C
HAPTER
9
S
he was hot despite the cold of the snow that dropped in fairy flakes. The rolling landscape was softened even more with a coat of white velvet. Anne tried to steady herself on the saddle without leaning against Gareth’s hard body, but it was impossible. She had never thought of her back as being particularly susceptible to sensation, but if this afternoon was anything to go by, her skin beneath the thick wool habit was on fire.
She had been raised in the country until her mother’s death, and had thought it boring, except when she was riding hell-for-leather across the Dorset downs. How she’d longed for the adventure of city living, its glittering balls and romantic intrigues. She’d been so excited when her politically-minded father summoned her to London, but that excitement had been short-lived. Being out in the open air now, far from noxious smoke and decay, was cleansing to her weary and wary soul. How marvelous it must be in the spring here, with budding trees and green hills.
But she wouldn’t be around long enough to see it. Anne had not formulated an answer to Gareth’s question—she really had no idea where she wanted to live once their sham of a marriage was ended. She’d only been to France and that had not been far enough away from her father.
As a married woman with independent means, however, she’d be untouchable.
Untouchable. Except right now she
was
being touched, even if Gareth’s gloved hand held Job’s reins. She should be grateful for the warmth of his body, but instead felt a level of uneasy awareness. Only Lord Benton Gray had elicited this prickle of feminine awakening that was washing over her. She’d seen her other suitors simply as a means to an end, but Ben had appealed to her on an entirely different level. He’d been indifferent to her charms, however, even when she’d stripped to show him every inch, hoyden that she’d been.
Gareth Ripton-Jones was not indifferent. Anne could feel the evidence of his arousal against her bottom and was taking perverse pleasure in the fact that he saw her as a desirable woman. His kiss had made her feel
very
desired.
No more kisses. No more doubling up on horseback. Such actions would wreak havoc with her plans of an independent life. She’d beat him off with a broom if necessary.
The poor man had probably been celibate since his accident, so it wasn’t as if Anne was special. She knew men were desperate creatures—any port in a storm would do. Her father had tried to convince her that the pain he suffered could only be assuaged by her giving him what was not his to take.
Anne shifted away as far as she could without sliding off Job’s back. The Hall and its outbuildings were in sight, the snow blurring their imperfections. Gareth led Job through the modest gates and headed right to the stables. Anne slipped off before Martin could be roused to offer assistance and fled over the cobblestoned court to the haven of the kitchen.
The room was still warm, though rather dark in the storm’s gloom. She lit the lamp on the Welsh dresser and encouraged the stove’s slumbering coals. A pot of tea would do nicely to dispel the sudden chill she felt. It wouldn’t hurt to add some wood to the massive fireplace which had once been the kitchen’s sole source of heat. Anne didn’t need to duck down very far to be able to stand under its square-beamed mantel. Rusted cranes remained in place from the Hall’s infancy. One might easily have roasted something large without resorting to butchery. Mrs. Smith had pages of advice on how to choose cuts of meat at the market, how to break duck bones with a rolling pin, how to pinch mutton to test its freshness. The instructions all made Anne want to swear off animal flesh forever.
It wasn’t long before Gareth joined her at the table, his face ruddy. The glow of the firelight did him many favors—his hair was polished ebony threaded with silver, his eyes bright. The crease on his thin cheek deepened to a dimple. “What’s for supper, my lady?”
Oh, Lord. She had been ignoring her rumbling stomach, hoping it would be satisfied with sweet tea. “You should have eaten at the Silver Pony.”
“You mean to say I’ve missed my lunch and now you are depriving me of dinner? That’s too bad of you, Lady Anne.”
Lady Anne. Much better than Lady Imaculata. Had he somehow guessed her rank? Once she disappeared, she’d conceal her true identity. Being the Earl of Egremont’s daughter was not all that it was cracked up to be.
“How did you care for yourself when Cecily died?”
“I drank, Annie. Since by the terms of our agreement I cannot resort to that diet, I’ll need something in its place. A nip of cheese. A cracker. Something.”
Anne was hungry, too, but stubborn. And now that she was more fiancée than housekeeper, Major Ripton-Jones could fend for himself.
“Why don’t you toast us some bread and cheese?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Us?”
“You’ve said you will help me. Until I can review Mrs. Smith’s book, I’m rather useless in the kitchen. You’ve said so yourself.”
“Hoisted on my own petard. Pour me a cup of tea so I can find the strength to feed us.”
“You do know how to cook a little, don’t you?”
“I was in the army for fifteen years. I’ve skinned a rabbit or two in my time and cooked it over a campfire in the rain. Of course, that was when I had two hands. Is there any bread left from breakfast?”
Breakfast seemed like years ago. The day had been full of life-altering events—proposals, pledges.
Kisses.
“I believe so. I can do the slicing.”
“Thank you. That would be helpful. I can’t tell you how often my food has flown off the table in my attempts to wield a knife.”
He didn’t sound sorry for himself, just resigned. It might even be fun to work alongside him now that he was no longer Mr. Doom.
She went into the larder and surveyed the shelves. There wasn’t much left of the loaf—she’d either have to go back to the village or find a bread recipe.
No. Tomorrow was her day off. She intended to celebrate the new year immersed in a tub. Just the thought of scalding hot water made her yearn to her smelly toes. She’d once bathed every day, sometimes twice. Someone else had hauled the water up from the kitchen, though. Fleets of “someone elses.” Her maid Helen and several others who had catered to her every whim. Tomorrow she’d be doing the hauling. It wouldn’t be so many steps from the stove to her little room. At least she wasn’t tucked away in an attic dormer like her London servants. Anne hoped Helen had not been turned off by her father—the girl truly was ignorant of helping her run away. But she had turned a blind eye to all the adventures Anne had had, staying home when she should have accompanied her mistress. Most recently, Helen hadn’t wanted to stand on the street in the freezing cold roasting chestnuts and spying, and who could blame her?
Anne gathered up the bread and cheese and returned to the kitchen. Gareth looked up from an empty saucepan and smiled. “You may be my sous-chef. I’ll need the cheese crumbled. And a little flour and mustard powder and pepper. Fetch some ale, too.”
Anne bit her tongue. Was it wrong to remind him of his promise?
He noticed her hesitation. “It’s not to drink, madam. I’m making you a great local delicacy, Welsh rabbit, and don’t worry, no skinning of rabbits will be necessary. We Welsh are fond of our cheese. Cecily made her own and I expect there’s enough to last us through the winter, so we won’t go hungry.”
There were indeed several rounds of cheese stored in the pantry, as well as mysterious jars and crocks of foodstuffs that Anne was too afraid to open. She hefted the ale jug from its cool corner and brought it to Gareth. He splashed some into the pan, then mixed up lumps of cheese and the other ingredients, and put the whole mess on the hob to melt.
“There are as many ways to make this as there are cooks in Wales. If you’re pressed for time, you can just heap everything onto toast and put it in the oven, but this makes for a smoother sauce.” He handed her a thick kitchen towel. “Use this so you don’t burn your fingers. Come hold the pan for me while I stir.”
From the pan into the fire. She stood so close now to Gareth she could scent snow and rum punch and damp wool, her hands wrapped around the handle as he swirled a wooden spoon into his concoction. The smell of the sharp cheese added to the piquancy of her problem—she was hungry, and not just for supper. Gareth Ripton-Jones unsettled her as no one had ever done before, and if she was not careful, she’d fall under his spell, and then where would she be? Trapped in a decaying manor house in the Welsh countryside, worrying every minute that her husband would fall back into drink and depression.
What he needed was a proper helpmeet, and that was not she. Perhaps once their marriage of convenience was conveniently over, he could find some lovely Welsh lass to help him stir his cheese.
“Careful! You’ll set the cloth on fire.”
See? That proved how incompetent she was. She’d been so busy thinking she hadn’t paid attention to the task at hand.
“Sorry.”
“Your head’s in the clouds, Annie. Are you regretting what we’ve set in motion? I can speak to Ian and tell him to forgo calling the banns.”
“No. No, of course not. It’s for the best. We’ll both get what we want.”
“Will we?” he asked softly, his breath tickling her ear.
Anne took a step back. “It looks smooth enough now to me,” she said, ignoring the ripple of sensation that spread down her throat to her breasts, which were shamefully peaking. A very good thing they were covered by Cecily’s patched apron.
“So it does. Slice up that heel into another pan and we’ll put it to broil for a minute or two.”
“Two things to wash? I’ll earn my keep tonight.”
“I’ll make sure you’re properly compensated.” He winked, the devil.
She had an idea just how he thought he could compensate her. That would not do at all, and it was time to remind him.
“D-despite the fact that we are more or less friends now, Gareth, you will keep your hands to yourself.”
He raised an eyebrow. “My hands? Surely you exaggerate.”
He seemed more amused than offended, which was even worse. When Gareth Ripton-Jones chose to exercise his charm, he was a dangerous, dangerous man.
She stopped herself from whacking him with the cheesy spoon. “You know what I mean. There has been altogether too much touching today. On the horse, etcetera.” She couldn’t even bring herself to mention the kiss.
“Too much touching. I doubt there can be such a thing, just like having too much luck. I’ve gone without much too long not to want just a little expression of amiability between ‘friends.’ We’re to be married, after all.”
“A marriage in name only!” Anne tripped over the uneven slate tiles as she pulled a baking pan from the clutter on the shelves and hacked into the bread.
“There, there, no need to cut up so. I’ll keep my distance if you truly wish it. I’ve never taken advantage of an unwilling woman. No doubt I repulse you.”
Blast the man, feeling sorry for himself when any woman in the world would be lucky to have his blue-eyed attention. “You know very well you are a handsome man. Stop fishing for compliments.”
“I was not fishing. My recent experience with the fair sex, or lack thereof, has left me doubting. I’m not much of a catch, Annie. You are right to want to be rid of me.” He poured the sauce over the bread and put the pan in the oven.
“It’s not you, it’s me.” Anne swallowed. She would not tell him, not today.
He was silent a long while. “Do you prefer your own sex then?” he asked, his face perfectly sober.
She sputtered, robbed of words. She knew such things were possible, and there
had
been that kiss with Rosa, which had not been at all unpleasant. But the kiss had been more for shock-worthy display than desire.
“No, of course not—n-not that there’s anything wrong with what you just m-mentioned,” she stuttered. What could be wrong between two people in love, no matter their gender? Love was damned difficult to come by, and Anne never expected to ever find it for herself. “I just don’t want to find myself at the mercy of some man. I thought you understood our arrangement.”
Gareth sighed. “I understand it, but I don’t have to like it, do I? What does it say about me that you think I can use you solely to keep a roof over my head? I’d have to be blind not to find you attractive, and while I
am
handicapped, I still can see.”
She glanced down at her apron. “Attractive? I look ridiculous.”
“Now who’s fishing? I admit you were less than glamorous in your housekeeper’s uniform, but my mother’s habit suits you admirably. You were made for pretty clothes and bright colors. That’s what you are used to, isn’t it, Lady Anne?”
There was the teasing name again. She thought of the dozens of gowns that hung in her closet at home, some still unworn. She had charged far too many to annoy her father until he’d finally cut her credit with London’s best dressmakers. “You think me frivolous.”
“No, I think you are a very beautiful young woman who has a secret you are not ready to share with me. You certainly were not raised to cook. Speaking of which, our supper should be about done.”
Anne opened the oven door, admiring the browned cheese and crisp bread. Her stomach rumbled in most unladylike fashion. It was time to stop this verbal fencing and simply share a meal together in the warm shadowed kitchen. She wrapped her hands in the towel and pulled the pan out of the oven.
“I’ll get the plates and cutlery.” Gareth brought the brown and white dishes and forks to the table. He speared a wedge of the bubbling toast on a plate and passed it to her. “Tell me what you think of my culinary skill.”
Anne cut a corner off with the side of her fork and chewed. It was extraordinarily tasty for something so simple. “Delicious,” she said once her mouth was no longer full.