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

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