by Goodman, Jo
Olivia knew it was foolish to think they could not speak of his wife, but she was in a foolish frame of mind and wanted to enjoy it awhile longer, damn the consequences of dreaming while she walked, and please herself by stealing glances at the man who’d been her fierce and tender lover this night past.
She did not fail to notice that he had fallen silent also, and the cast of it was darker than her own. She let him have at the problem that set his mind to brooding so that she might indulge in her selfish, simple thoughts a few moments longer.
“I instructed Gardner to escort Elaine directly from Bath, where she has been residing, to the hell,” Griffin said as they began their second circuit of the park. Like an army of foot soldiers waiting for inspection, the tall oaks stood at attention on either side of the promenade path. He gave them no heed, turning to gauge Olivia’s reaction instead.
“Is that wise?” Aware of his regard, Olivia schooled her features and strove for a tone that was more neutral than indifferent. “She will not thank you for it.”
“There is no arrangement I can make that will garner her approval. I am under no illusions that she will return willingly. I have prepared Gardner to anticipate the very worst sort of behavior from her.”
Olivia could only imagine how lowering that must have been for him. She nodded jerkily, understanding. “Perhaps Mr. Gardner will not be tempted.”
“Oh, I am quite certain he will be tempted, but more in the way of wanting to stuff her in a trunk and shove it from a bridge. Gardner has the good fortune to be firmly set in his marriage and deeply in love with his wife.” He paused, frowning as an unpleasant thought occurred to him. “But then Ulysses had Penelope waiting for him when he succumbed to the call of the sirens.”
Olivia laid her hand gently on his forearm. The restraint was not to stay his steps, but to stay his thoughts. “He will not return to Bath alone, will he?”
“No. I have some concerns for the men who accompany him, but he assures me none of them will be alone with her.” He looked down at her gloved hand, then at her. “You think I am making too much of it.”
Her faint smile was gently chiding. “You alluded to Homer.”
“I did, didn’t I?” He sighed. “It was kind of you not to pick up a stick and beat me with it.”
She let her hand fall away. “I was confident of your good sense returning.” She rubbed the underside of her chin. The soft kid leather of her glove was like the caress of his fingers against her skin. “Lady Breckenridge’s arrival presents me with the opportunity to take my leave. We should discuss that. I am not certain when—”
“Take your leave?” That brought him up short. He watched her walk on, then closed the distance quickly with a few long-legged strides. “What do you mean?”
“Are we discussing it?” asked Olivia. “I have the distinct impression you mean for us to have a row.”
That observation had the effect of cooling Griffin’s heels. “Do you imagine I want you leave?”
“No. The opposite, in fact, but I am hoping you will agree that this is not one of those times when you should have your way. I will be a distraction at best; at worst, a target for Lady Breckenridge and a shield for you. You can comprehend, I hope, that I have no wish to be any of those.”
“Do you believe I hold you or myself in so little regard that I would use you as a shield?”
“Of course not. It is the sort of thing that happens in spite of one’s intentions that it should be otherwise. I believe you will deal more fairly with your wife—and she with you—if I absent myself.”
It was the reasonableness of her argument that undid him. It didn’t matter that he had no liking for what she was proposing; he knew she was right. “I can set you up in a house,” he said finally. “I should have made the offer earlier.”
“It’s all right. I wouldn’t have accepted. In fact, I won’t now.”
“You mean to be difficult.”
“I hadn’t thought so, no. I was hoping we might reach a compromise.”
Griffin had the sense that what she was calling a compromise was merely getting what she wanted all along. He was set on telling her so, but heard himself asking to hear it instead.
“I thought I would return to Jericho Mews.”
“With your brother?”
“I doubt he is spending any more time there than he ever did. That is why it suits. Do you think he will not allow me to stay?”
“Temporarily? He will be pleased to have you. You will relieve him of all the responsibilities that have plagued him these last weeks: the staff quarrels, the budget, the creditors, the rent. Yes, he will most certainly welcome you.”
“I intend to be his guest, not his mother.”
Griffin shrugged. “I am not sure that matters. It is the sort of thing that happens in spite of one’s intentions that it should be otherwise.”
She recognized her own words being turned on her. “It seemed more pertinent when I was talking about you.”
“It frequently does.” His glance was wry. “This is what you want, Olivia? Jericho Mews?”
She caught the sleeve of his greatcoat and held on, raising her face to his when he felt the tug and turned. “No, it’s not what I want, but it is right for now.”
“Tell me what you want. Give me that at least.”
Her hand slid upward from his sleeve and ruffled the capes on its climb to his shoulder. It did not linger there long, but came to rest at the left side of his face. Her thumb made a light tracing along the path of his scar and stopped at the corner of his mouth.
“I want to be with you,” she said. “With you, not apart from you. I don’t want a residence that is purchased for my shelter and your convenience. I don’t want to wait upon you or your visits. Neither do I wish to serve at the whim of my brother, nor to be dependent upon him for my keep. You will have to think carefully about that before you invite me back to the hell. You will have to be certain that there is a place for me in your life.” She stood on tiptoe and pressed her lips hard to his just once before she settled back on her heels. Her hand fell to her side, and she was gratified to see that she had surprised and alarmed him. “Don’t mistake that I mean you must have me for your wife or not at all. That is not an arrangement that could possibly suit either one of us. I will accept a place in your life without marriage; in fact, I am certain I prefer it.”
It was rather a lot to take in, especially when she’d muddled the thing by kissing him as if she’d been compelled to do so. The impression of her mouth on his remained even as she began walking away. Griffin glanced around, saw that while they were not alone in the park, no one else was giving them notice, and lunged forward to catch Olivia by the elbow. Her feet did not quite touch the ground as he half-carried, half-dragged her to the sheltered side of an enormous chestnut. He shackled her wrists in his hands and drew them as high as her shoulders, then urged her back against the trunk and followed with the press of his hard frame. There was time enough for her lips to part, but no time to draw a full breath.
His capture was complete when his mouth slanted across hers. Hungry as he was for the taste of her, he gave no quarter. His lips worked over hers, his tongue speared her mouth, followed the ridge of her teeth and the sensitive underside of her lip. He stole a soft moan from the back of her throat and savored it as another man might savor smuggled brandy. The fact that there were risks in the pursuit and possession made it all the more dear.
He drew back just enough to reposition his mouth. He nudged her lips at an angle, worried the bottom one between his teeth as she so often did, then ran the edge of his tongue across the tiny indentations he’d made.
Olivia was boneless, held up by his hands on her wrists, the trunk at her back, and the knee he thrust between her skirts. She might very well faint if he let her go; she might very well faint if he didn’t.
His will was not a simple thing to ignore. It was like his kiss—coaxing, teasing, gentle and fierce by turns, insistent. He did
not always get his way, but he knew what he wanted. Just now he wanted her.
He made her want him in return.
Even as Olivia thought it, she knew it wasn’t quite right. He had not made her want him, he’d simply laid bare her need. She wanted him of her own volition, and her will was every bit as firm and fast as his own. It was equally difficult to ignore.
She wrestled free of his hands and threw her arms around his neck. Her hood fell back, exposing her hair first to the wind that came in small bursts around the tree trunk, then to his fingers. She lifted herself against him and wished that he could take her inside his coat, inside his skin if such a thing was possible.
His kiss was as rough as the bark at her back, but she returned it measure for measure, wanting him now in no other fashion than this. Her grip around his neck and back tightened.
Her eyes flew open when she felt the vibration of his groan against her mouth. She drew back so quickly that her head bumped the trunk. Careless of the thump to her own head, her eyes focused on his face first, then on the hold she had on him. “Did I hurt you?”
Griffin bent and touched his forehead to hers. “Not until this moment, and it’s not because you have a lock on my neck.” He eased her hands down. “Come. We can’t remain here. Someone will see us. We should—”
He stopped because Olivia had shifted her head and was no longer gazing into his eyes. The point of her attention was somewhere past his right shoulder. Apparently they had already drawn attention. He straightened, turned to seek out the same view she had, and caught the young gentleman in the act of replacing his hat. His posture suggested he had recently doffed it, and the smirk on his lips suggested it had been done with a certain insolence. Griffin’s eyes were drawn to the shock of fair hair cropped and curled close to his head.
He turned his head sharply toward Olivia. She was pale as salt. No other confirmation was required. Griffin took off at a run.
Chapter Twelve
Olivia wished she had never seen her attacker in the park. Had Griffin been able to run him to ground, there might have been some good come of the encounter. Griffin had not, however, and it changed the routine of everyone in the hell as a consequence. No one save her made noises about the inconvenience, and because no one paid her the least attention when she did, she learned how to set her jaw so that a muscle twitched in her cheek. It was a source of amusement to Griffin as he considered that her imitation of him not only hit the mark but was flattering besides.
Olivia was required to have two escorts when she left the hell and a pair of footmen standing post when she dealt faro. The gentleman villain—as Wick insisted upon calling him—was considered to be a reckless and dangerous rogue, one who might very well have already returned to the hell unnoticed. Griffin was convinced that it was not happenstance that put him in the park, but that he had been observing her for some time. Even if it wasn’t true, everyone around Olivia agreed it was the safer course to act as if it was.
Olivia twirled a quill pen between her fingertips as she made mental calculations over an open ledger. She sat with her feet curled to one side, her kid slippers lying under the chair. She had yet to change into her nightclothes. Her only concession to the lateness of the hour and the completion of her duties in the gaming room was to remove her wig and paint before she sat down with the book of accounts.
Griffin reclined on the chaise in his study and watched her. It was a pleasure, really. She was capable of such fierce concentration that it changed the shape of her face. The space between her eyebrows puckered; the line of her mouth all but disappeared as she pressed her lips together. She used the feathered end of the quill to occasionally push back a fallen lock of hair or absently make a pass across her temple.
The skirt of her ice-blue gown spread over the chair like frosting. She wore a loosely knotted silk shawl about her shoulders. Her throat was bare, a condition he could not rectify because she would not accept jewelry from him and preferred not to wear those few pieces his wife left behind except when she was turning cards. An emerald, he thought, would be the obvious complement to her eyes and coloring, but something sapphire would work as well—something so deeply indigo that it would hint at violet in certain light. He watched her touch the quill to her throat, lightly tickle the hollow. That raised his smile. He had reason to know she was sensitive there. He’d made it a point to sip from that particular spot whenever he could, and she surrendered the tiniest of whimpers each time he did.
Griffin loosened his stock and unbuttoned his frock coat. He plowed four fingers through his hair. The heat that was in him now could not be explained by the roaring fire. He knew the source of it well enough: she was currently occupying his chair and amusing herself with a feather.
“I could make better use of that quill,” he said.
Olivia looked up, blinked owlishly. “Oh, you’re still here. I thought you’d gone.”
She was so entirely guileless at times that he could not take offense. He pushed ravishment to the back of his mind and sat up. He removed his stock, folded it around his hand. “Are you almost finished?”
“Almost. One more column. Do you wish to see?”
“Perhaps when you’re done. I trust you.”
“I know you do, and it remains a puzzler. I can make a mistake the same as anyone.”
“I don’t doubt it, but you won’t cheat me.”
No, she wouldn’t do that. She smiled at him, warmed by his confidence, and set herself once again to the task at hand. Still, she could not resist adding, “I’m much more likely to throttle you.”
Griffin was glad he was only reaching for his whiskey, not drinking it. Surely he would have choked. As it was, a bit of the liquid sloshed over the edge of the crystal tumbler. “I cannot know whether to be alarmed that you mention it or relieved that you can find some humor in it.”
“As it’s been more than a fortnight since I attacked you, relief strikes me as a better response.” She quickly added the numbers in the last column, checked to see that all was balanced, and pushed the book away. She returned the quill to its stand and stoppered the inkwell, then sat comfortably back in the leather chair. “Have you slept with one eye open?”
“No.” Griffin sipped his whiskey. “I have not so much as peeked.” He often fell to sleep after she did, but that was simply his way, not a precaution. She’d shared his bed the evening after he had given chase to the gentleman villain and slept as deeply and trustingly as an infant. He could not help but be encouraged by that. Nothing seemed as likely to push her toward a nightmare as sighting her attacker in the park.
He’d finally come to know the whole of how she’d defended herself against the villain. It had required some prodding on his part, a bit of insistence, but Olivia gave him all of it in the end, filling in those details that she’d left out on the first telling. Griffin had had to wrestle with his own rage, most of it rooted in what he remembered as his own helplessness. He hadn’t been able to put her out of harm’s way, and when it found her, he was the one who couldn’t reach her. Nothing about that set well, but he’d held it in check because his anger served neither of them. He’d applied himself instead to appreciating her courage and cleverness and waited until he was alone to give in to the other.
He’d even snapped a few damp towels, finding them as viciously effective as she described.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” he asked. “Sherry?”
Olivia shook her head. “You expected Mr. Gardner would arrive today, didn’t you?”
He had, but he hadn’t realized she’d known. “Prickly, was I?”
Prickly was inadequate to describe the flashes of impatience she saw in him earlier. Never one to suffer fools for long, this evening they were not even given an audience. He did not move among his guests so much as prowl, and she saw him seek the view from the window in the card room on several occasions. “Yes,” she said, tempering her smile. “Prickly.”
He blew out a short breath, set h
is tumbler aside, and idly unwound the length of linen stock from his hand. “I calculated that enough time had passed for Gardner to make the journey to Bath and back again, though to be strictly honest, it’s not the impending arrival of my wife that concerns me overmuch, but your departure.” He regarded her carefully set expression. “I suspect you knew that, didn’t you?”
Realizing that her effort to conceal it from him had been for naught, Olivia sighed. “It occurred, yes. You will not insist that I remain, will you?”
“Would you listen?” Tossing the stock to the foot of the chaise, he held up one hand, palm out. “Don’t tell me. It is better if I can permit myself to believe that you would. In exchange for that kindness, I will not ask it of you.”
Olivia gathered her hair at her nape and drew it forward over her shoulder. She combed it with her fingers. “The villain will not find me at Jericho Mews. He knows less than nothing about me.”
Griffin was not convinced of that, but he did not share his doubts with her. It seemed to him that by trailing after her when she left the hell, the gentleman villain must have learned something. “You will not be gone long. Elaine cannot remain here underfoot, nor do I believe she will want to. It is necessary only that she understand my intentions.”
“Do those include parading her in front of the ton?”
“Parade? I will escort her. Once will be sufficient to prove that she is still among the living. I have no wish to shame her.”
“Then be careful that you do not,” Olivia said quietly. “You mean to divorce her. There will be censure enough in that.”
“I assure you, the censure of the ton will not bruise her in the least.”
Olivia’s smile was gently chiding. “I was thinking of you.”
He arched an eyebrow and regarded her curiously. “Have I given you cause to think I care for the good opinion of the ton?”
“Many times, but the one that is most relevant to this discussion is the length and breadth of your search for Lady Breckenridge. It is more than a matter of pride, though that would be reason enough for what you’ve done. It is also about your good name. That you operate this establishment is something that can be, and is, tolerated in some fashion. Society accepts a rascal now and again and is the better for it. A murderer is not a rascal, and the suspicion that you murdered your wife will always attach itself to your name unless you prove differently.”