Price of Desire

by Goodman, Jo

  “Are you so certain he is not yours?”

  It was the directness of the question, the lack of surprise in her eyes, that let Griffin know Olivia had had some hint of what he’d found so difficult to say. “Someone told you.”

  “I’ve been here since the day you buried your wife, Griffin. It would have been impossible for me not to learn of it in all that time. Still, it was not revealed in a deliberate fashion. It was not even the thrust of the conversation, merely an aside. Impulsive, really.”

  “Beetle,” said Griffin. “Or Wick. But I am wagering on Beetle.”

  “You’ll get no name from me. Except for that once, no one talks about it in front of me, and I have not asked. It was your place to tell me, and so you have. Now, I want to know if you are certain he is not yours.”

  Griffin was a long time in answering. “No. No, I’m not.”

  And because she understood that had been the very hardest thing to say, Olivia cupped his face with her free hand and brought his dark, troubled eyes back to hers. “You do not like to recall that you were intimate with her after you had full knowledge of her adultery.”

  “Once,” he said. “Only once.” To his own ears he sounded like the veriest schoolboy offering that most ridiculous of defenses to the headmaster. He’d done better when he had been a schoolboy. “Bloody, bloody hell.”

  “He must be six or there about.”

  “Six in three months. June. The timing…Hell, it is not merely timing, but a precise calculation. I would not expect less from her. Whether it is his true birth date, I doubt if I will ever know. He says it is, but what else would she have taught him to say? There were documents, though. A record of his birth. It does not mean a great deal to me. According to Elaine, the physician attending her at the birth wrote it out. Perhaps it is a common practice in Italy. I don’t know. Perhaps it is merely an invention, something done because she was always capable of taking the long view and thought there might be need for it some day.”

  “Does he look like you?”

  “He looks like her.”

  “How is he called?”

  “Nathaniel. He is Nathaniel Christopher Wright-Jones.”

  “I see.” One corner of her mouth edged up in a sad parody of a smile. “Of course he would have your surname. Does it trouble you?”

  “Trouble me? That is making much too little of what it does to me. If I denounce his mother, I shame the boy. If I accept him as my son, I have a bastard for my heir. If that is not being placed squarely between Scylla and Charybdis, then I cannot comprehend what is.”

  Olivia swept back a lock of hair that had fallen over his brow. “Homer again,” she said, her smile tender. “But you have it exactly right.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Olivia could not recall that Griffin had ever slept before she did. The novelty of being awake after he’d found sleep gave rise to curiosity. Indulging herself, she raised her head on her elbow and studied his face. In the dim candlelight, the shadows beneath his eyes disappeared. Lines of fatigue lost their definition. He looked infinitely less weary than he had standing before her so short a time ago. The scar that bisected his cheek had the effect of raising one corner of his mouth, his beautiful mouth, just enough to lend the impression of a wry, yet somehow contented smile.

  She wondered at his dreams, if he had any. He looked as if he embraced one now, something pleasant and darkly humorous. The thought of it raised her own smile, and she touched his cheek with the back of her knuckles and drew them down ever so lightly toward his jaw. He murmured something unintelligible; it was enough to make her withdraw her hand.

  Carefully, she lifted the covers and slipped out of bed, glancing over her shoulder most of the time to see that he was not wakened. She drew on her robe and slippers, took the stub of the candle from the nightstand, and quietly exited.

  Her curiosity extended well beyond Griffin’s sleeping countenance. She turned in the direction of her former room, stood outside the door for several long minutes simply listening, then let herself in.

  The child lay in the very center of the bed. He slept on his side, one thin arm lying outside the blankets, the other thrust under his pillow so his head was raised at an angle.

  Olivia drew closer, raised the candle so its light fell over the dark, tousled hair and narrow face. She had questioned Griffin’s decision to bring the boy to the hell; now she understood it. Features that were so careworn, so drawn even in sleep, had no place on the face of a child, and the child had no place anywhere but with the man who would be his father.

  Did he look like his mother? Olivia wondered. Or could Griffin only see those features that set the child apart from the man?

  Nathaniel Christopher Wright-Jones. The name was bigger than he was. He was slight of build, with bony joints, sharp cheekbones, and a small, pointed chin. In contrast, the hand she could see seemed too large an appendage for the frail delicacy of his wrist and arm. She imagined him moving about with the charming awkwardness of a pup, trying to negotiate walking and running with hands and feet that he hadn’t grown into.

  His lashes were long and dark, but just beneath them Olivia saw the same violet shadows that she’d seen beneath Griffin’s. She lowered the candle, but these shadows were too deep and remained like bruises on his pale skin.

  Motherless boy.

  Olivia did not assume that what she saw on the child’s face was evidence that he grieved. It was as likely evidence that he’d borne a weight much too heavy for his thin shoulders and for far too long. Perhaps it was evidence of both.

  His legs twitched beneath the blankets, and he flopped abruptly onto his back. Olivia sucked in a breath as the left side of his face was made visible to her. The thin white scar bisecting his cheek was the twin to Griffin’s own and no accident or coincidence could account for it. Olivia did not attempt to restrain herself. She leaned over the bed and extended her hand, traced the scar with the very tip of her finger, a touch so light that not even the baby-fine hairs on his face were disturbed.

  She let herself out of the room as quietly as she’d entered. This time when she paused on the other side of the door it was to press the sleeve of her nightgown against her eyes and wait for the hot, salty tears to subside.

  Olivia pushed herself upright in bed when the Gazette thumped against the window for the second time. Griffin continued to sleep like the dead beside her. Sighing, she rose, found a few coins at the bottom of her reticule, and jingled them in her palm as she went to the window. She unhooked the latch and pushed the window open, then leaned out and waved to the tribe of young ruffians below.

  It took three tries, but the smallest among them gave her the pitch that she was finally able to catch. She slipped the paper under her arm, tossed the coins, and waited long enough to make certain the little fellow snagged something for his effort.

  “Impressive.”

  Olivia pulled the window closed and turned. Griffin was sitting up, leaning against the headboard, and rubbing his bristled jawline with his knuckles. He cocked an eyebrow at her and offered her a sleepy half smile that made her heart trip over itself. She threw the newspaper hard at his head.

  Griffin ducked, but late, so the corner caught him on the shoulder. “Bloody hell, Olivia.” He unfolded the paper over the nightstand so that the pebbles the boys sometimes put in the creases to give it a bit of weight didn’t drop, roll, and scatter to the floor. “What was that in aid of?”

  “How did you come by your scar?”

  He blinked, frowning. It was dawning comprehension that flattened out his mouth and narrowed his eyes. He stopped knuckling his jaw. “Elaine laid open my cheek with her riding crop. We had been married three months, no more, and I’d just confronted her with my suspicion that she’d taken one of the footmen to our bed.” He fingered the scar. “This was her response.” His hand fell away and curled into a light fist at his side. “You’ve seen him, I take it.”

  Nodding, her complexion going a little pale a
t what he’d described, Olivia dropped to the window bench and clutched the edge of it on either side of her. “Last night. After you’d fallen asleep. I went to his room because I was curious. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I wanted benefit of your fresh opinion on it, uninfluenced by my own.”

  “How does he explain the scar?”

  “He doesn’t. He says very little. Gardner told me he spoke to no one save his mother on the journey from Bath and every inquiry was to her welfare and comfort. While she was being cared for here, in the same room he now occupies, I might add, he rarely left her side. A room was prepared for him above, but he would have none of it. He went there obediently when I insisted, but by morning he’d found his way back to her bed.”

  “She died here?”

  “No. She wanted to return to Wright Hall, and as she and I both knew her stay there would be brief, I allowed it. There can be no doubt the last journey hastened her passing. I believe she was depending upon it. I cannot say whether the child blames me for allowing her to have her way. Sometimes I imagine it is accusation that I see in his eyes; sometimes what I see is nothing at all. The latter is far more concerning.”

  Olivia became aware of how tightly she was holding on to the bench. She eased open her fingers and let the blood flow again. “How did Lady Breckenridge explain the scar?”

  “As the child’s failure to defend himself properly during a fencing lesson.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “Precisely.”

  Olivia shook her head, pinched the bridge of her nose as she thought. “He could not lift a sword, let alone wield it.”

  “That was my thought also.”

  Her hand dropped to her lap. “She did it to him, Griffin. Deliberately. She scarred her son. It was what I thought when I saw it, and nothing you’ve told me alters that opinion. I doubt there is anything that can be said that will cause me to believe otherwise.”

  “It is the same for me.” He pushed a pillow behind his back. “After the services for Elaine, there were matters requiring my attention that of necessity meant I had to leave Wright Hall. I placed the boy in my sister Juliet’s care as her son is of an age with him, and she had a nanny and tutor already in her household. When I returned for him she reported that he was obedient and mannerly to a fault, and largely silent. Thomas, Juliet’s son, had no success in drawing him out, and my nephew is credited to be up to every trick.”

  “So you brought him here,” she said. “I should not have questioned your judgment.”

  “Of course you should. His presence here cannot help but affect you.”

  “Except for my own experience with childhood, I know nothing about children.”

  “You know almost nothing about being a child,” he said quietly. “And neither, I think, does he.”

  Olivia felt a sudden ache behind her eyes. She looked down quickly, blinking. The tears she held at bay settled in her throat. Swallowing hard, she took a steadying breath and waited for the pressure in her chest to ease.

  “Olivia? Are you well?”

  She glanced up, smiled ever so slightly. “It is only that your comprehension touches me. For myself, but for Nathaniel as well. You will call him that, won’t you? Nathaniel. Not the child. The boy. Her son. It will be better, I think. For him, certainly, but for you also.”

  “Nat,” he said. “I shall call him Nat, I expect. Nathaniel is too big for him.”

  Her smile deepened marginally. “It is, isn’t it?” Another thought occurred to her that she knew she needed to give voice to. “He’s not ill, is he? He’s so slight. I wondered…”

  “Dr. Pettibone’s examined him. There appears to be no lung ailment. Elaine was slightly built, so perhaps that accounts for it. He does not eat a great deal, but I anticipate that will change in time.” He raised his hand toward Olivia, beckoned her to come to him. “Have you rung for breakfast?”

  Crossing the room, she shook her head. “I only just awakened myself. Shall I ring now?” She paused a step outside of his reach when she read the intent in his eyes. His appetite was for something other than the usual breakfast fare. Her eyebrow kicked up. “You cannot mean to ravish me again.”

  “Actually, I do.”

  Olivia’s eyes followed his down to the faint rise in the blankets lying across his lap. She sighed. “That was awake before you were, if you must know.”

  He chuckled. “That is often the way of it.”

  Nothing was served, least of all her own appetites, by keeping him at arm’s length. Olivia launched herself onto the bed, catching him unaware so that he was tipped sideways and she had the immediate upper hand. She pinned his wrists and shimmied under the blankets, a little breathless by the time she had him restrained to her satisfaction.

  Griffin grinned up at her. The curling ends of Olivia’s hair tickled his shoulder until she threw her head back and tossed it behind her. “You cannot mean to ravish me again.”

  “I do,” she whispered, her eyes darkening. “I certainly do.” She bent her head and brushed her lips against his. She nudged them open, tasted his upper lip with the tip of her tongue, then the lower one. She kissed the corner of his mouth, his jaw, then used her teeth to worry his earlobe.

  Her breath was warm, humid, and Griffin felt his pulse quicken as she teased him with her lips, teeth, and tongue. She whispered something he could not quite make out, but what she said was infinitely less important just now than how she said it. How she said it raised ribbons of heat that twisted and curled under his skin.

  He tried to catch her mouth when she lowered it a second time, but she darted away at the last moment and turned her attention to the cord in his neck and the underside of his jaw. Her breasts rubbed against his chest, pleasing her, but pleasing him more. She squirmed a bit, balancing the need to find a fit for herself against his frame with delicious discomfort each time she failed.

  He snagged a breath, held it, as she traced the line of his collarbone with the damp edge of her tongue. She sipped his skin at the curve of his neck and shoulder just as he had done to her last evening, leaving her mark on him, taking possession.

  He tentatively attempted to lift one of his hands, but she was having none of it and pressed his wrist back. He thought he let her, but he wasn’t entirely certain that in an earnest battle that she might not emerge the victor. Certainly he’d have bruises for it, much less enjoyable in the making than the one she was giving him now.

  “Do I amuse you?” she asked darkly, lifting her head so her mouth hovered a fraction above his. “You chuckled.”

  “Chuckled? You are mistaken. I would not.” He cleared his throat, pushed back the laughter that threatened to reveal his lie, and suffered the thorough study she made of him. “A guilty man would confess, you know,” he told her. “You are uncannily persuasive.”

  “I am merely looking at you.”

  “My point precisely.”

  She put her mouth to his, kissed him warmly. “You are kind to flatter me.” She smiled, feeling the rumble of laughter in his chest tickle every one of her nerve endings. Rather than take him to task for it, she deepened the kiss.

  Olivia made free with his body. She let his wrists go because holding them only hampered her search and discovery. She welcomed the contrasts between them, the broad plane of his hard chest to the more yielding softness of her own, the spread of his hand against her smaller one, the narrow line of his hip still capable of cradling her curves.

  She indulged herself in the taste of him, the scent of him, and finally, the sound of him as he whispered her name in a way that spoke to his pleasure…and later, to hers.

  The heat that came upon them made their clothing an irritant. They grappled with her belted robe and his drawers. He bunched yards of her nightgown in his fists as she reared up and released it again when she straddled him. He helped her take him into her, shifted his gaze from the point of their joining to her eyes, watched her and saw his own need and satisfaction reflected the
re.

  She moved slowly at first, arching over him like a water nymph rising from the sea. He held her hips, pressed his fingers against her bottom, but let the rhythm, the pace, be what she wanted. She worked him slowly, but not for long. Frustration overtook her, need overcame her, and she surrendered all of herself to a tidal wave of selfish, primal pleasure.

  And took him in her wake.

  Neither of them spoke in the immediate aftermath. The tremors were too sweet to interrupt. They lay unmoving, waiting for their hearts to cease hammering. Griffin had one arm flung across his eyes, the other across Olivia’s back. Her face was turned toward his neck, the rest of her lay flush against him. She could not find the wherewithal to push herself away and the arm lying heavily on her back like a paperweight made certain she stayed precisely as she was.

  “God.” Griffin made the low, guttural response with feeling.

  “Mmm.”

  “I am undone.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Did you crawl inside me?” he asked. “It seemed as if you did.”

  Olivia bit the side of his neck gently.

  Griffin accepted her chastisement, stopped talking, and in moments was sleeping soundly.

  Nat knew nothing about card games. He offered this information in the hope that it would persuade Miss Cole to seek other entertainments. She was not in the least put off by his ignorance, a turn of events that he found altogether disappointing. He was of a mind to remain in his room and play with his soldiers. He had enough for two armies now and intended to re-create the pivotal battle where Alexander met and defeated Darius, the great king of all Persia. He did not explain this to Miss Cole because it was his experience that women found such stories tedious. Battles and bloodshed did not appear to interest them.