Lady Anne's Lover (The London List)

by Maggie Robinson

  He’d been right—her hair was red. Such an inadequate word for the blaze of color she twisted between nervous fingers. Her chin lifted.

  “I am ready for my kisses. And then, I warn you—I’m going to keep to my room all day and read a book or something.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to select one now,” Gareth said when he could find his voice. He waved his hand weakly at the wall of old books that he’d consoled himself with when he wasn’t too drunk to read them.

  “All right.” Annie shifted closer to the fire and shivered. “It really is a sty in here.”

  “Oh, don’t think about cleaning today. I promise I’ll take care of this room myself—my bedroom, too.” He suddenly wanted the whole house immaculate so he could kiss her in every room. “In fact, as soon as I finish those kisses and get Penny back, I’ll tackle the job right away.” He’d have to do something to work off the erection that was already straining his breeches.

  Unless, of course, she permitted him more.

  Please God.

  Did she notice? Her face wore a peculiar smile at his earnest pledge. He adjusted himself as discreetly as possible, but it was a hopeless cause. He’d never wanted anything quite so much as to ravish Anne Whoever-she-was.

  “I assume you will permit me to come to your room, your clean room, where we can have some privacy for our kisses.”

  Her eyes darted anxiously to the window. “Martin won’t come into the house, will he?”

  “He hardly ever does. Keeps to himself. I think the horses are his only friends. But he’s been loyal, both to my father and me.” Cecily and Martin had been the only ones to stick through his injury and disgrace. They had never liked Bronwen but knew how much she meant to Gareth, so had not believed a word about him being guilty of the murder.

  “He’s an odd old duck, isn’t he? I don’t believe he’s once looked me in the face.”

  The last thing Gareth wanted to do right now was discuss his grizzled servant. “He’s just shy around women. Which I, happy to say, am not. Let me prove it to you.”

  Annie blushed. “A ladies’ man, are you, as your cousin claimed?”

  “Damn Martin. Damn Ian. I want you badly, Annie. I can’t deny it. But if you have changed your mind—”

  “I haven’t. It’s just that I’m so nervous.”

  “I promise you’ll be calm once I’m done with you. That doesn’t sound very romantic, does it? I’m afraid when I’m with you my silver tongue turns to lead.”

  “That won’t do at all.” She looked up at him through gilt-tipped eyelashes and his throat dried. When she extended her hand, he felt like Adam to her Eve, willing to risk the wrath of God for eternity for one morning in her arms.

  Somehow his feet managed to traverse the hall, the kitchen slate, the bare wood floor of her simple room. It was as neat as a pin, her housekeeper’s apron hanging on a peg behind the door. She shut it with a firm push and turned the key.

  “Just in case,” she whispered. “What should I do?”

  “Nothing. Just let me look at you. Your hair is exquisite.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “It’s still wet. And carroty. Evangeline thought it best for me to travel without it attracting attention.”

  “I’m glad the dye washed away. You are beautiful, Annie,” he said truthfully. “Too good for the likes of me.”

  “Don’t feel it’s necessary to flatter me. I’ll kiss you without any more words. In fact, I wish you’d get on with it.”

  Gareth laughed. “What’s the fun of that for either of us? I’m afraid I’m going to take my time with you. First, I’m going to unhook you from this gown. I’m glad you chose to wear it again. It’s as if my dreams from last night came alive.”

  He hoped his hand was steady enough to loosen the corded silk bow and tiny hooks at the back. How had she managed to get into it by herself? The front of the dress gapped as he plucked at each bit of metal and thread, and Annie’s hand flew to cover herself. By all that was holy, she was not wearing stays or even a shift. There was nothing but pure soft skin beneath the silk. He nuzzled her neck, breathing in spring. “Thank you for making this easy for me. I confess I worried if I could undress you—I can barely dress myself some days.”

  “You will find that easier now that you won’t be inebriated.”

  “Such a stern taskmaster.” He took a step back, holding her elbow. “I’d give up anything to be with you like this.”

  “Stop talking!”

  He watched her skin flush pink and the wave of gooseflesh move up her arm. “Has no one ever taken the time to woo you as you deserve, Annie? I can’t imagine all the gentlemen in London being so buffalo-headed.”

  “Words mean nothing.”

  “I disagree. A woman like you deserves poetry. I wish I could quote our famous Welsh bards, but you’ve robbed me of all intelligent thought.”

  He skimmed her shoulder with his mouth, delighting in the sweet clean taste of her. His nose was filled with the scent of lilac soap.

  “That tickles,” she complained.

  Gareth had an idea that her torment—and his—was just beginning. He tugged the dress down after the slightest tussle as she gave one last futile attempt at decency. It dropped to the floor and she stepped out of it, stumbling a little. He caught her and kissed the top of her head.

  She was wearing nothing now but clocked stockings, garters and incongruous half-boots. He wondered what she had left behind when she fled to Wales, probably dozens of dancing slippers and scores of silk dresses. She was far above a country squire’s son, no matter how much glory he’d won on the battlefield. Gareth resolved to deserve her somehow, to give her pleasure so she wouldn’t regret what she’d offered to him.

  He held her close, feeling the rapid beat of her heart. “Are you cold? Let me warm you.”

  She nodded. Gently he drew her to the bed and bade her sit. The mattress shifted as he joined her, feeling vastly overdressed. But this morning was for her—although Gareth would be lying if he said he didn’t want to end this encounter in blessed mutual satisfaction.

  Her pale nipples were marble-hard. It was a necessary task to take one between his teeth, then the other. She hissed but made no move to stop him. Each tip peaked as his tongue circled the perfect disk. Her breasts were full and lush for a woman of such small stature, her belly delightfully rounded. She was plump and perfect, almost too perfect.

  How had she escaped London’s Marriage Mart? Were men of the ton blind? He had two good eyes, and she dazzled him. He wanted to cover her with kisses, was never more sorry that he only had one hand with which to touch her velvet-soft body. Right now it was splayed across her back, holding her upright as she sighed and trembled. Gareth didn’t think she objected to any of his attentions so far, but it was all he could do to hold his ravening beast back. He didn’t want to frighten her.

  Remind her of whatever man she was running from.

  He reached around her and cupped a silken breast, burying his face against her, fighting for his own breath. The contact was almost too much. His senses swam, desire raged. He didn’t dare to glance down at the junction of her white thighs—the glimpse of bright thatch showed him what her hair would look like when it was thoroughly dry.

  He meant to kiss her there, too. Eventually, when she yielded up her hesitation, when she was supple beneath his hand.

  Annie patted his arm. “Kiss me. On the lips.”

  “With the utmost pleasure.” He should have started there, he thought ruefully, working his kisses down, but her gorgeous full breasts had distracted him. Even kiss her toes if he got her boots off—it was comical that he had not done so before now. His practiced seduction had deserted him. All he wanted to do was bury himself inside her sweet warm body and hear her scream his name.

  He lifted his head and met her eyes. Gold flecks seemed to spin in the green depths, but it was he who was dizzy. “Thank you.”

  Her coppery eyebrows knit. “For what?”

  “For
doing me this honor. For trusting me. I will not let you down, I swear it.”

  Her lips turned up, revealing a dimple. He touched the crease with his forefinger and she batted him away. “More pretty words. Do stubble it.”

  “You make it very hard for a man, Annie. But maybe you’re right—I have better things to do than talk.” He tipped her backward on the bed, earning a surprised cry. He covered her body with his own, pressing a chaste kiss on her forehead. “You tell me when to stop, Annie. I may forget myself.”

  There was no fear on her face, just puzzled curiosity. She blinked, and he took the opportunity to kiss an eyelid, feeling her lashes feather against his chin. Her nose was next, and then he nipped her lower lip, encouraging her to open to him. It was his turn to be surprised—her tongue sought his, thrusting deep into his mouth.

  The taste of her, coffee, sugar and even lilac soap, sent a powerful ripple to his groin. He hoped the rough fabric of his clothing was not abrading her delicate skin, hoped she could feel her affect upon him, take pity and touch him lower. Her small hands were fastened upon his shoulders, each fingertip searing through the homespun of his shirt. She seemed as lost in the kiss as he was, open, exploring, all barriers down. Gareth could not remember a kiss as perfect as this, not even his frenzied couplings with Bronwen when he was too eager to become a man.

  He was a man now, older than his years. This innocent young woman made him feel as if he’d somehow shed a decadent decade. He wondered how many young men she’d let kiss her, wondered about the man who’d made her afraid. Gareth reined in his desire to crush her to him, and instead let the kiss float them both in a delicate tide, giving, taking.

  The hall clock sounded an hour—Gareth couldn’t be bothered to count which one. There was no time except for the glorious minutes of touching and kissing in mutual surrender. Annie’s skin glowed under the brush of his fingertips, her modest gasps of delight a balm to his confidence. It had been so long since he’d touched a woman to bring her pleasure. The mere presence of her hands on his shoulders made him shudder—he’d experienced no human touch save that of the sawbones since the accident. If that was as far as she was willing to go, he would accept it happily.

  His greed in abeyance, Gareth concentrated on Annie, tongue sweeping, tangling, stroking. His hand moved down to her copper curls and she stilled beneath him. He broke the kiss with reluctance and saw the uncertainty.

  “Let me. This is all for you. I promise I’ll stop before it’s too late.”

  CHAPTER 13

  It was already too late for her, but she didn’t want him to stop. Ever. His touch was nothing like anything she’d ever felt. Gareth held her as if she were made of finest porcelain, cradling her in his bad arm while the other performed its magic. Anne’s blood was hot and alive under the trace of his hand, so hot that she thought it might burst through her skin. Pulse pounding like a drumbeat, she wanted nothing more than to be witless in his kiss.

  He had kissed her with delicacy until she had deepened their contact, hungry for more of him. He had obliged until she came very close to imagining them joined as one, him fitted tightly within her as his tongue parried with hers. This was what married ladies whispered about behind their fans, assuming that Lady Imaculata was as experienced as she had led them to believe, especially after her aborted elopement. But she was a virgin, certainly in all ways that counted. No man had ever stirred such hope in her heart as Gareth.

  She voiced objection to the retreat of his mouth, but he had other things in mind. His lips were now moving in the shocking direction of his hand, skimming over breast and belly and thigh. When he parted her folds, she stifled a needy cry. She was just as wicked as her father said, because she wanted Gareth to do exactly what he was doing—licking her, tasting her secret flesh, capturing the sensitive bud between his lips and tugging her into ecstasy. She allowed herself the joy of the incendiary kiss and the talent of his fingers, truly having no choice in the matter—her body craved what he gave her. The sensation was so outside her ken, she was awash in wonder.

  This didn’t feel like betrayal. It was as if she’d never been touched before, and she could have wept from the relief of it. Perhaps she wasn’t ruined for a normal life after all, could forget the years of abuse and confusion. She was on the edge of perfect oblivion, Gareth leading her masterfully into that bright shower of sparks beneath her eyelids and the rigid arc of submission. Her hips lifted and she flew, tethered to earth only by his unyielding tongue.

  She heard him growl in satisfied recognition, but he didn’t cease until she came to crisis thrice more, each one sharper than the last. He had achieved the impossible in a few minutes—the complete erasure of her father’s influence and her shame. It seemed almost too easy.

  Anne didn’t trust her body’s bliss. It was temporary, a simple function of manipulated nerve endings. She’d given in to her base urges, which made her no better than an animal. She was not in love with Major Gareth Ripton-Jones, for all that he was an appealing man. That he knew his way around a woman’s body so well was to her advantage, if she wanted to experience the sublime again.

  Next time—if there was one—she’d remove her boots.

  Oh, lord. A giggle escaped, and Gareth looked up at her with his piercing blue eyes. He looked dead serious. Almost in agony. She could feel the iron length of him on her still silk-clad leg.

  “What is so amusing, minx?”

  Did she think she was laughing at his prowess? Surely he could have no doubts that she’d gone off like a rocket. “I d-don’t mean to offend you. That was—very nice. Wonderful, actually. I was thinking I still had my boots and stockings on and that seemed rather silly.” She gave him a shy smile. Ridiculous that she felt ill at ease, but his face was still in the vicinity of her nether lips. One couldn’t get less shy than allowing a man to do what he’d done. Four times. But shy she was.

  “If you’ve noticed, I am still fully covered, and devilish uncomfortable. But happy to have been of service.”

  “It was extraordinary. I never knew a man could do that to a woman.” She now had something clean and new to fix her mind on.

  “This man enjoyed it as much as you did. You are exquisite, Annie. Delicious.”

  She squirmed, wishing he would stop complimenting her. She was used to empty words from empty-headed suitors who thought they could share meaningless sport with naughty Imaculata Egremont. It was her own fault she’d led them on. Gareth sounded horribly sincere, and it made her anxious.

  He was too good for her. He’d suffered too much and deserved more than she could give him.

  Perhaps not. Did she dare touch him? She stifled the revulsion and closed her eyes. Those days were behind her. No matter what happened between her and Gareth, her father would never force her to touch him again.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I—I don’t like receiving compliments.”

  “I cannot help myself. You are truly lovely. Surely you are aware of that?”

  She had been once, before her father spoiled it all. She’d had great hopes of taking the ton by storm before her mother died. She had plotted and planned with her mama, who had assured her that her diminutive stature and red hair were just like hers and she would be equally successful when her time came. Miss Anne Reed had had her pick of suitors during her debut year—a pity she had chosen Lord George Egremont.

  But if she had not, Lady Imaculata Anne Egremont would not exist, wrapped in the warm blue gaze of her lover in this lonely corner of Wales. Her lover. A man who had been a stranger a week ago. A man she would marry in mere weeks. Could she leave him now that he’d touched her and awakened her need? It was all too vexing and unexpected. She should have gone straight to bed last night and never agreed to this arrangement.

  “You are thinking.”

  Anne sighed. “I do that occasionally.”

  “It’s a nasty habit. Please stop, or you will ruin the time we have together. You are meant to leave your cares and woes
behind under my skillful ministrations.” Gareth grinned at her with reddened lips, looking disheveled and rather naughty. She fought the urge to brush his dark hair back.

  “You are a wicked man, quite full of yourself.”

  “I hope I have reason.”

  “If you are asking, no one has ever done—that. I can make no comparisons.”

  “But you have been kissed before.”

  “Of course.” She didn’t like the direction of the conversation, but she’d started it herself.

  “Now it is your turn to say that no one’s kisses were as good as mine.”

  “Wretched man. I neither like to receive compliments or give them, even if they are deserved.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to be satisfied with that. If it means anything at all to you, I’ve never enjoyed myself so thoroughly without enjoying myself thoroughly.”

  It took a moment for her to unscramble his sentence. “You said you would be satisfied with just kissing. You gave me your word.”

  “And how I wish I were less honorable. But alas, my honor is all I have. Until I marry my heiress, I have nothing to give you but honor. And kisses. If you still want them.” He dragged himself up on the bed until his face was close to hers.

  Anne thought of weeks’ worth of kisses until their wedding day. It was she who might not be satisfied. She pulled the crumpled coverlet over her body.

  “Cold? Let me tend the fire.” Gareth sprang out of bed and poked into the small grate set in the far wall. She had thought about moving the iron bed closer as she shivered night after night. Perhaps Gareth could help her with that later.

  The kitchen had been toasty warm this morning, perfect for her ablutions. He had been very kind, feeding her breakfast, heating her bath water, waiting patiently as she screwed up her courage to go to him. If he remained sober, he would not be a difficult man to live with. He certainly was easy on the eyes now that he was himself cleaned up. She had not seen what remained of his arm yet—the fabric of his shirtsleeve was pinned up securely. Anne didn’t think she would be repulsed. It was another appendage entirely that frightened her, one that tented his breeches still as he returned to the bed.