A Hellion in Her Bed (19 page)

“What way am I looking at him?” she asked.

“Like he’s marzipan, and you want a bite.”

Geordie was slumped in the chair wearing that sullen expression he wore more and more lately. But behind the belligerence lay a little boy with hurt feelings.

“You’re angry with me because I said I don’t want to marry him,” she said.

“It’s no concern of mine,” he muttered. “I just don’t think
it’s right of you to … you know … look at him like that and let him kiss you, if you don’t mean anything by it.”

“I already explained about that.”

“Right. It was a moment’s impulse. You were thanking him for helping us.” He rolled his eyes. “
He
told me the same thing, only
he
said he wanted to marry you.”

Yes, and she could kill Jarret for that. “You like his lordship, don’t you?”

Geordie shrugged. “He’s all right.”

“You like having a man around who understands you, who pays attention to you when your father is …”

“Falling down drunk,” Geordie bit out.

She gaped at Geordie. “You know?”

“Of course I know. I’ve seen him late at night, drinking in his study. Then he doesn’t go to the brewery the next day, and you go instead. It’s clear why: because all he does these days is drink that stupid whisky.”

“Shh,” she said, casting a furtive glance in Jarret’s direction. “His lordship mustn’t hear about that.”

“I don’t know why not. It’s the truth.” When she looked alarmed, he said, “Don’t worry, Aunt Annabel, I’m not going to tell him. He tried to get it out of me our first day here, but I put him off.” He glared at her. “I had to cry to do it. Like a
girl
. But at least I didn’t lie.” His accusing glance pricked her conscience.

“It was only a small lie,” she protested. “We had no choice.” She couldn’t believe she was justifying herself to Geordie. “If he learns the truth, he won’t help us.”

Geordie stared down at his hands. “I know.”

“And it’s very important that he—”

“I
know
, all right? I’m not a baby.”

A lump swelled in her throat. To her, he would always be a baby.

The men at the table laughed, and she glanced over to see Jarret finish off his third tumbler of whisky in an hour. She frowned. For all she knew, he spent half his time in his cups, like Hugh. He wasn’t reliable. He wasn’t interested in marriage. He wasn’t for her.

He would
never
be for her. If anything had made that clear, it was their encounter in the barn. All he could ever want to do was give her physical pleasure. He could never give her anything of himself. She wasn’t even sure if there was anything of himself to give.

Tired of thinking about it, she rose. “Come, Geordie, we’d best go to bed. His lordship means to leave early. He wants to be in Burton by noon.”

Geordie followed her to the stairs. “How will you keep Father’s problem secret once we get home?”

Fortunately, while most people in Burton knew that Hugh had been shirking his duties for a year now, they didn’t know why. That would help. But it might not be enough. “I’ll think of something.”

“Well, you’d better think fast. Tomorrow night is the Brewer’s Association dinner, and you know Father never misses one.”

She groaned. She’d completely forgotten about the yearly dinner. She and Hugh always attended, and this year he was liable to publicly drink himself into a stupor. And if he were to meet up with Jarret while they were out …

That mustn’t happen. Because if it did, all bets were off.

J
arret woke before dawn with a headache, a dry mouth, and a disquieting sense of self-loathing.

He’d lost twenty pounds last night, even after the tempting distraction sitting across the room had left to go to bed. It used to be that nothing distracted him from a card game, and certainly not a woman, no matter how much he lusted after her. When had that changed?
Why
had it changed?

And why had he spent an entire evening drinking hard and heavy to drown out her words about gamblers and debt collectors?

That was precisely what had kept him from marrying thus far. He didn’t need a woman plaguing him about how he lived his life. He didn’t need to care what she thought. He didn’t
want
to.

Yet he did, God help him. What had the chit done to him?

Well, no point trying to sleep now. She’d ruined even
that
for him. Besides, the sooner he rose, the sooner they could be off, and the sooner he could be done with her and her brother’s brewery and the whole confounded family. Once
they reached Burton, he’d talk to her brother, tour Lake Ale, then return to London, hopefully tomorrow morning. He needed to get back to Plumtree and get to work on setting things to rights.

Breakfast was a hurried affair, with young George complaining loudly about the early hour.

“George,” he finally bit out as he nibbled some toast and forced coffee into his rebelling stomach, “do you think you could be a little quieter?”

Annabel cast him a glance from across her buttered crumpets and jam. “Had a late night, did you?”

“Late enough,” he ground out. She had no right to pass judgment on him.

“We understand, my lord,” Mrs. Lake said soothingly. “Gentlemen do like their enjoyments.”

“They certainly do,” Annabel muttered.

Cheeky wench.

Mrs. Lake kept up a flow of bright conversation. “I’m looking forward to seeing the children, my lord. They’re staying with my mother, so I know they’re safe, but one never feels quite comfortable leaving one’s children with anyone else.”

He could hardly comment on that, given that his mother had killed herself and left her children behind to be raised by someone else. “How many do you have?”

“A boy and two girls. In addition to Geordie.” She dropped her gaze to her scone.

Four children. Good God. So Annabel had been truthful about her brother not being mortally ill. If he were, she wouldn’t have been so firm about her lack of interest in marriage.
Any
marriage would be preferable to being the poor relation of a poor widow with four children. Even marriage to
an irresponsible scapegrace
like him
who gambles his way
through London to avoid doing anything constructive with his time.

He scowled. “I suppose you’re eager to see your husband, too,” he said to keep from thinking about how Annabel had flayed him with her tongue. “No one is quite as good a nurse as a wife, I would imagine.”

Her gaze shot to his in surprise, but then she smiled and he realized he must have misread it. “Quite right, sir. I won’t feel at ease until I’m sure he’s well.”

It was the first time she’d expressed any concern over her husband’s condition, which reinforced Annabel’s claim that Mr. Lake’s illness wasn’t that serious.

When they gathered outside the coach after the groom loaded their bags, George turned to him. “I should like to ride up top, my lord, if it’s all right with you.”

“Geordie,” Mrs. Lake said, “we’ve already been through that. It’s too dangerous.”

Annabel said quietly, “Perhaps we should let him, Sissy.” She shot Jarret a quick glance, and he could tell she was remembering their conversation yesterday. “Geordie has behaved very well these past few days, and he deserves a reward.”

“Do you really think it would be all right?”

“I do.”

“Well, then. Go ahead.” As George let out a whoop and clambered up onto the perch, Mrs. Lake added, “But you must mind the coachman and keep your hands to yourself and stay firmly in your seat, do you hear?”

“Yes, Mother!” he cried, his young face glowing with anticipation.

Jarret couldn’t help wondering why Mrs. Lake always seemed to bend to whatever Annabel said concerning young
George. Of course, Mrs. Lake wasn’t the forceful sort, which might explain it.

Still, he did think Annabel was overly involved with her nephew’s upbringing. She needed children of her own to manage, so she didn’t feel compelled to manage her brother’s.

Except for her tendency to smother a boy, she would make an excellent mother. He could imagine her dandling a babe on her knee, crooning softly to it about hot cross buns and mulberry bushes as Mother used to do.

A long-forgotten memory rose in his head—of Mother leading Celia, Gabe, and Minerva in a merry dance about the nursery to the tune of “Ride a Cock Horse to Banbury Cross.” At the time, he’d thought himself far too old and mature for such silliness and had scoffed at their joy.

What an unthinking little idiot he’d been. A month later, she was dead. And he’d desperately wished he could take back every single disparaging remark he’d made that day in the nursery. The agony of that still haunted him.

He frowned. That was precisely why a man who put his trust in anyone else was a fool. Father had trusted Mother—they
all
had trusted Mother—and their lives had been torn apart for it. Jarret had trusted Gran, and what had he got for it? Nothing but grief.

A man was better off relying on himself alone.

They set off for Burton at a little after eight
a.m
. Mrs. Lake continued to carry the conversation, peppering him with questions about London society. He’d never met a woman so eager for the least bit of gossip, and he regretted that he knew so little.

Annabel stayed quiet, apparently fascinated by the endless landscape of spring meadows dotted with oaks and birches.
But as they neared Tamworth, their last stop to change horses before Burton, she turned to him.

“Why don’t you tell your coachman to bring us to the Peacock Inn once we reach Burton? I think you’ll find it a pleasant place to stay, and the innkeeper’s wife is an excellent cook. Lake Ale will of course pay for your lodgings.”

The tension behind her smile gave him pause. “No need for that.” He wasn’t going to tax their finances simply because they thought him too lofty to stay in their home. “I’ll be perfectly comfortable with your family. I’m sure you have some little room I can use for the short time I’m here.”

“Oh, that wouldn’t do,” Annabel said. “You know how it is when someone in the family is sick—the whole household suffers. You’d be far more comfortable at the inn, I assure you.”

His eyes narrowed. “I thought money was tight for the brewery right now.”

When Annabel blanched, Mrs. Lake said hastily, “Yes, but we have an arrangement with the Peacock Inn. Lake Ale provides them with ale, and they provide us with lodgings when we need them.”

“That sounds one-sided,” Jarret said. “How often could you possibly need lodgings for visitors? I hope you don’t provide them with
all
the ale they require.”

“No, of course not,” Annabel said. “What Sissy meant is that if we need the inn for anything—lodgings or a meeting room or food—they’ll take payment in ale.”

“It’s still a drain on your finances,” he persisted. “If you give your ale away, you have none to sell.”

Normally, it would be rude to insist upon staying with someone who didn’t want him as a guest, but until now they’d struck him as open country folk who wouldn’t mind
an extra mouth at the dinner table. The fact that they wanted him to stay at an inn seemed odd.

“All the same,” Annabel said firmly, “I think it will be best.” There was a stubborn glint to her eye.

That’s when it dawned on him why she didn’t want him in the house with her. She was afraid he would try to seduce her. No doubt she had her sister-in-law worrying about it, too.

“Very well,” he said. “The Peacock Inn it is. But I’ll pay for my own lodgings. It’s only for one night, after all.”

“Only one night?” Mrs. Lake said, clearly disappointed.

Annabel looked vastly relieved, which roused his suspicions even more. She certainly was eager to rush him off. Was it because of what they’d done in the barn yesterday? Or something else?

“His lordship is a very busy man, Sissy,” Annabel said. “He has a brewery to run back in London, and we mustn’t keep him too long from his work.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Mrs. Lake flashed him a kind smile. “But you should at least join us tonight, my lord, at the Brewer’s Association dinner. It’s the one time the brewers allow females to darken the doors, and there is always good food and dancing—”

“We won’t be attending, Sissy,” Annabel cut in. “How could you forget?”

“Why wouldn’t we attend? Hugh always—” Mrs. Lake paled. “Of course. She’s right, sir. We won’t be going.”

“Which means you can’t go either, my lord,” Annabel finished. “I’m afraid that they allow only members or family of members.”

Jarret stared at her, wondering why she was reverting to formality again. She only did that when she was nervous. Something was afoot, and he had to figure out what it was.
Since she clearly didn’t want him at the Brewer’s Association dinner, he’d start by making sure he attended.

“It’s no problem, actually. My grandmother knows Bass and Allsopp both very well.” They were two of the most prominent of Burton’s brewers. “I can’t imagine they wouldn’t be willing to wrangle an invitation for her grandson from whomever runs the association. Professional courtesy, and all that.”

That struck a nerve, all right: Annabel wore a look of pure panic.

He smiled at Mrs. Lake. “Indeed, madam, I’d be happy to have you both accompany me. Since your husband can’t attend.”

“That would be all right,” Mrs. Lake said, with clear agitation on her features. “Wouldn’t it, Annabel?”

“We’ll have to see how Hugh feels,” Annabel said. “We’ll let you know, my lord.”

“You can give me your answer when I come to call on your brother this afternoon, once I’m settled at the inn.”

She immediately said, “Oh, I don’t think you should—”

“I have to negotiate the terms of this arrangement with him,” he pointed out. “He’s the one who must sign any papers we draw up, after all.”

“The brewery manager, Mr. Walters, can negotiate the terms, and give the papers to Hugh to sign.” Annabel’s voice was decidedly unsteady. “No need to trouble Hugh with more than that.”

“I don’t deal with managers,” he said firmly. “Unless your brother is at death’s door, I wish to speak to him, even if only briefly.”