Jarret downed his brandy in one gulp. “Still, the idea that he did it to get the brewery in his clutches is rather a stretch, don’t you think?”
“But it’s not implausible.” Pinter halted. “Of course, there’s no way to prove any of this without knowing more.” He ticked things off on his fingers. “Why he was in the area. If he really was on the estate that afternoon. What the situation was with your grandmother’s will at that point. We could ask her about that last—”
“No, I don’t want her involved.”
Pinter stared at him. “If I may be so bold as to ask, my lord, why not?”
Jarret put down his glass. “For one thing, she’s still ill. For another, these are serious accusations about her own nephew, based on nothing more than some blood that a groom claims to have cleaned off his stirrup nineteen years ago and my fleeting memory of seeing him on the estate. And I wonder if Desmond even has the stomach to commit cold-blooded murder.”
Then again, Desmond was a weasel. The possibility that he could have killed Mother and Father made Jarret’s gut churn. What if a viper had been in their midst all these years …
No, there wasn’t enough proof to believe it. Not yet, anyway. “Is there no way to find out about Gran’s will without alerting her?”
Pinter mused a moment. “You could give someone permission to approach Mr. Bogg with a request to view all versions of the will. Your friend Masters, the barrister, could act on your behalf and include me in the endeavor. He could say that you and your siblings want to be sure of their legal rights regarding your grandmother’s ultimatum. Neither your grandmother nor Mr. Bogg would find that suspicious.”
“Good idea. I’ll discuss it with Masters as soon as we’re back in London.”
“In the meantime, I can continue to investigate. As long as I’m looking for the grooms, I can see if one of them dealt with your cousin on the estate that day. I can also question his servants about why he left town.”
“Be careful with that,” Jarret said. “I don’t want Desmond to know that we’re looking into him. If he’s guilty, there’s no telling what he might do.”
Pinter’s face darkened. “Actually, my lord, that brings me to another nasty piece of business involving your cousin. Apparently, he’s been openly questioning your fitness to run Plumtree Brewery. Somehow he got wind of how this scheme with Miss Lake came about, and he’s been spreading rather … vile rumors.”
Jarret leapt to his feet. “I’ll kill the son of a bitch!”
“I wouldn’t advise that,” Pinter said dryly. “I should hate to have to arrest you.”
With an effort, Jarret jerked his anger under control. “And what would you advise?”
Pinter gazed at him with a somber expression. “You’re not going to like it.”
“Try me.”
“You could marry Miss Lake.”
Jarret had been resisting the idea of marriage for so long that his next words were purely instinctive. “When did you start working for my grandmother?”
Pinter chuckled. “Trust me, having met the young woman, I understand your reluctance.” He sobered. “But if you want to dispel rumors, not only about Miss Lake but about Plumtree and its present difficulties, then a marriage to another brewing family would be ideal. Aside from the fact that it would give you certain advantages in the market, it would also make your recent association with Lake Ale look less the result of a questionable wager and more a clever business move. That would cut the legs right from under your cousin, and he would look a fool.”
“An appealing notion,” Jarret bit out, “but hardly worth marrying for.” Except that he would be marrying Annabel, with her bright eyes and Venus smile. Annabel, who made him laugh and lust.
Annabel, who had the capacity to crush his heart in her capable hand if he let her that close. A shiver swept him.
The runner watched him closely. “Only you can know if marrying Miss Lake is worth it.”
“I’m not even sure she’d consent. Remember what she thinks of marriage?”
A small smile touched Pinter’s lips. “She was rather vocal on the subject during your card game. But surely your lordship could change her mind.”
Only if he agreed to give up his reckless ways for good. Odd, how that didn’t sound as unappealing as it had a mere week ago.
“I’ll take your advice under consideration, Pinter. In the meantime, I’d like you to continue your investigation. Discreetly, of course.” He walked to the door and opened it. “I assume you’ll be traveling back in your own equipage tomorrow?”
“Yes,” Pinter said, “I’ll leave first thing.”
“Then I’ll take my brother and sister with me in Oliver’s carriage. See you in the morning.”
As soon as the runner was gone, Jarret began pacing the room. Marriage to Annabel. It was the second time someone had suggested it tonight. A week ago, he would have scoffed at the idea. Because if he married Annabel, Gran would win. There was no way he could marry and still give up the brewery business. Annabel herself would practically demand that he help with her brother’s company.
Besides, his gambling income was too uncertain for him to count on it to support a wife. She’d been right about that. If he married her, he might as well accept that he’d be running Plumtree Brewery—and associating with Lake Ale—for the rest of his life.
He poured himself more brandy and drank deeply. Would that be so awful? This week had challenged him in ways he hadn’t been challenged in a long time. He’d found that he liked it—having a purpose, being in command, investing his energies in something greater than himself.
So what did it matter if Gran won? They could both win.
Except that at the end of the year, Gran would regain control of the company. He’d be in the same position he’d always fought to avoid: under her thumb, fighting with her over every decision, playing her lackey.
Unless you prove yourself capable of running it alone.
The idea arrested him. He had nearly a year. If he could wrest the company from the brink of disaster in that time he’d have leverage. He could demand that she step down. She might even do it—especially if he’d taken a wife by then. And if that wife were a brewster, that could only help.
A slow smile curved his lips. With excitement building in his chest, he downed the rest of the brandy.
He might have trouble convincing Annabel. She’d told him twice now she had no desire to marry—but he had a few tricks up his sleeve. He had tonight to convince her, and he meant to show her exactly how well it could work for them both. She was a practical female: she’d see the business advantages to such a union. He need not spout a lot of emotional nonsense he didn’t mean. She wouldn’t expect that, would she? After all, she’d been in love with that arse Rupert, and that hadn’t turned out well. She understood that marrying for such frivolous reasons could only make a person unhappy.
Unable to wait any longer, he headed over to Lake Ale. To his delight, Annabel was already there when he arrived, stoking up the coal fire in the little room off the office.
“Jarret!” she cried as she turned to him, wearing a smile as broad as the Thames. “I was afraid you’d changed your mind.”
“Not on your life,” he said as he peeled off his coat and tossed it over a chair. “I had to consult with Pinter. It took longer than I expected.” Perhaps he should broach the subject of marriage first. Get it out of the way.
But if she turned him down, it would make things awkward between them.
He couldn’t chance that—not when he’d spent half the evening burning to bed her again. He walked up to sweep her into his embrace. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” he murmured.
“How could you miss me?” she said, eyes filled with mischief. “You’ve seen me every day.”
“You know what I mean, you teasing wench.” He bent his head to nip her ear. “I missed the taste of these tender earlobes.” He speared his fingers into her coiffure to tug it loose
of its pins. “The feel of your luscious hair between my hands. And this …”
He kissed her hot, deep, and long, with all the passion he’d kept banked during their many meetings and dinners. He kissed her until she trembled and pressed her body flush against his.
When he broke the kiss, he said in a husky whisper, “I missed this most of all—having you in my arms and holding you against me.” He began to undress her, so hungry for her that he couldn’t wait a moment more. “Did you miss it, too?”
“Certainly not.” At his scowl, she let out a laugh. “All right, perhaps a little.”
Her breath came quickly, and now that he’d stripped her down to her shift, he could see the buds of her nipples, pink and hard beneath the sheer fabric.
“More than a little, I’ll warrant,” he rasped. “Admit it, you minx. You thought of me at night alone in your bed. You thought of me alone in mine, aching with need for you.” He slipped his hand between her legs to find her so damned wet and hot that it made him insane. “Perhaps you even touched yourself here, remembering.”
“Jarret!” she cried, her cheeks going pink. “I would never—”
“Never?” he prodded. “Not once?”
Dropping her gaze from his, she removed his waistcoat, cravat, and shirt, then went to work on his trouser buttons. “Well, perhaps … once or twice.”
Instantly, his imagination conjured up an image of her caressing herself. His cock stiffened painfully. “Show me.”
She gaped at him. “What?”
He kicked off his shoes, removed his trousers and drawers, then sat on the bed. “Show me how you touched yourself. I want to watch you touching yourself.”
Her blush deepened. “That sounds … wicked.”
“I’m a wicked man, dearling, something you’ve pointed out often enough. I’m a rogue, an irresponsible scapegrace, a hellion—”
“I never called you a hellion,” she protested. “You called yourself that.”
Grabbing the hem of her shift, he lifted it to bare her sweet, fragrant flesh. “All the same, indulge me.” He stripped off her shift and tossed it aside, then settled back on the bed to enjoy the view. “Let me see you touch yourself. So I’ll have something to remember during my lonely nights in bed in London.”
When she paled, his pulse gave a leap. She wasn’t as easy about their impending separation as she pretended. Perhaps she wouldn’t be as opposed to a marriage, either.
“I doubt that you’ll be lonely for long in London,” she said tartly.
“Ah, but you’ve spoiled me for anyone else,” he said. “I’ve become decidedly fond of a certain brewster with the body of Venus and the will of a lioness.” He lowered his voice to a coaxing murmur. “Did you caress your breasts while you lay alone in your room?”
Her lashes dipped down demurely to shield her pretty eyes, and she nodded.
“Show me.”
Finally, she did. She teased her nipples erect, her breath coming in throaty little gasps that set his blood afire.
“And what about your … ace of spades?” he said hoarsely, enthralled by the sight of her hands fondling her breasts. “Did you touch yourself there, too?”
Her gaze met his, turning coy. “Did you touch your jack?”
“God, yes.”
A smile curled up her lips. “Show me.”
Closing his hand around his cock, he began to work it slowly, afraid that if he did any more, he wouldn’t last until he could be inside her. In response, she dropped one hand between her legs to stroke her slick and swollen flesh.
He dragged in a harsh breath. God help him. She looked so damned tempting with her hands caressing herself and her eyes glazing over with her arousal. She was the very picture of femininity—all rosy and flushed, her lips parting with her heavy breaths. His cock felt ready to explode with his need. Much more of this, and he would embarrass himself.
“Enough,” he murmured, releasing his erection so he could tug her astride him. “I want to be inside you. Ride me, sweet Venus. Take me to the heavens.”
Curiosity lit her face. “Ride you?”
He scooted back on the bed and pulled her knees to rest on either side of his thighs. “Rise up and take me inside you. Come down on my … jack. Ever since you sat astride my lap the other night, I’ve imagined you impaled on me, a goddess taking her pleasure.”
Awareness dawned on her face, but still she hesitated. “Do you have one of those things you put on your … jack?”
“The cundum.” He had half a mind to tell her it didn’t matter, that they were going to marry, but he didn’t want to ruin the mood in case she wasn’t as keen on it as he hoped. So he jerked his trousers up from the floor and removed his only remaining cundum from his pocket.
He handed it to her. “Want to put it on?”
She smiled shyly, tugged the sheaf onto his rigid cock and tied it in place. Then she rose up and slid down onto him to engulf him in her silky feminine heat.
With a heartfelt moan, he thrust up into her. “That’s it, dearling. Like that. Now you’re in charge.”
Her face lit up. “Am I?”
He groaned. She was just temptress enough to use her power over him to torment him.
She rose up and came down on him again, with slow, fluid movements that had him gasping. Her hair frothed over her shoulders like foaming porter—he’d never seen anything more erotic in his life. And her breasts, oh God, they were displayed so prettily that he couldn’t resist filling his hands with them, kneading them, thumbing the nipples while she rode him.
“My sweet goddess …” he rasped as she increased her pace, maddening him, dragging him rapidly toward release.
Her soft gasps told him she was nearing her own release, and that triggered his, sending him over the edge into insanity just as she cried out and collapsed against him, milking him. And in that moment of intimacy, he knew he would do anything to keep her. Anything within his power.
As he held her to him, stroking her hair, brushing kisses over her brow, he whispered, “Marry me, Annabel.”
ANNABEL DREW BACK to stare at him. Had he really just asked her … No, surely she’d imagined it. Or perhaps he’d been caught up in the moment when he said it. Lord knew they’d both been carried away. Having him watch her touch herself had roused her in ways she hadn’t expected.
“Well?” he prodded. “What do you say?”
She swallowed hard. “I-I’m not sure I heard what you—”
“I asked you to marry me.” Tenderly, he brushed the hair from her face. “To become my wife.”
It made no sense, given what she knew of him. “As I recall, a week ago you were firmly opposed to marrying anyone.”
A smile played about his lips. He wrapped her hair about his hand and kissed it so tenderly it made her heart hurt. “That was before I became so inordinately fond of you.”
Well, that implied a certain amount of affection, but still …
He thrust up against her. “Fond of this.”
She frowned and pulled free of him, leaving his lap to find her shift and pull it over her head. She couldn’t think when he was touching her. And as long as she was naked, he would keep touching her.
When she could trust herself to speak evenly, she said, “So you want to marry me because you like bedding me.”
“Because I like you,” he said hastily. “You have a sharp mind and an even temperament. You’re loyal to your family. And we suit each other.”
She gaped at him. “Suit each other! You’re a marquess’s son, and I’m a brewer’s daughter.”
“I don’t care about that, and you don’t either. Admit it.”
“Your family will care.”
He arched one eyebrow. “Yes, they will. My grandmother will be so ecstatic to see me marry someone respectable, with good connections to brewing, that she’ll probably dance a jig on the roofs of London.” His tone held an edge. “If she doesn’t hand the brewery over to you outright.”
“Do
be serious, Jarret.”
“Sadly, I am.” He rose to toss the cundum in the fire, then pulled on his drawers. “You’re exactly what my grandmother would want for me.”
“That bothers you, doesn’t it?”
He shrugged. “A little. I hate letting Gran win.”
“Then why—”
“Because there are several advantages to our marrying. For one thing, it would squelch the rumors entirely.”
Her blood ran cold. “Rumors?”
A groan escaped him. “Right. I haven’t told you about those yet.” Sudden anger glinted in his eyes. “It seems that Gran’s bastard of a nephew got wind of the gossip about our wager and is telling everyone about it, presenting it in the worst possible light.”
Just what she and Lake Ale needed—more gossip. “You mean that he’s telling the truth.”
“What he guesses is the truth.”
“Which just happens to be the truth.”
“Does it matter? The point is, it won’t be long before the tale reaches Burton. I don’t care about it for myself, but I don’t want to see you suffer more. Or your family.”
She stiffened. “So you’re marrying me because you pity me?”
“No, damn it! That’s not—” He paced before her, clearly agitated. “I’m just pointing out the many advantages to our union.” Stopping in front of her, he seized her hands. “The best way to settle this situation is for us to have a legitimate connection.”
“A legitimate connection,” she repeated dully. Amazing how he managed to make a marriage sound like a business arrangement.
“It would be great for Lake Ale,” he said, as if he thought that was her only objection. “People would see our association as a family thing, which would give more weight to our new project. The East India captains would be assured that I could follow through. Or make your brother follow through.”
He was right. And with every word, he drove another nail in her heart.
“As Pinter pointed out—”
She jerked her hands from his. “You’re proposing marriage because Mr. Pinter said you should?”
A Hellion in Her Bed Page 25