Price of Desire

by Goodman, Jo

  Olivia tugged on the tails of Griffin’s frock coat. “Can we go? I’d really like to go.”

  Griffin nodded. He stood, backed out, and closed the door. The wooden bar stood precisely where Crocker left it. Griffin hefted it in one hand and slid it into place just as Crocker threw his considerable weight and one formidable shoulder against it. It shuddered, but then so did Crocker. The sound of his retching was muffled but easily identifiable.

  Griffin felt his own stomach curdle. He took another step back and turned, giving Olivia a sideways grimace. “Clever and resourceful, indeed. A force of nature is more like it.”

  She managed a modest smile. “I supplied the force. Alastair supplied the nature, if you take my meaning.”

  Because the odor and contents of the slop bucket were still very much with them, Griffin had no difficulty comprehending. “I do.” The door shuddered again as Crocker threw himself against it a second time. Griffin ignored it, though he saw Olivia and Alastair look toward it with some trepidation. “Your father’s carriage is outside. You can take it back to Putnam Lane. We’re not far from there, but I don’t think walking is advisable for either of you.” This time when the door vibrated, Griffin casually knocked back at it with the butt of his pistol. “They can’t get out, any more than you could. Go on. I won’t be long. Can you find your way?”

  Olivia nodded. “Come, Alastair. Do you require my shoulder?”

  “Have the bottles for balance,” he said pleasantly. “Just the thing.”

  Rolling her eyes, Olivia turned to go. She’d taken only half a step forward before she felt herself being hauled back into Griffin’s arms. She was wrapped in a hard embrace that nearly squeezed the breath from her lungs. What remained, he stole with a quick, hard kiss. She still bore the stamp of it on her mouth when he set her from him.

  “Marry me, Olivia Cole.”

  She stared up at him, and because her balance was a bit off from the fierceness of that kiss and the perfect beauty of his smile, she said yes.

  He nodded once, satisfied. “Now go.”

  Olivia turned, took Alastair by the sleeve, and began to lead him down the hall.

  Griffin set his shoulder against the cellar door, rapped it twice with his pistol, and called for quiet. It took several moments, but it was achieved in the main. “Crocker!”

  “You have my attention, Breckenridge.”

  It was a more reasoned response than Griffin had dared hope for. “Tell me where I can find Neville Burton.”

  “Don’t know him.”

  “Not what I want to hear. Tell him, Mrs. Christie. Make him understand that it’s not what I want to hear.”

  Trembling in the aftermath of being so violently ill, Alys Christie weakly raised her head. She was on her knees, nearly surrounded by her own sickness and afraid to move in any direction. “He knows about Burton. He forced me to tell him.”

  “I don’t imagine there was much force involved,” Crocker said, disgusted. “You have no tolerance for pain, Alys, above a bit of slap and tickle. Always been a disappointment in that regard.” Crocker paid no heed to the sharp hiss of her breath and leaned against the door. “He’s around, Breckenridge. I can’t tell you more than that, and rest assured that I would, conditions here being what they are.”

  “Griffin?”

  Olivia’s soft interjection jerked Griffin away from the door. She was standing in front of him when she should have been gone. Alastair, too, was in the hall, listing slightly as he was no longer in possession of his wine bottles. Behind them was the young man instantly recognizable to Griffin as the gentleman villain.

  “Mr. Burton’s here,” Griffin announced to Crocker.

  “Is he? Not surprised. I don’t suppose he ever left after bringing Miss Cole around.” His deep rumbling laughter filtered through seams in the door. “Damned if he ain’t made himself a useful sort. Get me out of here, Burton.”

  Griffin saw the villain shrug almost sheepishly, but his arctic blue eyes held nothing that could be confused for remorse. “What do you want, Mr. Burton?”

  “Let us begin with your pistol on the floor.”

  Griffin hesitated. He saw Burton poke at Olivia with what he imagined was a pistol of his own. He put his weapon down slowly and raised his palms as he straightened. When Burton indicated he should slide it toward him, he did so with the toe of his boot.

  Burton pushed Olivia forward, then set Alastair on the same path. Griffin now stood as a clear target for his pistol. The gentleman villain merely smiled when Griffin set Olivia at his back. “I only have to get through you,” he said. “I’ll take my time with her once I clean her up.” He produced the cravat that he’d used to tie Olivia’s hands. “She had this tucked in her sleeve. I believe she thought she might have use for it. Around my neck, perhaps. I think it will look lovely around hers. Did you know that cutting off the airway heightens the moment of crisis? I shall enjoy watching her then.” He smiled at Griffin, then jerked his chin toward the door. “Open it.”

  Griffin lifted the bar carefully, aware of Burton’s steady aim and fierce concentration on his movements. The distraction he provided was deliberately slow and calculated toward a single purpose.

  He’d always admired the deftness of Olivia’s touch, and no more so than when she neatly reached under his frock coat and lifted the pistol he’d shoved between his trousers and the small of his back. He stepped clear of her as she raised her arm.

  Seeing the movement out of the corner of his eye, Burton twitched. It was enough for Griffin to seize the moment. He swung the wooden bar up hard, shattering Burton’s wrist and knocking the pistol out of his grip. “Alastair!” he shouted. “The door!”

  Alastair threw himself against it in time to catch the flat of Johnny Crocker’s hand. Crocker’s howl of pain was not loud enough to mask the sound of crunching bone. Mrs. Christie screamed. Sir Hadrien shouted something unintelligible. Alastair opened the door a fraction, shoved Crocker’s broken hand inside, and slammed it closed again. The cacophony continued, but the volume of it was lessened considerably.

  Griffin set the bar back in place, pried the pistol out of Olivia’s cold grip, and leveled it at Burton. The villain was curled on the floor, knees drawn up like an infant, cradling his injured wrist. His eyes were closed against the intense pain. Tears squeezed through his lashes. Unsympathetic, Griffin simply shook his head.

  Alastair made a dignified surge forward, picked up both of the fallen pistols, and with one in each hand, found his balance again.

  Olivia touched Griffin’s sleeve lightly, exerting just enough pressure to encourage him to lower his arm. “You don’t want to kill him.”

  “I do,” he said. “I really do.”

  “Then I don’t want you to.”

  Griffin weighed her wishes against his own, considered what it would cost them both to satisfy her honor and indulge his pride, and knew there was only one course of action. He lowered the pistol to his side, and with his free arm, started to draw Olivia close.

  Watching them, Alastair Cole was contentedly aware that matters of honor and pride had been left to him.

  He raised both pistols and fired.

  Chapter Seventeen

  June 1823

  Alastair Cole offered his arm to his sister. “It’s time,” he whispered, nudging her gently with his elbow. “I made a promise, and I intend to see it through.”

  Olivia took up his arm but held it as one desperate to be pulled from the drink, not into it. “There is something to be said for going back on one’s word. I don’t think I fully appreciated that until now.”

  He chuckled softly, adjusted her grip on his arm, and bent his head to her ear. “You are simply making noises, Livvy. Your argument has neither passion nor reason. Chin up. Eyes front. Smile. There you go. You look lovely.” He kissed her cheek. “He’s waiting for you.”

  Olivia nodded, swallowed, and made to fall in step beside her brother. There was a moment’s hesitation just as they woul
d have started out. Faltering slightly, she disobeyed Alastair’s eyes-front order and gave him her full attention. “I’m glad you proved to be such a poor shot. Twice.”

  He pretended to take umbrage. “I was drunk, remember.” He patted her hand. “But I am glad of it, too. Now, shall we?”

  Olivia squeezed his arm slightly, her grasp no longer as fierce as it had been. “Very well.” She took a calming breath, then set her eyes in the direction she meant to go. “This is not so different from the first time.”

  Beside her, she sensed Alastair’s confusion, but also his relief that she intended to go forward. She did not try to explain herself. The memory that came to her was one that she embraced alone, and it remained more dear because of it. The same emotions surfaced: uncertainty, excitement, wariness. She’d stood in the entrance hall of Breckenridge’s hell and accepted his challenge, in spite of everything she felt in that moment, to come to him.

  No, it was not so very different now.

  He was there once again, waiting for her, perhaps only marginally more confident that she would arrive to take her place beside him. Olivia suspected she was the only one who glimpsed relief in his eyes when she appeared framed in the alcove. She knew he didn’t doubt she loved him, only that she loved him enough to run the gauntlet that was the center aisle of St. Michael’s church.

  It was not the march to the altar that was intimidating. It was the sea of faces on either side of it that gave her pause, and in this regard her imagination hardly stood up to the reality of the thing. She was aware of the gazes turned in her direction, of the assessments they made, of the encouragement that so many pairs of eyes offered.

  His sisters were there, all three, husbands and children flanking them. Dr. Pettibone had a seat on the aisle. Lady Rivendale was among the attendees, and she looked on approvingly, supporting the rumor by her condescension that she’d been instrumental in bringing them all to this very place. Mr. Restell Gardner and his wife had come as well. They shared their pew with four gentlemen—four strangers who had once come forward to protect her. Guardian angels, really, whom Olivia would always think of as whiskey, gin, and two pints of ale. Mr. Gardner had brought them forward, had the story from them, and like everyone else, they were here now to wish her happy.

  The faces gradually faded into Olivia’s peripheral vision as Griffin filled the whole of it. He stood just to the right of the minister, strikingly handsome in his double-breasted black frock coat with the claw-hammer tails. Mr. Mason had done right by him, turning him out with nary a wrinkle in his trousers and waistcoat and having the good sense to insist on a pristine white neckcloth tied in the intricate Oriental.

  His eyes were all for her, and she did not shy away from his glance. Mrs. McCutcheon and her entourage of seamstresses and dressers had done right by her as well. Olivia imagined they would be moved to more teary emotion if they were witness to Griffin’s appreciation of their handiwork. That had been their response when they’d first stepped back to gauge the success of their efforts, and Griffin’s approbation could not help but bring about a similar response.

  The gentle, draping folds of her white satin gown brushed together as she walked, then rustled like whispers all around her. A band of pale pink silk edged the bodice, and wide ribbon bands encrusted with seed pearls bordered the hem and cuffed the short sleeves. Her hair, her own hair, was arranged off her neck in a knot every bit as intricate as the Oriental with the added touches of seed pearls and delicate white rose buds.

  When she first saw her reflection in the cheval glass she’d wondered at the weeping response of Mrs. McCutcheon and her helpers, but now, seeing herself reflected in Griffin’s dark eyes, she knew an urge to indulge in some teary emotion herself.

  “Who gives this woman…”

  Olivia heard the words, understood their import, and knew a certain peace in her heart that it was Alastair who stood by her. The irony that he should be the one to give her over to Breckenridge’s care was not lost on any of them, but there was no desperation in the act this time, no avoiding responsibility to have it taken up by another. Alastair spoke his part with clear deliberation, honoring them all with his words.

  “I do.”

  Olivia’s hand was placed in the one that Griffin held out to her, and she knew the very rightness of it as Alastair backed away and she came to stand at Griffin’s side. This man, this man who would be her husband, held her hand and all of her heart.

  It was well past ten when they were finally alone. The guests, and almost all of them had accepted invitations to stay at Wright Hall for several days following the wedding, had retired to their respective rooms in the mostly renovated east wing. Griffin and Olivia had elected to stay in the part of the hall that was still largely a work in progress.

  It was no particular sacrifice to take the lesser accommodations. Drafts were of no account on a night neither of them meant to enjoy long out of bed.

  “That will be our supper,” Griffin said, responding to the knock at the door. He stepped back, eyebrow lifted when he saw Nat standing uneasily in the hallway. “Here’s a fellow I thought was all tucked in.” He opened the door wider, ushered Nat inside, and gave Olivia a quizzing glance over the child’s head.

  Olivia had turned away from the dressing table when Griffin announced their supper had come. She waved Nat to her side and was as puzzled as Griffin when he fairly dragged his feet in coming to her. Clearly he had not arrived at their room in search of another bedtime story, a tactic he used from time to time when he wanted reassurance he could not quite articulate.

  Olivia had undone her elaborately dressed hair and run her fingers through the waves. She pulled it to one side and began to plait it, aware that it was something Nat had observed her doing before and found fascinating. His eyes, though wide and fully alert, did not follow the deft movements of her fingers. “What is it, Nat? Has there been a dustup in the nursery?” She wondered at the wisdom of putting so many children in a suite, but Griffin’s sisters were certain the nannies were up to the task.

  “No, miss. Everyone’s sleeping. I slipped away.” He revealed this last with neither pride nor guilt. It was simply a statement of fact.

  “So you did. You have some reason for it, I collect.”

  He nodded, said nothing.

  Behind him, Griffin did not have to temper his smile while he spoke in grave and important accents. “I think her ladyship is wanting the favor of a reply.”

  Olivia noted that Nat gave a little start and his eyes widened a bit more. “He’s teasing us both,” she said. “Me more than you. He knows perfectly well that I am unused to the idea that I am suddenly become ‘her ladyship.’ Now, tell me. What is toward?”

  Nat blurted it out. “Thomas says that we’re married.”

  Olvia was so taken aback by this intelligence that for a moment she couldn’t think who Thomas was. Griffin had it immediately and told her.

  “Juliet’s son. My up-to-every-trick nephew.”

  “Oh.” She nodded. “Of course. The one with the cowlick.” She stopped plaiting her hair and took up one of Nat’s small hands. “It is never wise to place too much confidence in someone with a cowlick. Think of it, Nat—he cannot properly manage the particulars of his own hair.” Griffin snorted, but she ignored him in favor of studying Nat’s sober countenance. “We are not married, but I cannot tell whether it is a relief or of some concern to you.”

  He didn’t respond directly but looked at the ring on her hand, a square-cut emerald in a bed of twenty-one diamonds, the gold band retooled to fit her slender finger. “Thomas says that since I gave over the ring, it means we’re married.”

  Griffin approached and put his hand on Nat’s shoulder. “Clearly, Thomas will have to answer for himself, but the facts are these: you held the ring for me and stood at my side. The vows that were exchanged were between Miss Cole and me, and bound us together as husband and wife.”

  Nat considered this. A crease appeared between his eyebrow
s as they knit. He caught his bottom lip, worried it. The trembling only marginally eased and the narrow line of his scar was stretched by the tension in his countenance.

  Olivia sensed it first. She had Nat’s hand, Griffin, his shoulder, and the child still had no idea how he was bound to them. She lifted her eyes to Griffin, saw he’d come to the same understanding. She nodded faintly, surrending the right to make the statement because it was for a father to say to his son.

  “You stood for me, Nat, as Olivia’s brother stood for her. I wanted you there because you are my family, my blood. I could think of no one who would better serve as my second than my own son.”

  “Your second? Truly?”

  Griffin smiled, squeezed his shoulder. “Truly.”

  “That’s all right, then.” He nodded once, accepting it. The smile that edged his mouth faded as he turned to regard Olivia. “You’re our family now.”

  “I am.”

  “But we’re not married.”

  “No.”

  “Shall you be my mother?”

  “If you like.”

  There was no hesitation. “I do.”

  “Good. It is the same for me.” Before he could glimpse her tears, Olivia leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Go. Go with your father back to your room and see if you can’t slip inside the nursery as quietly as you left it.” She gave him a nudge into the shelter of Griffin’s embrace, then sat back and watched them exit the room together.

  By the time Griffin returned, their late supper of chestnut soup and warm French bread was laid out on the small round table pulled close to the hearth. Olivia had changed into a fine lawn shift and a deep purple Chinese silk robe and matching slippers made for just this occasion. She was sitting with her back to the fire, reworking the plait in her hair.

  He watched her a moment, just inside the doorway, but when he caught her eye, he simply shook his head. She sighed, not disagreeably, and began to unwind the braid. Griffin approached, caught her hand, and completed the task himself. He sifted the silky threads of her hair with his fingers, each strand made more like molten copper by the leaping, twisting flames behind them.