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

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.
    Gareth made quick work of his own meal, and had the audacity to stare at the contents of her plate when he was through.
    “Do you want the rest of mine?” Anne asked tartly.
    “No, no, my dear. You’re a growing girl. You need your sustenance.”
    Anne cut the remainder in half and dropped it on his plate. “Next time, fix more.”
    “I’ll need more bread. Are you baking tomorrow?”
    “I’m bathing tomorrow. I’ve decided it’s to be my day off.”
    “New Year’s Day. A fresh way to start the year to shuck all your grime. Perhaps I’ll follow suit.”
    For one awfully intriguing moment Anne envisioned his long body sinking into a tub with her. She had an imprecise idea of what a totally naked man might look like, despite seeing statuary. She had been spared, thank the gods, from seeing her father in the altogether. Gareth Ripton-Jones was nothing like him anyway—he was much taller, angular, with not an ounce of fat to be seen under his strong chin or felt on his hard body. The ride home had been revelatory in that regard. He needed to eat more Welsh rabbit, to take care of himself better. Anne shouldn’t really care, but somehow she did. He did so need a proper housekeeper, and that was not she.
    “Where is the tub anyhow? I haven’t seen one.”
    “That’s because Martin is mending it. He must have done so by now. It’s been weeks.”
    “It’s been weeks since you’ve bathed?” Anne squeaked.
    Gareth laughed at her horror. “I have sponge-bathed, but didn’t have anyone to impress before you came, nor did I particularly care how much I reeked most of the time. And I’ll let