

  “Slide the locks,” he said before turning and closing the door behind him.

  Tabetha’s knees gave out, and she was grateful for the bed behind her. She touched her face, which was tender from his beard.

  “Meow,” Archie commiserated from across the room. He’d managed to remove the gown again and stood atop the table wearing nothing but his whiskers.

  Which gave her an idea…

  “I promised my husband that I’d not open the door for anyone but him.”

  Stone smiled to himself as he stood outside their chamber. “Open up, woman.” The ostler from across the road had confirmed that Culpepper’s entourage had driven out of the village at first light, and Stone felt as though he could breathe for the first time in a week. He felt… lighter.

  She was safe. They could return to London together, and she was also showing signs of getting her memory back.

  And once in London, with Blackheart’s assistance, he was fairly certain that they’d not have any trouble obtaining an annulment.

  Which was still an option. God help me. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone this long without relief.

  He adjusted himself in his trousers, halfcocked, so to speak, and raised his fist to knock again at the same time it swung open. The reason for all of his persistent discomfort greeted him with smiling eyes and a wide grin.

  “You’re back!” She didn’t bother trying to hide her excitement for the day, her hair piled atop her head, shining golden from the sunlight streaming through the window, and her mood one of flirtatious temptation.

  And in her hand, a gleaming silver blade. A gleaming and very sharp-looking silver blade.

  Stone held out a hand cautiously. Finally, it seemed, she was taking his warnings seriously. “Woah there, duchess. You won’t be needing that today.”

  But she’d grasped him by the arm and was leading him to a chair, the back turned toward the table where a bowl of water rested along with soap, a shaving brush, folded washcloths, and a rolled-up linen.

  “I’m going to shave you,” she announced proudly.

  The door closed behind him with a resounding thump. “Er. No.”

  She circled the blade in the air and then used it to point at the chair. “Come si
t down. Trust me. I’ve done this before.”

  He’d promised himself to keep her happy in whatever capacity that he could, but this was asking too much. He rubbed the thick beard he’d acquired since leaving London. “Not necessary, thanks. In fact, I’ve come to be rather fond of my beard.”

  “Don’t be stubborn.”

  “I’m also fond of my face.”

  “Please, Stone?” And there it was. That pretty little pout and those enticing fluttering lashes. How had he been immune to these tactics in London and then lost all ability to resist up here in Scotland?

  “Shaving is a very personal matter.” He made one last attempt to elude her.

  “I’m your wife. That ought to be personal enough to shave you.” She pushed down on his shoulder, giving him no choice but to plant his hindquarters on the chair. “I’ve done nothing but trust you since my accident. Now it’s your turn to trust me.”

  She tilted his head backward and slid something soft behind his neck. The position was a surprisingly comfortable one.

  “Lay back and relax.”

  He closed his eyes. He did rather enjoy having her fuss over him.

  “Your eye’s getting better. It’s more yellow than black. Does it still hurt?”

  It didn’t. And he hardly noticed the ache in his ribs. She was rather good at keeping him distracted.

  “You’re not going to slit my throat, are you?”

  “Hush.” Sounds of her arranging various items on the table sounded near his ear.

  Even though he could have hired a valet, he normally shaved himself, and usually every day.

  “Don’t you like it?” he asked her. An unshaven face was an outward sign of a man of the lower class.

  She touched her hand to his chin, stroking his beard. An unexpected sensation of intimacy settled between them. “It rather makes you look like a warrior.” Her fingertips skimmed along his jaw and then around his mouth, pausing to delicately caress his lips. “My warrior.”

  He opened his eyes, unable to keep from looking at her.

  “I am, you know.” Where the hell had that come from?

  She leaned forward and touched her lips to his. Her kiss was delicate. A promise. Sweet—like her.