by Goodman, Jo
“Were you?”
“By that time, yes. I was regularly visiting a young widow.”
“Mrs. Christie?”
“Lord, no. My arrangement with Alys was made less than a year ago. The widow asked me not to return when it appeared her good name—and that of her late husband’s—would become grist for the mill. I honored her wishes, of course, understood her concern completely. She had her own future to consider.”
Olivia nodded absently. “It does not seem that adultery could have been all that your mother-in-law presented as her daughter’s motive for divorcing you. It is too often done by men and many wives find it prudent to suffer in silence or seek their own pleasure.”
“You are right. That is why Elaine’s mother made so much of my decision to manage this establishment myself. While Elaine engaged in her particular vices with some discretion, I engaged in mine openly. I made no attempt to operate this gaming hell through agents as others of rank have done on occasion. At the outset of my ownership it was as much a brothel as a place to make wagers on any number of unsavory things. It was not so long ago that a parade of glassy-eyed opium eaters trudged regularly through the house. I might have allowed it to remain all of those things if Elaine had not taken herself off. I take no pride in admitting that the ugliness of this business appealed to me. It was there in my marriage, in my heart, how could I not be comfortable with it in every other aspect of my life?”
Griffin searched her face. This time it was he who brushed her cheek with the back of his knuckles. “You understand, don’t you?”
She did not think she would be able to tell him. The words lodged in her throat along with the aching lump of unshed tears. “Too well,” she said at last.
He nodded. “I knew. Somehow I knew I could say it to you. All of it.” With little in the way of urging, her head came to rest at the curve of his neck and shoulder. “My desire to find Elaine is only selfish. I have come to care that much for my reputation in polite society that I would have the rumors finally put behind me. I will divorce her immediately upon her return, and then she may go wherever she wishes and with whomever she wants. Indeed, it is my fervent hope that she will go quickly.”
“She might be different,” Olivia said. “You are.”
“Perhaps. My plans will not be changed by it.”
“Perhaps.” But she said it on a thread of sound, her lips merely moving around the word.
Griffin’s cheek pressed against her hair. He drew back. “You are still wearing your wig, Honey.”
She smiled faintly. It was difficult to know which one of them disliked the artifice more. “Naturally. I came here directly from the tables.”
“Take it off.”
Olivia did so, but when she would have removed herself from his lap to put it aside, Griffin plucked it from her hand and tossed it negligently toward the window seat. It came to rest like a furry lap dog on a plump, embroidered pillow. She tried to look disapproving of his carelessness, but her snort of laughter could not be mistaken for anything save what it was.
He watched for a moment, his eyes darkening as she combed her hair with her fingers. He took her by the wrist. “I’ll do that.”
Olivia wanted to close her eyes and simply surrender. His fingers did not so much sift through her hair as caress it. Her scalp tingled. He raised tiny bumps on her flesh. She was warm of a sudden, uncomfortably so between her thighs, yet her desire was to move closer to the source of the heat rather than draw back from it. She fought it until he simply caught her hair in his fist and used it to pull her inexorably toward him.
The kiss was long and deep and sweet. Their lips and tongues meant to savor, not merely taste. She would be joined to him, she thought, not in the obvious carnal way, though that too, but in the sense that he was a comfortable, comforting fit for her, as gentle to her skin as a kid glove, as easy around her heart as a velvet ribbon.
For once, the danger inherent in such a notion did not drive her away. She held fast to him, slipping her arms around his neck and pressing herself to him. She felt her breasts swell above the deep cut of her bodice. Her nipples rubbed against the soft fabric of her chemise. She felt him stir under her so the shape of the cradle he provided for her changed. Olivia did not mind; she was stirred as well.
His hands rested at the small of her back, but occasionally one would make a pass up her spine. Sometimes the other drifted lower, palming her bottom. Her dress was raised, though how it was accomplished she couldn’t say. A mystery almost its equal was how she came to be straddling him, her knees pressed to the back of the chair on either side of his hips as though she had him in a vise.
Olivia’s skirt billowed around them but her drawers lay on the floor. Her fine satin garters and silk stockings rubbed against his trousers, making a deliciously intimate sound like something she might whisper into his ear, or he into hers. Under cover of her gown and the spread of her petticoats, he opened the front closure on his trousers and drawers. She was lifted, then settled carefully on him. He watched her face, most especially her eyes. He watched her irises become more deeply emerald as the centers darkened; he watched her eyelids grow heavy until they could no longer sustain any look of surprise and held only contentment.
That look did not last. It could not. Not when he lifted her again and thrust into her. A small moan escaped her lips. He smiled, wanting more of it, wanting more of what must be done to make her surrender that sound.
Her hands rested on his shoulders. She pushed, yielded, took him again. She went about it slowly, rising, falling, her hips moving provocatively. Her gown rustled, the silk shivered. She rested once, or pretended to. It was all done as a tease, and she had not known until that moment she might be capable of teasing in such a manner. Her forehead came to rest against his. Her eyes closed. She felt his warm breath, felt the strain in every line of his body as he strove for control.
She leaned back enough to take in his face. He had not closed his eyes as she had, but had been watching her all the while. The intensity of his expression made her self-conscious, but when she started to glance away, he drew her back with a forefinger placed at one side of her chin.
“Do not make me forgo the pleasure I find in looking at you,” he said. “What? Do you think I am flattering you? That you are surpassingly lovely has nothing at all to do with it. It is my selfish pleasure I’m speaking of, the pleasure of watching your eyes change color and knowing I had a small part in it. The flush that puts pink in your cheeks, whether in anger or passion, I know I provoked it in some measure. And when you see me, truly see me, it is as though you are able to look past what is flesh and blood and bone, and it seems your face reflects a certain affection for me. I would not have you deny me the pleasure of believing it might be so.”
“It is,” she whispered. “It is affection.” And though she might be damned for it, neither could she deny it.
Griffin inched them toward the edge of the cushion. “Hold tightly.” Almost before she knew what he was about he heaved them somewhat awkwardly out of the chair and carried her, still joined to him, to the bed. He took the brunt of the fall, turning at the last moment to back into the mattress before he collapsed and brought her down on top of him. Her gown floated around them and there was an infinitesimal beat in which her very breath was lost.
They stared at each other, startled by the force of their fall and the speed at which need and hunger reasserted themselves. The cadence of their laughter was both changed and charged by Olivia’s whimper and Griffin’s low growl. He eased her gown over her shoulders and loosened the ribbon that gathered the scooped neckline of her chemise. He cupped her breasts; his thumbs passed across the pebbled nipples. She leaned forward and he took one in his mouth, suckled her. Her honeyed walls contracted around him. His hips jerked. She stayed with him even then, no longer sensing his movement but anticipating it.
She felt his muscles tense, the skin tighten across his chest. The cord in his neck stood out as he strained
under her. He wanted her to come with him, urged her to do so, but she wasn’t ready, not quite, and she needed to see him lead the way.
He said her name, called it out, and then his body rippled under her as a wave of pleasure went through him. She kept moving, riding, and his hand stole beneath her gown and touched her in that place that was hot and hard and slippery with musk-scented dew. Her pleasure collided with his, and she shuddered with the strength of it just as he had.
Her hair fell forward as she bent her head and caught her breath. He pushed his hands into it at her nape and dragged her toward him. Her mouth settled over his and they shared a long, wet, leisurely kiss.
When they finally parted and Olivia eased away from him, Griffin did not respond quickly enough to keep her from leaving the bed.
“I need a moment for myself,” she said when he began to sit up. “I won’t be long.” She disappeared into his dressing room and closed the door behind her.
Good as her word, when she appeared minutes later, she was fresh faced and scrubbed pink. She also wore only her chemise. Griffin, for his part, had used the time to strip to his drawers and set a better fire in the hearth. He brushed off his hands and made certain she was all for their bed before he risked leaving her to attend to his own ablutions.
When he returned, Olivia threw back the covers just enough for him to slide into bed beside her. She was on her side facing him with one arm under her pillow to raise it at a comfortable angle. He blew out the candles on the nightstand before he settled in. She could just make out his profile and occasionally the gleam of his white teeth.
“Do you suppose my brother knew the rumor attached to you?” she asked.
“I tend to believe everyone does, so I am no judge. You didn’t. Why do you ask?”
“Because if he knew, that means he gave me over to someone who was thought to be capable of murdering his wife. That does not speak well of him, does it?”
“Pray, you do not mean I should answer that. There are already so many things he’s done that do not speak well of him.”
Olivia drew up her knees. The fabric of her chemise stretched tautly across them. She opened her mouth to speak, said nothing, and closed it again.
“What is it, Olivia?”
How had he known? “Nothing.”
He let the lie pass. She would tell him eventually; he believed that. Trust first, he thought. She could not give over herself without it, and in that way they were no different. “Go to sleep,” he said.
Olivia had not thought she was so tired, but she yawned abruptly and realized she was only trying to deny it. She was asleep before she set her thoughts in order, snugly fitted to Griffin’s body, extending to him all the confidence she could not during her waking hours.
The sweet lethargy in the aftermath of their lovemaking made Olivia’s violent attack all the more unexpected. Griffin woke struggling to draw a breath. One twisted corner of the sheet was pulled taut around his throat, and it was Olivia who gripped it with a strength that defied his first effort to loosen it. He managed to slip two fingers between the sheet and his neck and give himself enough leverage to fill his lungs and grind out her name.
He could not make out her features clearly but his earlier experience made it unnecessary. He knew she was sleeping, that her eyes would be vacant and unfocused, that her profound terror would be masked by the strain of her struggle. He said her name again, less urgently this time as he felt her begin to weaken. Circling one of her wrists tightly, he pressed the pulse point as hard as he could until her fingers spasmed, then opened. He tore the sheet out of her hand, unwound it, and sucked in a deep breath.
He was not prepared for her second attack any better than he had been prepared for the first. He raised his forearm too late to block both of her hands. She sunk the fingernails of one hand into his chest and would have drawn blood if he hadn’t slapped her away. As it was, he felt her nails scrape his skin sharply enough to raise welts. He used measured force to take her by the upper arms and push her onto her back.
She twisted, kicked, managed to make a few blows connect with his shin. She should have yelped in pain; instead, he was the one who grunted. He stayed her hammering toes by throwing one leg across hers, then pinned her arms down at the wrists. She fought on, but there were peaks and valleys in the struggle and each successive bout was weaker than the one before.
It was only when she finally lay still and her breathing quieted that Griffin determined he could safely release her. He touched her face, felt the heat in her cheeks and the beads of perspiration across her upper lip and brow. When he shifted his shoulder, firelight glanced across it and cast her features in a pale, golden glow. He saw her lick her lips.
Griffin rolled out of bed and padded to the dressing room where he poured a glass of water for her. He wet a flannel as well, wrung it out, and carried it and the water back to the bed. He debated the best approach, then decided to cool her flushed skin with the damp flannel first. She murmured something that might have been a protest as he gently wiped her brow, but she also turned her face to the cool relief he provided. He went on as he was, carefully placing it against her cheeks, her upper lip, and finally her throat.
When he was done, he slid one arm under her back and lifted her enough so she could take the water without choking. As soon as he pressed the rim of the glass to her lips she began to sip. It was when she stopped, coughed, and pushed his hand away that he knew she was awake at last.
“What are you doing?” she asked, suspiciously eyeing the glass in his hand. “Do you mean to drown me in my sleep?”
Griffin set the glass aside. “I think we can agree that tossing you in the Thames would be a more effective method.” He crawled over her, straightened the covers, and made himself comfortable on what he thought of now as his side of the bed. “You had a nightmare.”
“I did?”
“Mmm.” He punched his pillow, set it against the headboard, and leaned back. “You don’t remember?”
“I don’t dream,” she said. “I never do.”
“Not true. What you don’t seem to do is remember them.”
Olivia was cold. She didn’t know how Griffin could be sitting up in bed, his bare chest exposed above the turned-down blankets. She inched closer to the warmth that came from him and slipped her toes under his calf. He was in all ways better than a hot brick.
“Your feet are like icicles.” In spite of that, he didn’t try to escape them. He found her hands and gave them a quick rub. Her heartfelt sigh made him smile. “Do you recall even a little bit?”
Because she didn’t, she closed her eyes to see if that would help bring the thing to mind. “No,” she said, tilting her head up at him. “Not a thing. Did I speak, ask for water?”
“No. You were feverish, or at least it seemed so.”
She placed the back of her hand against her forehead. “It appears to have passed, but perhaps it’s why I am so chilled now.”
Griffin decided to act as if she’d issued an invitation. He slipped under the covers and drew her against him. Her arm slid across his chest as her head fit neatly in the curve of his shoulder. Her knee rested on top of his thigh. “Better?” he asked. He smiled, satisfied, when she hummed her agreement. “Will you be able to sleep now?”
“I thought I was sleeping before.”
“After a fashion, I suppose you were.”
“I disturbed you. I’m sorry.”
Seemingly of its own volition, Griffin’s hand went to his throat. “Not so much,” he said. “We’ll talk in the morning.” The thought that she might not let him live so long was more amusing than the opposite, though why that should be escaped him. He let his hand fall from his throat to her hair. He sifted through curling strands with his fingertips. “It must be the fire in your hair.”
Olivia nodded sleepily, though she had no idea what he was talking about. Her head was muzzy, and it occurred to her that she might be dreaming now. She hoped she would recall it later,
for the whole of it was very pleasant indeed.
She had planned to rise before him, but when she opened one heavily lidded eye, she saw Griffin was already sitting at the table enjoying his coffee and reading the paper. She’d slept through the children calling to him from the street and the thump of the paper against the window. Perhaps the morning ritual had been managed in silence, the urchins’ aim truer than it usually was, but she doubted it. She’d slept as if drugged.
“Will you join me?” he asked, putting down the paper. “Or shall you take your breakfast in bed? There is a tray here for just that purpose.”
Olivia thought she spied a certain gleam in Griffin’s eye. She suspected he was confusing serving her in bed with servicing her in the same. More alert of a sudden, she pushed herself upright. “I’ll join you.” When a sly grin lifted one corner of his mouth and he chuckled, she knew she’d been right to assign him less than honorable motives. Still, she deliberately passed directly behind him on her way to the dressing room, then surprised him by sliding her arms around his neck and bussing him on the cheek. She was already dancing out of his reach by the time he recovered.
She joined him a few short minutes later wearing one of his warmer, brushed velvet robes. She’d rolled up the sleeves and wrapped it tightly with a belt, but the hem swept the floor with her every step.
“I must say, you improve the look of the thing.” Griffin handed her the platter of eggs.
“Thank you, though I like it on you well enough.” Taking the dish, she spooned herself a generous serving, added two sausage links, three fingers of toast, a small bowl of porridge, and a cup of tea with cream and sugar. She looked up just as she was prepared to tuck into her eggs and saw Griffin was regarding her with equal measures of amusement and disbelief. In defiance of his expression, she speared eggs and half a link of sausage with her fork and managed to put the whole of it in her mouth, then proceeded to talk around it. “I hope you do not mean to stare.” She waggled her fork at his paper. “By all means, return to your reading.”