For now he had exposed her to an even greater scrutiny. His father took another step or two into the room, his narrow gaze focused on Anne, his displeasure and condescension written all over his face.
Ian stepped in front of him, belatedly blocking his way. “I will meet you in a moment, sir. In the drawing room. You intrude upon our privacy, and are not welcome here.”
“Interrupted a little tête-à-tête, as the damn French would have it? Well, at least I know you’ve been doing your duty on her. Have you gotten her with child?”
“Not here.” Ian’s voice was as commanding and cutting as he could make it, and his father, thank God, for once responded as a normal human being should.
He stepped back. And though he did not apologize, as a gentleman ought, he at least said nothing else inflammatory.
“Pinkerton, show my father to the drawing room, if you would.”
“Aye, aye, captain.” Pinky came to attention—or as close to attention as a superannuated old tar dressed in his hodgepodge of checkered waistcoat and calico scarf could do. “This way, sir.”
Pinky held the door open for Ian’s father, who stalked through and down the corridor, and then turned to speak in a whispered aside to Ian. “Right sorry I am, cap’n. I tried to stop him a-comin’ on through, but … And things seemed to be going so well between you and the maidy.”
Anne colored crimson, and turned sharply away, back to the warmth of the fire. But as she stood there with her head down, recovering her breath, the light of the fire silhouetted her figure in the high-waisted brown wool dress. And Ian’s eyes were drawn to the outline of her surprisingly lithe frame—the perfect indentation at the bottom of her spine, and the lovely upward sweep of her breasts where they thrust out against the now tightly buttoned material.
Ian felt himself grow hard again—right there, standing in his book room, in advance of a severe dressing-down from his father.
Who would have thought that the sight of a high-necked, dark wool gown that covered her as effectively as a nun’s habit would have him straining at his breeches, and wondering how on earth he was going to navigate himself out of his present crisis so he could marry her, and get her locked into a private room where he could finally remove her drab clothes, and see what lay beneath the little wren’s camouflaging plumage?
“Thank you, Pinky. Just see to him, devil take him. Get him a drink.” Another thought intruded. “Oh, devil take me. Where are the colonel and Mrs. Lesley? Keep him away from them. Bring my father back in here—we’ll remove ourselves in a moment—just keep the three of them apart until I can think of…”
But he couldn’t think. Not while the blood that ought to have been in his head was still taking its pleasure in other, more attentive parts of his anatomy.
“I’ll go.” Anne whispered so low Ian was sure only he could hear her—retreating into her shy, silent shell. “I’ll see to my mother.”
And before he could say anything else, or apologize, or say he would speak to her just as soon as he had dealt with both her parents and his father, she walked silently out of the room, and was gone.
Their lovely interlude together was over. But, Ian reflected with a vast deal of satisfaction, she had said considerably more than two words.
* * *
Her mother was comfortably situated in a very pretty, well-upholstered bedchamber. Anne expected to be given an enthusiastic catalog of the fineness and cost of the furnishings, but her mother, it seemed, for once had other ideas.
“What on earth were you doing with the lieutenant, Anne, all that time? I should not have let you alone with him. It’s not seemly. I worry that he’ll think—”
“He thinks we are contemplating marriage, Mama, not just a couple of country dances at an assembly. A greater degree of informality is called for.”
But a greater degree of intimacy is what had occurred.
Lovely, marvelous intimacy. Much better than she had ever imagined. And she had imagined quite a bit in her narrow bed at home, and on the long trip from Somerset on the Post.
But all was not as it should be. And clearly, in the wake of the arrival of his father, the handsome lieutenant had a good deal of explaining to do. And so did she.
“Mama, did you hear the Viscount Rainesford’s arrival? We didn’t hear anything as we were at the back of the house.” And engaged in an altogether much more engaging activity.
No question could have pleased her mother more—she was wild to talk about it. “Well.” She sat up on the very edge of her lovely slipcovered chair. “We were in the drawing room. That funny old servant had brought me a pot of very good chocolate, and your father his port, there, while you were wandering the house with the lieutenant. What could you have to talk about all that time, I should like to know?” Her mother paused only to draw breath before chattering on. “But we heard the carriage draw up—a traveling carriage it was, a beautiful chaise and four with a crest on the door. So smart and elegant. And we heard his footman clatter up the steps and knock, but the man—the viscount himself—simply burst through the front door. Burst through it, without waiting for it to be opened. We heard it slam open. Did you ever?”
Anne shook her head in response to keep her mother moving along.
“And then he shouted. Shouted out, ‘Worth, where are you?’ And then to the servant, ‘I knew I’d run him to ground. Where is he, man?’ And then he threw open the door to the drawing room, where we were, and said, “Who the hell are you?” And then he walked off down the corridor, and then that butler, Pinkerton, came into the doorway and bowed to us, and shut the door. And that was that for a bit, until the butler came back and said he would show us to our rooms.”
At this point her mother sat back—at least as far as her stays would allow her—and clasped her hand to her bosom dramatically. “Such a to-do. Such manners, and him, a viscount. Makes me wonder if all is right between the viscount and his son. There seems to be something very strange there.”
“Yes.” Anne judged it best to give her mother the bare facts. “The lieutenant has told his father that we are already married.”
For the longest moment her mother said nothing—it was for the first time in Anne’s life that her mother was at a loss for words.
Goodness, there must be quite a storm coming if more than Gull Cottage was freezing over.
“Why on earth would he say that?” her mother sputtered. “I can’t imagine—”
“He will have his reasons,” Anne interrupted. “The same reasons that made him seek out Papa to arrange this marriage.”
“But—Well, I never—”
“You always.” Anne firmed her resolve. “But for once you won’t. You won’t say anything. Not to the lieutenant. And not to his father.”
“Anne!” Her mother’s voice was laced with disbelief and outrage.
“No.” She made herself speak before she could wish it back. “Our marriage is our private business, not the viscount’s.”
“It is certainly the viscount’s business,” her mother chided severely. “The lieutenant is his son, and stands to inherit—well, certainly not the estate, but something. Something that will concern you as well. And it is only right that the viscount should want to approve of his son’s marriage.”
“I should think, Mama, that that is exactly the reason why the lieutenant should like to make his father think the marriage has already happened.”
Her mother could not follow. “What on earth do you mean?”
Anne swallowed the bitter tonic of her pride, and let loose the words that had been flying about in her brain like a wheeling flock of sparrows. “I mean, that the lieutenant thinks his father will not approve of me as a wife. I mean, that if you wish to see this marriage happen, you will keep quiet, and keep to yourself, and not be speaking to the viscount. I mean, that if you should like to see me married, you will for once hold your tongue.”
Again her mother was dumbstruck for a full minute. “Why Anne, I-I think that is t
he longest speech I have heard from you in years.”
It was. It was the longest speech Anne had made in nearly her whole life. And it felt good. It felt right to say what she thought, and not try to keep it within for fear of displeasing.
A knock came at the door, and at her mother’s call, a stout young woman entered, bobbed a graceless curtsy, and said simply, “I’m to do for you, ma’am.”
Anne rose to take her leave before her mother could argue, or detain her, or say anything revealing in front of the servant. “I beg you would think about it, Mama.” She sketched a quick but respectful curtsy. “I must go.”
“But Anne—”
“I beg you. Good night.” She left before her mother could say any more, and headed down the stairs to find Ian, when the servant Pinkerton—Pinky, Ian had called him—came bustling up the wide, twisting stairwell, half humming, half singing an old Christmas carol.
“We three kings of Orient hmmm,” he was lilting in a well-worn tenor until he saw her. “Mistress,” He bobbed his head as he addressed her. “I’ve got a hot posset here for your mam. I’ll just give it to the girl, then, shall I?” He gestured up the stairs. “But is there anything I can get for you, mistress?”
“Miss will do, if you please.” She felt her face heat with all the usual trouble of speaking to strangers. “I’m not your mistress yet.”
“Ah, but I’ve great hope you will be.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, and slanted his eyes meaningfully down the stairs. “Grand hopes. But I’ll say no more. No more. Is there nothing I can get you? It’s coming on for a raw night.”
“No, I thank you, Pinkerton—”
“Oh, now call me Pinky, if it please you, mistress. We’re to be friends and all.”
Anne had no idea on earth what “and all” might include, but she was nonetheless happy for the offer of friendship, even from a servant. Especially from this cherubic old sailor, who looked to be kindness personified. “I’m honored. I just thought I’d go down, and … perhaps get some air.” It was so much easier to think in the fresh, open air. “I’m very fond of the out-of-doors.”
“Oh, well, we’ve plenty of out-of-doors here at Gull Cottage. But mistress, it’s coming on for a nasty raw night. I can feel it in my bones, I can. But if you’ll allow me…” He bustled up the rest of the stairway and disappeared for a moment, until she heard him knock upon her mother’s chamber door. And then he was hustling himself back to her.
“If I may suggest instead the glasshouse, mistress? A bit of air without going out into the night? I’ll get your cloak for you, shall I, and show you the way?”
The long glasshouse stood just off the far northwest corner of the house, and was reached by a small and frigid covered passageway. Pinky shambled ahead with a lantern.
“Holds the heat of the day for some time after the sunset, the glasshouse does, even on such a raw night. We’ll be having snow, you mark me, mistress. Be out of the wind here, you will. I’ll be done my business in a moment, and you can enjoy yourself in peace.”
He left the lantern, and swayed off to a corner, but the full silver moon cast enough light for her to take in her surroundings. The tables were covered with wooden flats full of a variety of different growing things, and in the middle of the space was an old stone well, as well as a modern hand pump. The slate-paved glasshouse must have been built around them. What a marvelous convenience to provide water for the plants and keep the well itself from freezing.
“Brilliant.”
“Oh, aye. That was the cap’n’s idea, mistress, to keep the old well here, and add the pump, when we built the place. ‘Build it around the water, we will, Pinky,’ he said.”
He was draping some sort of heavy holland cover very carefully over some bushes in a deep boxed planter.
At her inquisitive look, he explained. “Raspberries, mistress. So’s we’ll have fruit. Important for the cap’n’s health with him still at sea. But tetchy they are, with the cold, the raspberries, so’s I like to wrap them up, and wrap them down with a tarpaulin or two. But my old bones tell me we’re in for a cold spell, so needs must cover them all. At least for the night.” He gestured to a neatly folded stack of the tarpaulins under one of the tables. “But you make yourself at home. I’ll be done in a moment or two here, and leave you in peace to yourself.”
“You needn’t hurry on my account.” She heard the words—so antithetical to her former feelings—come out of her mouth with something of astonishment. But Pinky seemed to be a font of interesting information about his master. “How long have you known the captain—rather, Lieutenant Worth? I take it you sailed together?”
“Aye, mistress. Back in oh-six, that were, and him just a wee young gentleman. I took care ’o him, all those years ago, seeing that he got spice and eggs and fish, and he’s been good enough to see to me, all these years now, and give me honest work.”
“That’s very good of him.”
“The best. They all were, him and the other young gentlemen. But he’s the best.”
Anne could hear the gratitude and esteem in the old sailor’s voice, and it brought a warm feeling welling in her chest. Lieutenant Worth, it seemed, was a man worth trusting—a man of steadfast loyalty and honor, as well as a handsome rogue. And a particularly marvelous kisser.
His task done, Pinky touched his forelock and shambled away, and Anne made a lovely slow promenade of the place, looking indoors and out. She wiped the film of condensation off the panes and peered out through the darkness. Beyond, across the lawn a line of arthritic apple trees made up a small orchard, reaching beseeching arms up into the night sky. There were brown, frost-covered borders with their shrubs hunched down against the weather.
But she could see more. She could see into next spring, when the ground thawed and the borders greened and bloomed, and the wood below would be full of bluebells. It would be peaceful. And she would be blissfully alone.
But would she be happy?
The better question was, would she let herself be happy?
Chapter Nine
Pinky, God bless him, still seemed able to scent the wind. “I’ve got the colonel and his lady above. And I let himself”—Pinky’s disapproving emphasis reinforced exactly what he thought of Ian’s father—“back into the drawing room until you’re ready to see him.”
“Right.” Ian took a deep, deep breath into his lungs. Pity he couldn’t inhale patience. “Time to beard the lion.”
“Aye, sir. But if you’d just—” Pinky had somehow retrieved Ian’s dress uniform coat, and was easing away his evening coat over his shoulders. “For the authority of the senior service, sir.”
“Well put, Pinky. Just the thing.” Ian squared his shoulders. “Show the bastard in.”
A more imperious, colder man than his father had yet to be born. His usual manner was enough to quench the warmth of the fire. And so it did this day. The viscount stalked in and seated himself behind Ian’s desk as if he owned the place.
Which he did not.
“Well.” His father gave him a full helping of his scorn. “At least I know you’ve done your damned duty on her. Have you gotten the chit with child?”
“Father, Anne is my wife, and—”
The Viscount Rainesford was interested in but one thing. “I will need to see the evidence that you are actually married, and she’s not some—”
“Sir.” Ian used the nonchalant, disobliging tone that so infuriated his father. “I will thank you to keep a civil tongue in your unmannerly head, or I shall be obliged to rip your throat out.”
“You wouldn’t dare—” His father’s laugh was nearly a sneer.
“Try me.” Ian called upon every ounce of sangfroid he’d acquired over the years, and calmly stared his father down. “I’ve been twelve years at sea, sir. Twelve. Death and destruction day in and day out. I’ve killed better men than you before breakfast.” Ian flicked at an imaginary speck on his chuff. “State your business, and then I’ll thank you to get out of my
house.”
“Don’t you speak to me in that tone of voice. I’ll cut you off without so much as a farth—”
“Do it. For the love of God, do it.” Ian used his height to his advantage and looked down the length of his nose at his father. “But we both know you won’t.”
They both knew he couldn’t. Not while Ross was in such a state. For the first time in Ian’s life, he knew his father was both unable and unwilling to carry out his threats. And for a moment, the old man was actually taken aback. And then he tried to bluster his way out of his embarrassment—or at least what ought to have been embarrassment. The viscount had gotten his way for too long to have enough sense to know when to be mortified.
“Registry, settlements, and such. I’ll want to approve or amend them, as I see fit,” he insisted. “And you’ll have to give up this fool cottage, and come to Ciren Castle, of course, until we know it’s a boy.”
“Impossible.” Ian swallowed the hollow feeling in his stomach and asked the question sitting heavy in his gut. “How is my brother? How does he fare? Mother wrote that she had returned to Ciren to nurse him, but did not give any other news.”
The viscount dismissed his long-suffering wife’s care for their eldest son with an impatient gesture. “You will quit this navy business. It has served its usefulness to me, but now I need you at my side.”
“No, sir. I cannot.”
“Will not, is what you mean. But I’ll have obedience out of you yet.”
“Will not, indeed. Unless you bring me news that Ross is dead—which I pray every day and with every breath of my body is not true—I am pledged to return to my ship and my duty.”
“Your damn duty is to me, by God, not to the king or the Admiralty.”
Ian ignored his father’s sulky wrath, and asked again, though fear and dread were like acid in his throat. “Is Ross dead?”
“No.”
Devil take his father for the surly bitterness in his answer.
“Then you already have my answer. I return to my commission directly.”
“Then you’ll leave the girl with me, to take to Ciren.” His father narrowed his eyes, as if contemplating her. “And you’d best to get a brat on her, if you know what’s good for you. But knowing you, you’re hot enough for a piece of ars—”
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