Ripe for Scandal (24 page)

CHAPTER 33

T
he pane of glass was cold against his forehead. Gareth leaned harder against the window, trying to keep his wife in sight
as long as possible. She was taking advantage of a break in the dismal weather that they’d been having to consult with a few
of the older tenants about what the gardens had looked like in their prime.

The ancient advisors were slowly meandering about, hands sculpting visions in the air. Beau was busy taking notes, pausing
occasionally to sketch. Whatever her feelings about him—and at this point, he wasn’t entirely sure what they were—she clearly
wasn’t planning on running home to her parents.

That fact should have been a relief, but he couldn’t seem to take comfort in it. Beau was making Morton Hall hers. Laying
claim to it. Building a life for herself here that didn’t necessarily include him. His face seemed to always be pressed to
a window of one sort or another, the demarcation of his world and hers becoming more and more concrete.

Beau had set up her own little fiefdom in the nursery wing. She ate her meals there. Spent her days there. Never seemed to
go anywhere without Jamie clinging to her skirts like a barnacle.

He’d never seen anything like it. Most mothers were more than content to leave their children in the care of their nursery
maid or governess. His own certainly had. They’d been lucky to see her a few times a week. And even then only for a few minutes.
A kiss, a scold, very occasionally a slice of plum cake. That is what his mother had been. A magnificent visitation.

There was no reason at all for Beau to expend so much time and energy on a child who wasn’t even hers. No reason other than
the fact that it gave her an excuse to avoid seeing him. And whenever he crossed their path, the resentment in her eyes was
enough to stop him from joining them.

They had barely spoken in days. Not a word since she’d asked him to get the boy a pony. Something had shifted in that moment,
hardening within her. It was as if she’d realized that her vision for their life wasn’t a shared one, and she’d decided to
forge ahead with her own regardless.

Beau continued to sleep in her own chamber, and he simply didn’t want to know—couldn’t bring himself to find out—if she was
barring her door against him. It was better not to know. Better to live in ignorance, imagining himself free to join her,
even if it wasn’t true.

Beau and her guests rounded the corner of the house, and Gareth pulled himself away from the window, returning to the open
ledger on his desk. Mathematics had been a strong point at Harrow, but he’d never had to keep track
of so many disparate streams of revenue and so many petty outlays. It was no wonder his father employed stewards, land agents,
and
a secretary. One estate was a great deal of work. Multiple estates, most much larger than this one, must have been the devil
to keep track of.

He was struggling to get the household accounts to balance—there was something seriously wrong with the receipts for candles;
they couldn’t possibly use so many at such a pace—when the door opened and Beau wandered in. She had her nose planted in her
sketchbook, and Jamie was blissfully absent. She bumped into one of the chairs near the fireplace and stopped with a thoroughly
unladylike curse.

Gareth chuckled, and her head snapped around. She blinked and looked about confusedly, like a sleepwalker unceremoniously
awakened.

“Lost?” he said, drinking in the sight of her. Her hair was tumbled from the wind, dark curls falling in a riot all around
her face, making the green of her eyes almost glow.

“Turned about, certainly,” she replied, tucking her sketchbook under her arm. “I could have sworn I was headed toward the
kitchen block.”

“Took the wrong door out of the drawing room. I’ve done the same on multiple occasions. The house is a damned labyrinth.”

Beau nodded, arm locked tight over the sketchbook as though she didn’t want him to see it. “I wanted to ask Mrs. Peebles about
the kitchen garden. See if there was anything needed there.”

“Show me what you’ve been working on.” Could he
keep her talking? Keep her with him for even a quarter of an hour? Make her remember that he wasn’t a villain and didn’t deserve
to be treated like one?

She hesitated, one cheek sucked in as she weighed her answer. Gareth raised his brows questioningly, hopefully. Her shoulders
sagged slightly, and one corner of her mouth twitched as though she were fighting a smile.

“I’ve no idea what it will cost,” she said, stepping toward the desk and laying her sketchbook down atop the ledger. She flipped
it open, revealing a diagram of the beds, all the sections clearly labeled with letters that corresponded to lists on the
opposite page.

She traced her fingers over the sketch, smudging it slightly. The poesy ring on her finger glinted in the sunlight. A bolt
of pure possessiveness lanced through him. His wife. His. He was making a muddle of it, but that fact remained unchanged.

Gareth put a hand on her hip and leaned forward to study the plan. “Do you really want to keep it so formal?”

She pressed a little closer as she bent over her sketch. The soft tuberose scent she wore addled his brain. It worked its
way through his bloodstream, coiling painfully in his groin.

“We’ve enough real wilderness all around us,” she said. “It seems silly to create a false one. And such a garden wouldn’t
suit the house.”

“There is that.” Gareth nodded his head in agreement. Beneath his fingertips, he could just make out the wales of her stays
through the fine linen of her gown. He spread his hand wide over her ribs. Beau’s small intake of breath set his pulse drumming
loudly in his ears.

She started to pull away. Gareth held tight, swinging her about so she was facing him, trapped between him and the desk. He
put his knees on either side of hers, hemming her in.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, holding her perched on the edge of the desk.

Beau just looked at him. Her gaze dropped to his lap, where the tented fall of his breeches left no doubt of his desire.

“I’ve been giving you time to think,” she said, voice tinged with repressed excitement.

Gareth smiled slyly up at her and slid his hands up and under her skirts. When she didn’t pull away, he maneuvered his knees
between hers and pushed them apart, hands riding up the soft skin along the inside of her thighs.

“Oh, I’ve been thinking,” he replied.

Beau’s breath hitched, and her hands locked on his shoulders. Gareth continued his slow path north until his fingers slipped
into the already slick folds at the apex of her thighs.

Her grip tightened. “Clearly,” she said, the word breathy, as though she’d been running.

Gareth smiled. There she was. His little libertine. She just needed reminding of what was waiting for her in his bed, reminding
that she missed him, wanted him, needed him.

Gareth freed himself from his breeches and stood, taking her back onto the desk. He fit himself to her and thrust in, filling
her with one hard stroke. Beau cried out, wrapped her legs around him, and threw back her head, hair tangling in the inkwell
and quills.

“Don’t thrash about,” Gareth whispered against her ear. “You’re in danger of making a mess.”

Beau strained beneath him, pushing back, matching the rhythm that he established. Gareth let all thought go, a series of frantic
thrusts taking him irrevocably to his release. Beau pulsed and throbbed, close but not yet done.

Gareth stilled, concentrating on the delicious feeling of being inside her. Beau made a small sound of protest and rocked
against him. Gareth had a sudden wicked thought. What was his opera dancer’s advice for controlling a lover? Always leave
them wanting more?

He propped himself up on his elbows and began disentangling her hair. Beau’s legs gripped his hips, and she ground against
him. Gareth kissed the side of her neck as he freed the inkwell from one last curl.

“Gareth.” The note of protest, of entreaty, was clear.

“You want your turn?” Gareth’s grin turned into a chuckle at the sight of her indignant expression. “Good.”

He stood and buttoned up his breeches. Beau just lay there, staring at him. He traced one finger along the inside of her exposed
knee, playing idly with her garter.

“You’ve got two choices, Beau.” He tugged down her skirts and pulled her to her feet. “You can go upstairs, put your hand
between your thighs and think of me, or you can come to me tonight and let me finish what I started.”

Beau snatched up her sketchbook, threw her husband one last aggrieved look, and marched out of his study. Her hands were shaking
with anger, but her knees were wobbly for an entirely different reason.

Her thighs were wet and sticky. The ache of frustrated
passion redoubled with every step. She could throttle him! She would throttle him. He deserved nothing less for such a trick.

She reached her room, where her maid was busy reattaching a flounce to one of Beau’s gowns. Lucy looked up, needle paused
in the air like a moth.

“Lucy,” Beau said, doing her best to appear calm. “Please fetch me a basin of hot water.”

The maid wove the needle into the fabric and set her sewing aside. “Yes, my lady. Would you like me to send tea up as well?”

“Yes, but have it fetched to the nursery. I’ll be going there as soon as I’ve washed the dirt from my hands.”

Lucy nodded, sketched the kind of half-hearted curtsey only a servant of long employ could ever hope to get away with, and
departed. Beau dropped into the chair that her maid had just vacated. She could almost feel Gareth’s hands on her skin, almost
still feel him inside her. Her body pulsed weakly, and she let out her breath with a shuddering sigh.

Damn him. No matter what she did for the rest of the day, she’d be thinking about him. Thinking about going to him, about
how much she wanted him, how she craved his touch…

Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.

CHAPTER 34

G
ranby caught the eye of the innkeeper and raised two fingers, calling for more ale for himself and the man sprawled across
from him in the inglenook. Drunk, loquacious, and full of gossip. Exactly what he’d been hoping to find when he’d traced the
child’s path back to the Earl of Roxwell’s estate in Yorkshire.