Lady Anne's Lover (The London List) by Maggie Robinson

Author:Maggie Robinson
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Regency, Historical romance, Fiction
ISBN: 9780758289148
Publisher: Brava
Published: 2013-07-29T21:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 18

“I suppose we must show up in chapel,” Gareth grumbled as Anne folded his tie into a lumpy knot at his throat. He could probably do as good a job himself but he didn’t want to turn away her inexpert help or deny himself the closeness of her body.

“Yes, we must. I don’t like it any better than you do, but if we are to give you a fresh start, we might have to do a great many things we find unpleasant.” It was early Sunday morning, five days after Anne’s spill down the stairs. She was still limping, but Gareth had let her out of bed, much to his regret.

The past week had been exquisite agony. He had made love to her with everything but his cock and was absurdly hopeful that he was succeeding in his announced seduction. Much like a man with a bad tooth who could not stop himself from poking at it with his tongue, he could not stop tormenting himself with the idea of fucking her. It was all he thought about, all day long. When he mucked out stalls. When he toasted cheese. When he plunged into the ice-cold stream behind the house to quell his rampant ardor. When he stole just a small nip from the brandy bottle to help him sleep alone. Once it was empty, he would not buy more.

Gareth didn’t believe he was breaking his oath to her. He was not drinking. A pot of ale at breakfast was not drinking. A glass of wine—he’d brought all the bottles up so he would not be the next one to break his crown on the cellar stairs—with the simple dinners he fixed for them was not drinking. He’d smashed the gin bottles in the cobblestone drive, thinking afterward he should have tried to sell them back to Mrs. Chapman. He was not so flush in the pocket that he could afford to waste perfectly good liquor, but Annie had been insistent. In her citified opinion, gin was the devil’s piss. She’d gone on and on about seeing its effects firsthand when she lived in London—maimed soldiers lying drunk in the streets, street-corner whores who would do anything for a bottle, even small children who preferred gin to dinner. She was less hostile to brandy and wine—trust Annie’s tastes to be expensive.

He’d already spoken to Mrs. Chapman about acquiring a barrel of local cider for the celebration of their marriage. Even the strictest abstinence advocate in these parts somehow made an exception for that. It was traditional, and although much had fallen by the wayside as the Awakening and its virtue gripped Wales, there were still some vices too good to reject.

Gareth glanced at Annie’s handiwork in the mirror, hardly recognizing himself. His eyes were clear and focused. Annie had even trimmed his hair and had not made a botch of it. He was rather a la mode for a failed Welsh farmer. He doubted the congregants would be impressed, however.

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