Price of Desire

by Goodman, Jo

  “Bets down, please,” she said to allow for some last bit of maneuvering and second guessing. When the last hand was withdrawn, she nodded. “All bets are down.”

  There was some jostling for position at the rear of the crush around the table. “Gentlemen. Have a care, else the markers will shift, and we will never sort out the winners from the losers.” Even as she said it, the table was bumped and three markers slid off the painted cards into other positions. Olivia stepped back from the table and permitted the punters to rearrange their wagers.

  “Gentlemen,” she said again, this time with a pointed look in the direction of the disturbance. “There is room enough for everyone to participate.”

  “I am in love,” one of the newcomers declared as he craned his neck for a better view. “She has the voice of an angel.”

  “And wings,” another said. “I swear she has wings.”

  Olivia refrained from rolling her eyes and offered an apologetic smile to those players who were waiting for her to turn a card. “The house will pay on the queen.”

  “Did she say play on the queen?” This query prompted a new wave of laughter. “I should like to play on the queen.”

  One of his friends pushed him forward, forcing a split between a pair of gentlemen who’d been waiting patiently for their opportunity to move closer to the table. They drew themselves up rigidly and in tandem closed ranks, shouldering the dandy back. He put his hands on their shoulders and launched himself upward for a better glimpse of the angel queen.

  Olivia quickly paid the winners and proceeded with a new round of wagers. She was eager to move the game along before chaos took over and her winnings were lost to the replacement of broken furniture and glassware.

  The quartet did not allow themselves to be easily dismissed, but they settled down long enough to pass their wagers forward and follow the turn of the cards at a distance that kept everyone’s fists at their sides. Thankful that they retained some measure of self-preservation, Olivia simply ignored their banal observations about her ethereal countenance and regal bearing. Drink had left them without wit or imagination.

  “My lord,” Olivia said softly, acknowledging Breckenridge stepping up to her side. She had been aware of his presence in the room from the outset. He’d closely followed the gentlemen in but hung back to observe their forward push and what would become of it. Several times she thought he would take them up by their collars and yank them out of the room, but when she glanced in his direction he seemed perfectly at his ease, merely mindful of the mingling of his guests.

  Griffin placed a proprietary hand at the small of Olivia’s back. He felt her stiffen under his palm. It lasted but a moment, then she relaxed, though he suspected it was accomplished with effort. “Finish this round,” he said, “then Foster will spell you.”

  It occurred to her to protest, but she thought better of it. The punters were watching her closely, hoping she’d make some excuse to stay. She would not pit Breckenridge against them. Without missing a beat, she quickened the rhythm of an already fast-paced game, cheerfully encouraging the players to keep up with her. The wagers came and went furiously, with punters calling out, groaning, and shouting by turns depending on the card that Olivia pulled from the deck. It required only a few minutes for the table to be cleared.

  Olivia let herself be led away on Breckenridge’s arm. Her four newest admirers turned as one, their expressions thoroughly pitiful as they realized they would have no chance with her. She was almost past them when one of them stepped away from the group and tilted his head to make a better study of her.

  Olivia held Breckenridge back and boldly turned to face him. “You wish to have an unobstructed view, perhaps?”

  He blinked and shook his head. A lock of sandy hair fell forward over his high brow.

  “Make another observation, then?”

  His eyes narrowed, but the strain of so much concentration in light of the alcohol he’d consumed made them cross. For a moment he was unsteady on his feet. “You remind me of—”

  “An angel,” she said. “Yes, I know.”

  “No. It is just that you—”

  “Possess the stately air of a queen. I heard you. I heard all of you. Now, you will excuse me.” She smiled politely, coolly, and turned away, dismissing him as she squeezed lightly on Breckenridge’s elbow.

  Griffin escorted her to the stairs. “Go on,” he said. “I’ll join you shortly.”

  Olivia hesitated. “They’re harmless, my lord.”

  “Griffin.”

  “What?”

  “My name is Griffin. We are intimates, remember?”

  “Pretending to be intimates,” she said under her breath. Over his shoulder, she smiled at a couple passing them on their way to the gaming room. “Pretending, my lord. It is not the same as actually being intimates.”

  “I am quite aware.”

  The way he said it, a bit darkly and edged with a certain roughness, made Olivia feel winded of a sudden.

  “Say it,” he said, watching her closely.

  She shook her head. “There’s no one around.”

  He placed one hand on the banister and the other on her shoulder. “Humor me.”

  “You are too often humored, I think. Denial will improve the strength of your character.”

  “Astute and priggish. I cannot imagine that you will remain my mistress for long.”

  Olivia pursed her lips.

  Griffin laughed. “Oh, very well. Run along.” He removed his hands and stepped back, still chuckling as he watched her climb, haughty and stiff-spined, to the top of the stairs.

  Olivia made straight for the window bench as soon as she reached her room. She peered down at the street, angling for the best view. She did not have to wait long. In spite of her assurance that the gentlemen meant no harm, she saw all four of them summarily run off. They nearly tripped over one another in their haste to reach the street, though she was confident their intoxicated state also contributed to their clumsiness.

  They took to the center of the cobbled street, dodging hansom cabs, private carriages, and ladies openly plying their trade. These near brushes with mishaps of every variety seemed to amuse them, for they laughed uproariously and continued on the wayward path they’d set, scattering only after one of them became violently ill.

  Olivia recognized the gentleman bent over at the waist, spilling guts and drink into the street, as the sandy-haired fellow who had tried to peer beneath her paint and place her face. She could not summon any sympathy for his plight.

  She turned away from the window and arranged herself comfortably on the bench awaiting Breckenridge’s return.

  Griffin knocked politely but didn’t allow himself to be delayed by waiting for Olivia’s response to enter. She rose from the window seat immediately. He held out a hand. “A moment if you will,” he told her. “There is no hurry.”

  “That is because you will take your winnings regardless of who is dealing faro. I only collect my share if I am at the table.”

  “You are without doubt the most single-minded female of my acquaintance.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “Naturally you would see it in that light.” He pointed to the bench. “Sit. I promise you this will not take long, and you have been standing since we opened the doors.”

  She sat but was compelled to add, “I am no hothouse flower.”

  Griffin hitched his hip on the arm of a wing chair. “Neither am I,” he said, “but notice that I am enjoying a moment’s respite as well.” He paused, considering how best to approach her. She seemed to appreciate straightforwardness. “How is it that the blond fellow knows you?”

  “Pardon?”

  Griffin felt certain that her polite response was merely a tactic to permit her to gather her wits. He’d spoken clearly; it was not the words she misunderstood. Still, for form’s sake, he repeated the question.

  “I don’t understand. Did he say he did?”

  “I believe he wa
s attempting to say just that when you interrupted him—twice.”

  “I remember the conversation differently. He compared me to an angel and a queen. It is a tiresome compliment men are wont to give when they are in their cups. Harmless enough, just as they were. You did not have to throw them out. I could have managed them.”

  Griffin realized that she had given him several openings by which he might distract himself from his purpose. He was as admiring of her talent for diversion as he was frustrated by it. “He compared you to neither of those things, although his friends had done so earlier. Once he moved closer to the table he watched you most attentively.”

  “Did he? I’m afraid I was otherwise occupied.” She frowned. “You could not know that anyway. You were standing beside the doorway. His back was to you.”

  Griffin was ridiculously pleased that she had noticed he was even in the room. She was, as she’d said, otherwise occupied. “He moved to the side. I saw enough to be convinced he was studying you.”

  Amused, she said, “Perhaps he is an artist and will return with a request to paint me for the ages.”

  “I believe he was trying to place your face, not contemplating painting it.”

  “Well, that is disappointing.”

  Griffin was not humored. “He knows you,” he said flatly.

  “You’re wrong.”

  “He simply does not know how he knows you.”

  “I’ve never seen him before.”

  “That may be true, but it doesn’t mean he hasn’t seen you.”

  “Are you doubting me? You said it may be true, as if I were lying.”

  “I doubt everyone. It was not meant to be critical of your character. I regret if I offended you.”

  Olivia found the apology perfunctory, accompanied as it was by a careless shrug. “I don’t know him,” she said again.

  Griffin believed she was still being evasive. “They have never been to my establishment before.”

  She frowned slightly. “I’m not certain what that has to do with anything.”

  “It is merely an observation. I believe word of you at the table has already spread.”

  “Why would anyone make mention of it? Do gentlemen really have so little of import to discuss?”

  “They must have their amusements.” He shrugged. “At the moment, you seem to be one of them.”

  Olivia offered him a tight smile. “It is no source of pleasure to me.”

  “I didn’t think it was. I mention it so that you will tread carefully. Foster tells me that Johnny Crocker played at your table tonight. A path would have been cleared for him. He’s of a formidable size.”

  She thought back. “I recall such a gentleman. He was circumspect in his wagers. Hardly said a word. His interest was in my hands, not in my face.”

  “He was observing whether or not you were cheating. He’s good at it himself, so I imagine he wanted to see if there was competition.”

  “He played fairly and so did I.”

  “Good. There’d have been a row otherwise. He has his own establishment and wouldn’t mind acquiring mine, not that I’d let him. I’ve heard Mrs. Christie’s name coupled with his.”

  Olivia hardly knew what to say to that, so she offered nothing.

  Griffin regarded her a long moment. “You don’t know Crocker, do you?”

  She sighed. “You are considerably troubled by this notion that I am known to others or that they are known to me. I hardly recognize my own reflection, so why you think anyone saw through this painted face to my own makes no sense. It is far more likely that in the case of the foxed gentleman, he saw nothing more than was presented to him and was trying to put a name to a whore he once enjoyed.”

  Griffin laid his arm across the back of the wing chair. “Have you been such a whore, Olivia?”

  The directness of his question startled her to silence. He posed it with a matter-of-factness that he might have used to inquire if she had ever been to the theatre or if her preference was for scones over honey cakes. “I suppose I deserve to have the question put to me,” she said quietly. “I have given you reason enough to suspect it.” She drew in a short breath and released it slowly. “As you doubt everyone, I don’t know that it makes the least difference what I tell you, but no, I have not been a whore.”

  “Are there those who would say differently?”

  She smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Aren’t there always?”

  Griffin had reason to know the truth of it. “If Alastair hadn’t offered you as his marker, what would you have done?”

  “You mean how would I have paid the staff, the creditors, and managed the house in his absence?”

  “That is precisely what I mean.”

  “I don’t know. That’s as honest an answer as I can give you. I’ve thought about it often enough, but I can’t say that I ever arrived at a satisfactory solution. You must have realized it. I can pretend that you are keeping me here, yet we both know I need to be kept. I haven’t tried to bolt, have I?”

  “I’d bring you back,” he said.

  “You would, and I’d let you.” The admission shamed her. She looked away, annoyed by the tears that surfaced with so little to provoke them. She made a quick swipe at her eyes and bit down hard on the inside of her lower lip. Pain was a balm for thornier emotions.

  Olivia didn’t know when Breckenridge had come to stand in front of her, but he was suddenly there. Quiet. Attentive. Waiting. She glanced up, blinked, and forced composure into what could easily have been a watery smile. An arched eyebrow served as a question.

  Griffin leaned forward, slipped his palms under Olivia’s elbows, and lifted. She came to her feet easily, without resistance, and stood inches from him, her head still raised but her smile faltering at the edges.

  “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. Her lips trembled under his, and her breath came lightly, then not at all.

  His hands slid from her elbows to the small of her back. He resisted the urge to pull her closer and 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. The breath she’d been holding was released on the faintest of sighs.

  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. He deserved neither, he thought, and took a measure of comfort that neither were being offered to him. His imagination supported what he craved, but the reality was merely lavender and mint.

  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.

  Warmth became heat; desire displaced comfort. She wondered why she was no longer afraid, why standing in the circle of his arms should make her abandon good sense and caution.

  He smelled faintly of tobacco and tasted of brandy. She thought of things certain and solid. He held her loosely, but she could have leaned back against the clasp of his hands and he would not have let her fall. It was the very security of the embrace that allowed her to soar, to feel what was unimaginable only minutes ago.

  She did not deserve it, she thought, and took a measure of comfort that she had not asked for it, that he could not know wh
at he’d given her. Her imagination supported what she craved, but reality was tobacco and brandy and a pair of hands at the curve of her back.

  The kiss deepened, held.

  Then it was over.

  They drew up simultaneously. He lifted his head; she lowered hers. Still feeling the stamp of the kiss on their lips, they stared at each other.

  Griffin spoke first, his voice thick and husky. “That was unexpected.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve wanted to…from the first.”

  Olivia was not prepared to be quite so honest. She simply nodded and let him make of it what he would.

  Griffin blew out a breath, ran his fingers through his hair. “What do you—”

  She didn’t allow him to finish. “It shouldn’t happen again.”

  “Are you certain?”

  She wasn’t, but Olivia didn’t think she could show weakness. “Yes. You’re married.”

  He didn’t react. “Did you think I’d forgotten?”

  “I think perhaps it is of no consequence to you.”

  “You couldn’t be more wrong.” He breathed in deeply, released it slowly. Resigned, he said, “But I comprehend that you have no reason to believe me.”

  Olivia waited, but he offered no explanation to persuade her differently. She admired him for that, because what explanation could there be that would suffice? “Excuse me,” she said, ducking quickly around him. “I need to return to the faro table.”

  Griffin caught her scent again as she brushed past him. Closing his eyes, he let her go.

  Chapter Seven

  Over the course of the next ten days, Olivia found herself returning again and again to the moments before, during, and after the kiss. When she was of a mood to recall the thing fondly, she felt a measure of heat uncurl inside her until her cheeks flushed and there was an unmistakable tug of something both pleasurable and needy deep inside her womb. When the memory came unbidden, as it invariably did in the presence of his lordship, Olivia soured, her mouth becoming flat and uninviting, her jaw tightening so that it ached well into the evening. That Griffin seemed to know what she was thinking in those moments—and appeared amused by it—merely put her further out of sorts.