Price of Desire

by Goodman, Jo

  Olivia smiled as she watched a pair of women emerge from the townhouse opposite her. Linking arms, they lightly descended the steps. They both wore wide-brimmed bonnets that hid their faces, one decorated with an assortment of plump fruit and the other with colorfully dyed ostrich feathers. These adornments bounced and swayed in lively accompaniment to their movements. In tandem, the women seemed to sense they were being watched. Uncertain of how well they could see her, Olivia nevertheless retained her smile as they looked up. It was difficult to know whether they were startled by her presence at the window. Their faces were so brightly painted that their expressions were lost to her. She ventured a wave and knew herself to be ridiculously pleased when they responded in kind.

  The communication was brief. The women were about other business that encouraged them not to tarry. Olivia watched them hurry away and entertained herself wondering where they were going. It seemed likely that with their particular tastes and devotion to fashion, they were leaving Putnam Lane to frequent the shops of their favorite dressmakers and milliners.

  She envied them their freedom, though not their destination. This last week she had spent interminable hours being fitted for all the clothes she had never wanted. There had been no easy surrender on her part, but she didn’t suppose that mattered. In the end, she’d given in, and that’s what she imagined that Breckenridge would remember.

  It was of no consequence to her that the clothes were castoffs. Discovering that they had belonged to his lordship’s wife was of less account to her than discovering he had a wife. Still, her refusal to accept them was predicated on the fact that she’d had her own clothes but apparently no rights regarding their retention or disposal.

  Breckenridge had ordered all of her garments—with the exception of her outerwear—returned to her. Her initial pleasure faded when she realized that although every article had been laundered, the acrid scent of smoke lingered on all of them. The odor could not be masked with soap or fragrance. It had worked its way into the warp and weft of the fabric and would not be removed.

  Olivia might have stubbornly insisted on wearing them anyway if not for the fact that the mere act of breathing in the presence of the clothes prompted an unpleasant visceral response. Coupled with the memories that flooded her, she finally admitted that keeping them might soothe her wounded pride, but would give her no peace.

  She offered no explanation to Mason when she told him that she’d reconsidered her decision not to accept Breckenridge’s offering. The valet ventured no comment nor gave any hint of his own feelings on the matter. He simply nodded and went about the business of making it so.

  It was a bit galling that Mrs. McCutcheon arrived that very afternoon with several pieces nearly completed in their alterations. Olivia surmised from this that Breckenridge had never believed there would be any other outcome than that she would fall in with his wishes. She could no longer even accuse him of high-handedness, not when he’d put the choice before her. How difficult, she wondered, had it been for him to do that?

  Olivia shifted on the bench so that she was no longer kneeling. She pushed an embroidered pillow behind her back and leaned against the alcove wall. The fullness of her gown fell over her legs. Folds of pink India muslin slipped over the side of the bench and left her ankles and feet exposed. She wiggled her toes and felt her pale pink silk stockings stretch with the movement. She wished that she might not take pleasure from wearing anything so fine, but it was like asking her not to appreciate sunshine on her face or the sound of a child’s laughter.

  Mrs. McCutcheon had transformed Lady Breckenridge’s wardrobe by repositioning the waistline to its natural level, adding fullness to the sleeves, rounding the bodices, and moving the ornamentation to the hemline. The fabrics she had to work with were of the best quality: Chinese silk, satin, cambric, soft muslin, brushed velvet, and tulle. There were cloth-covered and mother-of-pearl buttons instead of flat copper hooks and eyes. There were dresses for day, for evening, for walking, and for taking a turn in a carriage. Every gown was lined in cotton or sarcenet or silesia. She had undergarments of the finest batiste: chemises, petticoats, drawers, and shifts. There were slippers and hose to match her gowns, half-boots to be worn on walks, ribbons for her hair, and cashmere shawls with fringe that brushed her skin with such delicacy that she’d heard herself sigh with the contentment of it.

  If she could believe Breckenridge, she was not beholden to him for any of it. Still, her own conscience was not so easily cleared of its sense of obligation. It made her vaguely uneasy that he had asked for nothing in exchange, and she could not shake the notion that he kept a mental ledger of every favor he extended her, whether or not she was pleased to accept it.

  She lifted the book she’d been reading from the narrow sill but did not open it. Breckenridge had passed on to her a Gothic novel that she was almost certain could not have come from his own library. It had kept her up well past midnight so that now she used the back of her hand to stifle a yawn.

  The hell was quiet if one discounted the occasional banging and rumble of deep male voices coming from the carpenters and painters working in her former room. She had yet to be invited to see their progress, but she believed they must be nearing the end of their work and that very soon she would be permitted to return. It was not that Breckenridge’s bedchamber was inherently uncomfortable, only that she was made uncomfortable because she had displaced him.

  Listening between hammer blows and the barking of orders, Olivia strained to hear the sounds of stirring from Breckenridge’s study. Sometimes she could hear him moving about, especially if he was in what she thought of as one of his dark moods. On those occasions she could make out his heavier tread in the hall and feel the shudder of his door when he closed it. If he drank there might follow the sound of breaking glass or a series of thumps as stacks of books were toppled to the floor. She imagined that neither was caused by carelessness.

  Griffin Wright-Jones, the honorable Viscount Breckenridge, would have taken deliberate aim.

  Olivia knew him to be far quieter in the morning. If he rose before Mason arrived, which he did more often than not, she heard him throw open the window to his study and call down to the street urchins that had gathered below to fetch him a paper. He tossed coins for the purchase and later, once he had the Gazette in hand, he tossed a few extra for their trouble. She suspected more than one family had a bit of meat for their stew because of Breckenridge’s charity. After the completion of this ritual, she heard very little until a footman delivered his breakfast and Mason came to assist with the routines of preparing for the day. By then it was almost always the beginning of the afternoon.

  He often left then, though Olivia could only suppose where he went. The case that was frequently secured under his arm made her think he was depositing the hell’s income, though going it alone seemed fraught with risk. If the weather was clear and not too cold, he walked. Sometimes Foster or Truss would leave the hell to wave a hack to the doorstep. She had never seen him take a carriage, although she knew from Beetle that he had one at his disposal. “A most splendid equipage,” the kitchen lad had named it, and Olivia was inclined to believe him.

  As often as she was discomfited by the knowledge that she spent each day and night almost entirely in Breckenridge’s suite, she also knew that she would miss this view of Putnam Lane and her proximity to his lordship’s study once she was removed from it.

  Wanting to embrace the view now, Olivia turned to glance out the window again. None of the street children had arrived to mark their territory at the front of the hell. It seemed they knew better than to come upon the place too soon of a morning and risk waking Breckenridge earlier than was his habit. No doubt there were unpleasant consequences to be had for that.

  Olivia did not know what they were, but the time had come to find out.

  Griffin threw a forearm across his eyes and groaned softly as the series of sharp raps at the doors penetrated his consciousness. It seemed to him that
he had fallen asleep only a few short hours ago. With his free hand he groped for the watch he’d placed on the floor beside the chaise. He flicked his wrist to swing the gold chain so the watch landed in his palm. There was nothing wrong with the timekeeper in his head, he realized. He had fallen asleep only a few short hours ago.

  Mason would have already let himself in, so Griffin knew it was not his valet on the other side of the door. Similarly, any of his staff believing they had a message so urgent that they must wake him would also have entered by now. Griffin was very much afraid that he knew who was demanding entry.

  He sat up and rolled his neck from side to side. His robe was lying at the foot of the chaise. He shrugged into it as he stood and loosely fastened the belt while he crossed the room.

  Olivia Cole was indeed on the other side of the door. He made a brief study of her rather defiant posture, standing as she was with her fist raised at the level of her angled chin, and decided that not even she could manage to hold the high ground wearing a muslin day dress the color of a blush.

  “You did not bring coffee.” He closed the door in her face.

  Olivia blinked. She let her fist drop to her side and for a moment did nothing save for stare at the door. You did not bring coffee. That curt observation might easily be construed as an invitation, at least to her way of thinking. He could have ordered her away, and he hadn’t done so. That meant she might gain admission if she traded in the correct currency.

  The second time she announced herself at the door she was brusquely given permission to enter.

  “It took you considerable time to return,” Griffin said. He pointed to the space beside him on the chaise and indicated she should set the tray there. One eyebrow lifted when he saw she’d only brought a single cup and saucer. “You don’t care for coffee?”

  “It seemed presumptuous of me to assume you meant for me to join you.”

  He snorted. “You would do well not to speak of presumption when you’ve taken the liberty to wake me at this unholy hour.”

  Olivia accepted the chastisement without comment. She watched him pour the coffee, add cream but ignore the sugar, then lift the cup to his lips. He paused, breathing in the fragrance of the brew before he sipped. There was something oddly intimate about witnessing his unguarded pleasure. She found herself discomfited and looked away.

  “The kitchen staff must have been surprised to see you,” he said idly between sips. “Please. Sit. I have no wish to advance this crick in my neck by staring up at you.”

  Olivia glanced around and chose the chair closest to the fireplace. She looked at him for permission to turn it in his direction. At his slight nod, she used her knee against the arm to nudge it around before she perched on the edge of the cushion. To keep her hands from fidgeting in the folds of her dress, she clasped them together in her lap.

  She did not fail to notice that Breckenridge hadn’t taken advantage of her absence to dress. Extending him the benefit of the doubt, she supposed he couldn’t have been certain that she would return. Perhaps he had even tried to go back to sleep. He was still wearing his nightshirt, robe, and leather slippers. His chestnut hair was disheveled, his eyes heavily lidded, and there was a pillow crease in his right cheek that was a near perfect match to the scar in his left. She tried to imagine the circumstances in which she would not find him to be inordinately beautiful, and could not.

  “I hope you do not mean for me to carry the conversation,” he said finally, breaking the silence. “My opening gambit was to ask you about your foray to the kitchen. You have yet to answer.”

  Olivia squeezed her hands together. “The kitchen. Yes. I remember. Actually, no one was there when I arrived. I supposed Cook had returned to bed after preparing my breakfast, and I was reminded how much my presence disrupts the routine you’ve established here. It’s why I’ve come actually. I believe I can put that to rights.”

  “I cannot permit you to leave.”

  “You are too suspicious. I was not going to suggest it.”

  He was suspicious, but also more than a little intrigued. “Go on, though I should tell you that while your coffee is as excellent as any served in the clubs, I am not in favor of you regularly going to the kitchen.”

  “Then you would not permit me to work there.”

  “Good Lord, no.”

  “I confess that is a relief.” She’d had her fill of kitchens and as a rule avoided the one in her own home unless called there by Mrs. Beck to settle a dispute. “My excellent coffee aside, it’s not the kitchen where I can be most useful to you.”

  “Really?”

  “Do not mistake my meaning, Lord Breckenridge. You would not find me an agreeable companion in bed, either.”

  “You are too straightforward in your speech, I think, but don’t assume you know the bent of my mind, Miss Cole. I recently relieved myself of a mistress. I am not looking for another.”

  She flushed. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to—”

  He waved aside her apology. “In what way useful, then?”

  “It would be better if I might demonstrate.”

  “By all means.”

  Olivia stood. Her eyes darted about the room in search of a particular item she’d seen in his study. It seemed it either had been buried under something else or actually put away. It was difficult to believe the latter, so she began a more thorough search, carefully picking her way among the stacks of ledgers and papers and occasionally turning something over to examine what lay beneath.

  Wary, Griffin followed her movements over the rim of his cup as he drank his coffee. “Has the demonstration begun?” In response to her slightly annoyed, over-the-shoulder glance, Griffin shrugged. “It is a perfectly sensible question.”

  He chose a triangle of buttered toast from the tray she’d brought and bit into it. There was no good reason that this piece of toast should taste better than what Cook prepared of a morning, yet it was undeniably true. Griffin brushed a crumb from the lapel of his velvet robe and chose another triangle.

  “Perhaps if you were to tell me what you are looking for,” he said. “I can freely admit you are making me uneasy with your poking around.”

  It was when she turned to respond that she spied the object of her search on the floor just under the head of the chaise. “Of course,” she said, more to herself than him. “You were playing with them. I did not think of that.”

  She skirted a table and dropped to her knees beside the chaise, ignoring the exaggerated lift of his dark eyebrows. Careful not to brush his leg as she patted the floor just behind him, her fingers finally curled around the deck of cards. Smiling beatifically, she held them up.

  Griffin felt his insides twist. He found the radiance of her expression was actually difficult to look upon. Ignoring most of what he saw and all of what he felt, he offered a wry observation, “Triumph such as you are now wont to show is generally reserved for coming upon the source of the Nile or being carried on a litter into the city you’ve just conquered.”

  He saw her smile falter and was both regretful and glad of it. “Card tricks?” he asked. “Is that what you mean to show me?”

  Still stinging from his comment, Olivia made to rise with a measure of dignity. “Perhaps later. When you might be more inclined to appreciate them.” She pointed to the nearby table. “May I?”

  “Of course.” He started to set his cup down in preparation of helping her, but she waved him away.

  Olivia pulled the cherrywood table toward the chaise. It was not the proper size or shape for what she wanted to demonstrate, but she would make do. She stood on the opposite side of the table and began shuffling the cards.

  It took her a few moments to find her rhythm. The cards were well used, slightly thick because of it, with corners that snagged and faces that did not easily slide against one another. She was also badly out of practice. Twice the cards fluttered from her hands, making her feel gauche and clumsy.

  Griffin’s cup hovered halfway between his la
p and his mouth as he gave over all of his attention to Olivia Cole. Her long, elegantly tapered fingers moved and manipulated with a speed and deftness that his eyes could not easily follow. Even when some of the cards escaped her hands, she shoveled them up with the remainder of the deck in a fashion so smooth as to give the impression the initial fumbling was deliberate.

  He put his cup aside and leaned forward. She tapped the deck on the table, squaring it off, then fanned it open, first with the back of the cards showing, then again with the pips and faces turned up. She did this several times, flipping the cards back and forth with a flick of her wrist.

  When she paused, he glanced up and caught her frowning. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Will you look under the chaise? The four of hearts and the queen of clubs are missing from this deck.”

  He did not inquire as to how she could possibly know that—she’d neither sorted nor counted the cards—but when he felt around under the chaise his fingertips caught the edges of two cards. He picked them up and laid them face up on the table. The four of hearts and the queen of clubs.

  “You purposely left them behind when you picked up the rest of the deck,” he said.

  Olivia drew the two cards toward her and slipped them into the deck. “You know I didn’t examine the cards when they were under the chaise. I couldn’t see them properly.” She handed him the deck. “Take as few or as many as you like.” She turned her back and waited.

  Griffin removed one card and slipped it under the tray at his side without looking at it. He slid the deck toward her again. “All right.”

  Olivia pivoted, picked up the cards, and resumed shuffling. They stuck occasionally, and she had to adjust the pressure of her hands and fingers to compensate. She spread the cards in a perfect arch on the table, flipped them once, flipped them back, and gathered them up again.