Lots of them.
He hadn’t had a woman in a year. Perhaps Mrs. Mont should ride him once she became Mrs. Ripton-Jones—he wasn’t sure he’d stay upright supported by just one palm. He’d learned how to do lots of things one-handed—making love to a woman would probably be the most diverting.
“Very well.” She sat down gingerly about as far away from him as she could without falling on the floor. “This will be a marriage in name only. Once we go to my trustees in London with the proof of our wedding, a considerable amount will be released to you. I expect you to keep what is reasonable to pay your debts and get the estate functioning again, then turn over the rest to me.”
In name only? What the hell. There went his fantasy. Was he so repulsive she wouldn’t consider bedding him? Just like Bronwen. Did Mrs. Mont really expect to tie him up for life with no expectation of marital relations? No children? He didn’t have much to offer sons or daughters now, but someday he might.
True, he was a stranger to her. There probably had never been a Mr. Mont, so most likely she was a runaway virgin. She was fleeing from her past, and proposing to flee from her present.
He struggled to keep his voice steady. “Where will you go?”
“I don’t quite know yet. France, I suppose. Or America.”
“Alone?”
“If you’re asking if I have a lover, I do not. And don’t want one.”
Gareth saw the shiver she tried to repress. Her chin was raised, and she looked as determined as any general he’d ever served under.
But she was frightened . There was fear beneath the bravado, just as there should be. He’d seen it in the army. Life was enough to scare the shit out of the most decorated soldier, and the best were scared to death and fought accordingly.
What had he done with his fear lately? Certainly not fought back. He’d drunk himself stupid. Mrs. Mont was right—he’d wallowed, bathed, almost drowned in self-pity.
He could agree to her terms and save his home.
Or pretend to agree.
He was awfully rusty in the seduction department, but suddenly Gareth wanted more than anything to soothe his prickly housekeeper. To cup her rounded freckled cheek. To part her lips and see what she tasted like. To bury his face between her lovely breasts and inhale her lilac fragrance. To feel the wet of her core around his cock.
His future wife . Whom he had no intention of letting go—to France or America or anywhere else. It was time for him to be happy, and if Mrs. Mont could do her part to make him so, he would try his best to return the favor. He’d spent too many months—too many years—deferring his pleasure. No more.
Although some would say he’d raised plenty of hell in his time. The righteous Reverend Ian Morgan, for example.
“Mrs. Mont, I thank you for your generous offer. I’m afraid I don’t know your Christian name. I’ll need it to give Mr. Morgan.”
She froze. “I hadn’t thought of that! Oh, dear. This might not work after all. I don’t want word of my whereabouts to get out. If m-my father finds out I’m here, he’ll never let me marry. Do you think we could get Mr. Morgan to lie?”
C HAPTER 6
T his is what came of being impulsive. Anne had proposed to the major, but had not thought the thing through. If Reverend Morgan stood up three Sundays in a row and said her true name aloud, word would spread like wildfire that she was here.
Her father had sent that investigator Mulgrew after her once. He would do so again. Mr. Mulgrew could be very persuasive, especially when he shackled one.
If the minister simply said “Anne Mont,” and she married under an assumed name, the marriage would be illegal. Her father and the trustees would never give her the inheritance and she’d be locked in her room again.
“What are you hiding, Mrs. Mont? At least give me your name,” Gareth said gently.
“It’s Anne now,” she whispered. “My middle name.”
His blue eyes were sharp, but he smiled.
He hadn’t had a woman in a year. Perhaps Mrs. Mont should ride him once she became Mrs. Ripton-Jones—he wasn’t sure he’d stay upright supported by just one palm. He’d learned how to do lots of things one-handed—making love to a woman would probably be the most diverting.
“Very well.” She sat down gingerly about as far away from him as she could without falling on the floor. “This will be a marriage in name only. Once we go to my trustees in London with the proof of our wedding, a considerable amount will be released to you. I expect you to keep what is reasonable to pay your debts and get the estate functioning again, then turn over the rest to me.”
In name only? What the hell. There went his fantasy. Was he so repulsive she wouldn’t consider bedding him? Just like Bronwen. Did Mrs. Mont really expect to tie him up for life with no expectation of marital relations? No children? He didn’t have much to offer sons or daughters now, but someday he might.
True, he was a stranger to her. There probably had never been a Mr. Mont, so most likely she was a runaway virgin. She was fleeing from her past, and proposing to flee from her present.
He struggled to keep his voice steady. “Where will you go?”
“I don’t quite know yet. France, I suppose. Or America.”
“Alone?”
“If you’re asking if I have a lover, I do not. And don’t want one.”
Gareth saw the shiver she tried to repress. Her chin was raised, and she looked as determined as any general he’d ever served under.
But she was frightened . There was fear beneath the bravado, just as there should be. He’d seen it in the army. Life was enough to scare the shit out of the most decorated soldier, and the best were scared to death and fought accordingly.
What had he done with his fear lately? Certainly not fought back. He’d drunk himself stupid. Mrs. Mont was right—he’d wallowed, bathed, almost drowned in self-pity.
He could agree to her terms and save his home.
Or pretend to agree.
He was awfully rusty in the seduction department, but suddenly Gareth wanted more than anything to soothe his prickly housekeeper. To cup her rounded freckled cheek. To part her lips and see what she tasted like. To bury his face between her lovely breasts and inhale her lilac fragrance. To feel the wet of her core around his cock.
His future wife . Whom he had no intention of letting go—to France or America or anywhere else. It was time for him to be happy, and if Mrs. Mont could do her part to make him so, he would try his best to return the favor. He’d spent too many months—too many years—deferring his pleasure. No more.
Although some would say he’d raised plenty of hell in his time. The righteous Reverend Ian Morgan, for example.
“Mrs. Mont, I thank you for your generous offer. I’m afraid I don’t know your Christian name. I’ll need it to give Mr. Morgan.”
She froze. “I hadn’t thought of that! Oh, dear. This might not work after all. I don’t want word of my whereabouts to get out. If m-my father finds out I’m here, he’ll never let me marry. Do you think we could get Mr. Morgan to lie?”
C HAPTER 6
T his is what came of being impulsive. Anne had proposed to the major, but had not thought the thing through. If Reverend Morgan stood up three Sundays in a row and said her true name aloud, word would spread like wildfire that she was here.
Her father had sent that investigator Mulgrew after her once. He would do so again. Mr. Mulgrew could be very persuasive, especially when he shackled one.
If the minister simply said “Anne Mont,” and she married under an assumed name, the marriage would be illegal. Her father and the trustees would never give her the inheritance and she’d be locked in her room again.
“What are you hiding, Mrs. Mont? At least give me your name,” Gareth said gently.
“It’s Anne now,” she whispered. “My middle name.”
His blue eyes were sharp, but he smiled.
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