by Goodman, Jo
THE PRICE OF DESIRE
“We are of a kind, you and I,” Griffin said quietly. “I think you know it’s true.”
Then he bent his head and laid his mouth over hers. There was very little pressure in the kiss, just a touch, a tender brush. Sweetness and solace. He offered only as much as he thought she could accept and was uncertain from the beginning if she could accept any of it.
His hands slid from her elbows to the small of her back. He resisted the urge to pull her closer and instead let her find her own way into the shelter of his embrace. She edged closer, her mouth parting. He changed the slant of his mouth, licked her lower lip with the damp edge of his tongue.
He caught the scent of lavender on her skin and the taste of mint on her mouth. The fragrance made him think peculiarly of innocence—the taste of things fresh and unsullied.
Olivia raised her hands, then let them fall back to her side. She hadn’t quite known what she wanted to do with them. Touching him, her fingers on his shoulders, at the back of his neck, drifting into the curling ends of his dark hair, all of it seemed too much, or possibly it was that it wouldn’t have been enough.
His kiss made her remember emptiness and longing. It made her think of what she could have in the moment, but would always be denied in the forever. In spite of that, or perhaps because of it, the kiss stirred her….
Books by Jo Goodman
The Captain’s Lady
Crystal Passion
Seaswept Abandon
Velvet Night
Violet Fire
Scarlet Lies
Tempting Torment
Midnight Princess
Passion’s Sweet Revenge
Sweet Fire
Wild Sweet Ecstasy
Rogue’s Mistress
Forever in My Heart
Always in My Dreams
Only in My Arms
My Steadfast Heart
My Reckless Heart
With All My Heart
More Than You Know
More Than You Wished
Let Me Be the One
Everything I Ever Wanted
All I Ever Needed
Beyond a Wicked Kiss
A Season to Be Sinful
One Forbidden Evening
If His Kiss Is Wicked
The Price of Desire
Published by Zebra Books
THE PRICE OF DESIRE
JO GOODMAN
ZEBRA BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
For some of the people who’ve dropped seeds in my life.
You may never see this,
never know,
that your seed was nourished and thrived.
Recognition is long overdue.
Mary Alice Dambaugh
Barbara Keller
Dr. Dietrich
Amy Yohn
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Prologue
London
January 1823
“The debt is £1,000.”
Griffin Wright-Jones, Viscount Breckenridge, closed the book of accounts slowly, running his forefinger along the spine before he neatly squared it off so it was parallel to the edge of his desk. He set himself back just a fraction in his chair, inclining his back and resting his elbows on the wide, burnished leather arms. It was only then that he deigned to look up, one dark brow lifted in an expression of such mild curiosity that it could have been mistaken for indifference. He did not expect that the man standing at attention on the other side of the desk would make that error. Alastair Cole had too much at stake—£1,000, to be strictly accurate—to misjudge the situation.
“I admit that at long last you have impressed me,” Breckenridge said.
Alastair Cole said nothing. Did nothing.
“If you schooled your features so well at the table, you would have discharged this debt handily. Mayhap you would not have amassed it.”
“I will honor it, of course.”
“Of course.” Breckenridge paused deliberately, though not overlong. Still, it was enough time to observe Mr. Cole shift his weight ever so slightly from his right foot to his left. This infinitesimal movement was accompanied by a shift in Cole’s gaze. “You are a gentleman, after all,” Breckenridge said. “I would expect nothing less.”
“I am gratified you know it.”
Breckenridge nodded slowly. “Your reputation is important to you, I imagine.” He noticed that Alastair Cole did not flinch, but he did blink. Twice. Breckenridge’s hands closed soundlessly in an attitude of prayer. He pressed the tips of his fingers together, making a steeple of them as he continued to regard Cole, considering. “You will likewise be aware that my reputation is important to me.”
“My lord?”
Breckenridge was now quite certain that Cole’s voice box was as tautly stretched as his nerves. There had been an alarming squeak as the man had uttered these last words. Judging by the scarlet color that rose above the stiff points of Cole’s collar, he had heard it as well.
“I collect what is owed,” Breckenridge said. “That is my reputation. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then you will not take offense when I ask how you plan to cover your losses.” Breckenridge permitted himself a small smile at Cole’s discomfort. Clearly the young man was offended at having the question put to him—a gentleman was taken at his word, after all—but he also seemed to sense that a toplofty tantrum was an indulgence he could ill afford. Breckenridge held up one hand, palm out, forestalling Cole’s answer just as the man’s lips parted around the lie he was about to tell. “And, pray, do not say you mean to ask for an advance on your quarterly allowance. We both know that such a request is unlikely to be granted.”
Alastair Cole brought his fist to his mouth as he cleared his throat. “Pardon me, my lord. A tickle in my throat.”
Breckenridge watched Cole’s eyes drop briefly to the tumbler of whiskey on the desk and the decanter beside it, but he did not offer libation and Cole did not ask for it.
“Unless you are in possession of facts unknown to me,” Cole said, “I have every reason to anticipate my request will be met favorably.”
Breckenridge made no response save for raising his arched eyebrow a fraction higher.
“Are you in possession of such facts?” Alastair Cole asked.
“I don’t believe so. I know what you know. Our opposing views suggest we interpret the facts differently.”
“I’m certain that is the case.”
Breckenridge thought Cole looked relieved. “I hope for your sake that you are in the right of it.” His expression remained unchanged as he added quietly, “You would not want to be wrong.”
Cole teetered slightly. The flush that had suffused his skin vanished, leaving him pale except for the sprinkling of freckles across his nose. “No, my lord. That is, I’m not wrong.”
The viscount nodded. He dropped his hands to the arms of his chair. “Then I can expect payment tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
The soprano note of panic had returned to Alastair Cole’s voice. It required effort of will for Breckenridge not to wince. He consulted his gold fob watch instead. “It is long after midnight
already,” he said. “I did not realize. In that case I will expect payment in the morning. I am given to late risings. It is the hours I keep, I suspect. Let us say eleven, shall we? Something less than twelve hours from now. That should be sufficient.”
“Eleven? I couldn’t possibly.”
“I don’t believe I could have heard you correctly.”
Cole swallowed hard. The flush was back in his cheeks. “I require more time, my lord.”
“Do not keep it a secret, Mr. Cole. Out with it.”
“A day,” Cole said quickly. “A few days at the most.”
“A day? A few days? Which is it?”
“A few days.”
“Three? Four? Be specific, man.”
“Four.”
“Four days to secure an advance on your allowance seems excessive.”
“There are arrangements that must be made.”
Breckenridge considered this. “Travel arrangements, no doubt. In four days you could be in Liverpool. You could be in France.”
“No.” Alastair Cole shook his head vehemently. A lock of red-blond hair fell across his brow, making him look even younger than his twenty-one years. “That is not my intention. I swear to you, you shall have your money.”
“You would have me believe you are in earnest.”
“I am in earnest.”
Breckenridge did not respond immediately. He allowed silence to fill the space until it became as thick and cold as day-old porridge. It was an underrated tool, silence. At least Breckenridge had always found it so. People were often discomfited by it. Society sought to fill the void with chatter and tattle, tongues wagging as they were wont to do. Alastair Cole struggled to remain upright under the weight of it. Breckenridge could see that he was worrying his lower lip, probably drawing blood. God’s truth, there should be blood, Breckenridge thought, when gentlemen made wagers beyond their means to pay. No exception could be made for youth or inexperience, both of which afflicted Alastair Cole.
“Very well,” said Breckenridge. “You shall have your four days. Mark it well in your mind that I mean to have my money by this hour on Thursday.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Alastair bobbed his head. “Thank you.”
“And what do you propose to exchange for the four days?”
“What?”
“Quid pro quo. You know the phrase, do you not? Recently come down from Cambridge as you have.”
“Something for something. Yes, I know it.” Alastair Cole pushed the wayward lock of hair back into place. “But I thought I explained myself. I don’t have the money now.”
“That has been made clear to me, but I don’t have four days to surrender to you without something in return.”
“You want interest? Is that it?”
“I’m not a bloody moneylender, Cole. This is business.” Breckenridge knew the impact his dark, remote gaze had on gentlemen of Alastair Cole’s ilk. He used it now, not at all disappointed with the result. Small beads of perspiration formed on Cole’s upper lip, glistening in the firelight when the young man turned his head. Breckenridge allowed his glance to drop to the ring Cole was wearing on his right hand. “Tell me about that bauble.”
Cole jerked as if pulled from a trance. “Bauble?” He followed Breckenridge’s line of sight to stare at his own hand. “The ring?” he asked weakly.
“Yes, of course, the ring.”
“It was my father’s.”
Breckenridge waved that response aside and bid Cole come closer. “An emerald. Very nice. Solidly square cut. Unimaginative but suggesting strength. I make it to be set in a bed of—what?—twenty diamond chips?”
“Twenty-one,” Alastair said on a thread of sound.
“I see. Not at all the usual thing. Meant to mark an anniversary?”
“A birthday.”
“Even better. I believe it will do.” He put his palm out to accept the ring and waited.
Alastair Cole did nothing at first. “I don’t think—”
“No, you don’t,” Breckenridge said, interrupting. “Perhaps in the future you will.”
Flushing deeply, Cole nevertheless managed to mount an argument. “The ring is worth a good deal more than my debt.”
“I hope so, else where is the incentive for you to return with my money?”
“I couldn’t possibly give it to you.”
Breckenridge sighed. He did not fail to notice that Cole made no move to withdraw his hand. “So that it is the way it is to be. I had hoped for more, some evidence of backbone, mayhap.” He removed the ring from Cole’s finger and slipped it onto his own. “We are of a size. That is good.”
Except for a hand that trembled slightly now, Cole did not move.
Breckenridge glanced once in the younger man’s direction, evincing mild surprise that Cole was still there. He said nothing, merely inclined his head toward the door.
Alastair Cole’s hesitation only lasted a moment, and he exited the room a moment after that.
Griffin Wright-Jones waited to hear the door click into place and Cole’s heavy footfalls recede before he removed the ring and placed it in a cleverly hidden drawer in his desk. It was then that he permitted himself the luxury of slumping back in his chair. Closing his eyes, he rubbed them gently with his thumb and middle finger in an attempt to ease the ache that had grown steadily behind them.
His lips moved the smallest fraction around words that were merely an expulsion of air. “God’s truth, do they never learn?”
Chapter One
Olivia Cole caught her reflection in the cheval glass and paused to take account of herself. She was not by nature a vain woman, but circumstances were such in her life that she could ill afford to present herself in a poor light. It was not possible to hide every aspect of her worry from the servants. She had no illusions that she would ever trod the boards at Drury Lane, but she had hoped she was offering a more untroubled countenance than the one she observed now.
There was no disguising the fact that she had been weeping earlier. Her eyelids were still faintly swollen and the lashes clumped in small, dewy spikes. Swiping at her eyes did not diminish the effect. Her knuckles left pronounced color in an otherwise pale complexion, emphasizing violet shadows beneath her eyes and lending them a bruised, injured look.
Her ginger-colored hair, a fiery problem to be contended with on any given day, had escaped the moorings of all three tortoiseshell combs so that far too many strands were licking at her temples, forehead, and nape like flaming tongues. She raised one hand to make an adjustment, intending to smooth and secure the firestorm, but let her hand fall back to her side when it occurred to her it was too small a gesture and far too late in coming.
The scratching at the door was insistent. Olivia moved slowly in that direction. It was disconcerting to realize that her palms were damp, a condition she noticed when she attempted to press out a wrinkle in the bodice of her day dress. The fold only existed because the incongruously bright, apple-green gown hung on her frame in a way it had not done since she stood for its fitting. She unfastened the grosgrain ribbon beneath her breasts and tied it again, this time more ruthlessly than her maid had done earlier. With the bodice snugly secured, she squared her shoulders and made to reach for the door handle. At the last moment she stopped and reached for the shawl that had been thrown carelessly across a nearby chair. She could pretend at least that she was chilled, when in truth she had a need to hide the collarbones that four days of almost no nourishment had made prominent.
Olivia steeled herself as she opened the door. It was in every way a condition of the mind. Her limbs were in fact trembling.
“Yes, Mrs. Beck?”
The housekeeper bobbed her head once. “Begging your pardon, but there’s gentlemen come to inquire after you. I thought I should tell you myself.”
“Thank you. That was good of you.” Olivia’s own maid, to demonstrate her self-importance, had a regrettable tendency to say things she ought not in the servants’ hall. Chasti
sement had had little effect on Molly Dillon, placing Olivia in a position of releasing the girl from service or guarding her own tongue in Molly’s presence. Against the advice of Mrs. Beck, Olivia had become more circumspect and Molly remained employed.
“Gentlemen, you say?” asked Olivia. Her mouth was dry, but she resisted the urge to lick her lips. “How many exactly?” Had her father sent them? It was the question uppermost in her mind, and she couldn’t pose it to Mrs. Beck without giving more of herself away than she ever had to Molly Dillon.
“Two.” There was a small hesitation. “I can’t be certain, but I think they might be from Bow Street.”
“Runners?” Olivia was glad she’d had the foresight to keep one hand on the door frame and the other resting on the handle. The tenacity of her grip made her knuckles briefly turn white. “Alastair, then. They’ve come about Alastair.” She felt no relief at the thought. As much as she feared they’d come for her, that outcome was preferable to the one that seemed more likely.
“I’m thinking that’s so.”
Olivia nodded absently while she considered what she must do. “Show them to the drawing room. I will receive them there.”
“As you wish.” Mrs. Beck bobbed her head again and turned to go, only to be brought up short by Olivia’s entreaty.
“Have you a sense of what their purpose might be?”
The housekeeper had drawn up her apron and was twisting the hem in her hands. Anxiety deepened the careworn lines around her eyes and mouth. “I can’t say. I tried to get a word from them, but they are like the sphinx, all stone and silence. They don’t seem entirely comfortable, I know that. I can’t make out what it means, though.”
Olivia’s breath caught, imagining the very worst.
Mrs. Beck shook her head vehemently. “And you shouldn’t make it out to be something that it is not. Oh, I wish I’d left well enough alone.” She turned on her heel and this time fled.