Griffin Stone: Duke Of Decadence (Dangerous Dukes Book 3)

by Carole Mortimer

  Did Bea feel up to bathing and dressing in one of her new gowns before joining him for dinner?

  It would certainly be a normal activity, in a world that now seemed even more alien to her than it had before. Besides which, her afternoon spent alone had resulted in those mind-numbing nightmares, and she wished to avoid the possibility of experiencing any more of those for as long as was possible.

  ‘Dinner downstairs would be lovely, thank you,’ she accepted equally coolly, fully intending to ask Pelham if she might have a bath before then. She felt unclean after the vividness of her dreams, as if some of that filth and squalor in which she had been kept prisoner still clung to her.

  Griffin gave her a formal bow. ‘Until eight o’clock, then.’

  Bea kept her lashes lowered demurely as she gave a curtsy, and remained so until she heard the door quietly closing as Griffin left her bedchamber.

  At which time she released a heavily sighing breath.

  Her dreams had truly been nightmares.

  Her fragmented memories, of her parents, her abduction and imprisonment, the frantic madness of her flight from her jailer, were even more so.

  And there was still that lingering doubt that she might have been physically violated by her captors.

  If so, was it possible she might have buried that particular horrific memory so deep inside her it might never show itself again?

  Until such time as she married and her husband discovered she was not a virgin bride.

  If she ever married.

  And if she ever remembered who she truly was.

  * * *

  ‘You are looking very lovely this evening, Bea,’ Griffin complimented politely once the two of them were seated opposite each other at the small round table in the family dining room.

  Bea did indeed look very beautiful; the housekeeper had managed to find a gown the colour almost the same deep blue as her eyes. Her hair was fashionably styled upon her crown, with several enticing curls at her temples and nape. She was a little pale still, but that only added to her delicacy of appearance, which bordered on ethereal.

  Griffin felt heartily relieved that it was not yet dark enough for Pelham to light the candles in the centre of the table; a romantic candlelit dinner for two would be the height of folly in the circumstances.

  ‘Thank you,’ she accepted lightly. ‘You are looking very handsome this evening too.’

  They sounded like polite acquaintances passing the time as their dinner was served, when in reality they were far from that. After leaving Bea earlier he had gone immediately to the library to send an urgent letter to Maystone, prompting the other man to use his considerable influence and acquaintances to ascertain any and all information he could about a missing young lady named Beatrix.

  It would take several days but Griffin had felt better in the knowledge he had at least done something positive in that regard.

  His estate manager had also asked to see him earlier, as he believed one of the disused woodcutters’ sheds in Shrawley Woods might have recently been inhabited. Griffin had immediately ridden out to look for himself.

  It was situated about a mile from where Griffin had found Bea, and whoever had stayed in the barely furnished shed had attempted to cover their tracks. But it was impossible to hide the stench of unwashed bodies, or the presence of a bloodstained bucket in the corner of one of the downstairs rooms—the same bucket Bea had struck Jacob Harker about the head with?

  Griffin believed it was and his rage had grown tenfold as he’d stood and looked about him. The shed consisted of just two rooms, the floors were of dirt, just a single broken chair and table in one of the rooms, and no other furniture. The roof overhead sagged, and no doubt leaked in several places too. Several dark rags had been draped over the single square cut out of one of the wooden walls. No doubt to prevent anyone from looking in. Or out.

  There was nothing else there to show recent habitation, no ragged blankets, fresh food or water, but it was impossible to miss the recent odour of unwashed bodies, or the stench of rotting food.

  And the distinctive smell of fear.

  Bea’s fear...

  Griffin had given Reynolds a grim-faced nod before leaving the shed to ride back alone to Stonehurst Park, an impotent rage burning deep within him. And as he’d ridden the heavens had opened up, as if the angels themselves cried for all that Bea had suffered.

  He had not told her as yet that he believed he had discovered the place of her imprisonment, and he was not sure that he intended to. She appeared so composed this evening, and was so elegantly attired, and Griffin had no wish to disturb that composure by once again taking her thoughts back to her imprisonment.

  It was impossible to deny it had happened, of course; Griffin could still see some of the bruises on her shoulders and arms, although she had attempted to fasten a cream lace shawl over them in an effort to hide the worst of the abuse she had suffered. Matching lace gloves covered her bandaged wrists, and the length of her gown covered her bandaged ankles.

  Covering signs of her abuse that once again incited Griffin’s displeasure.

  ‘I will ring for you when we have finished eating our soup,’ he tersely dismissed Pelham, finding even the butler’s quiet presence in the room to be an intrusion.

  Griffin realised his mistake as soon as the older man left the room as the intimacy of earlier suddenly fell over the two of them like a cloak.

  Bea knew a sudden discomfort at being alone with her dashing Duke. Well, he was not her Duke. Griffin was most certainly his own man. Self-contained, aloof, and demanding of respect. But he was her very handsome rescuer, and several times Bea had sensed an awareness between the two of them that was not avuncular. And earlier today he had kissed her.

  ‘The soup is delicious,’ she remarked to fill the sudden silence.

  ‘My cook here is very good.’ He smiled slightly, as if aware of her discomfort.

  Because he felt it also? Bea would be very surprised if too much discomforted this confident gentleman.

  ‘Thank you for my new gowns.’ There had been three gowns in the box Mrs Harcourt had brought to her bedchamber earlier, two day dresses and one for the evening, the blue gown Bea was now wearing, along with undergarments, a shawl and slippers. ‘I hope—I hope that once I am restored to—to being myself again, that I shall be in a position to repay you.’

  ‘A few second-hand gowns altered by the local seamstress will not bankrupt my estate, Bea!’ the Duke rasped impatiently.

  ‘Nevertheless.’ Bea was not to be gainsaid on the subject; she had taken enough from this gentleman already, in the form of his kindness and hospitality, and she did not intend to be indefinitely in his debt financially too.

  Griffin frowned his irritation with this conversation. ‘You must concentrate your energies on becoming completely well again, and not worry yourself over such trivialities.’

  Her chin rose. ‘I assure you, they are not trivial to me.’

  Griffin eyed her curiously. ‘I have a feeling that, whatever your true identity might be, you are an independent and determined young lady!’

  The fullness of her lips curved into a rueful smile. ‘I would hope so.’

  Griffin was sure that she was. He believed that many young women who had been as ill treated as Bea had would now be prostrate with the vapours. And possibly remain so for many days. Bea might feel that way inside, but outwardly she was calm and collected.

  ‘You have the courage and fortitude of a queen,’ he complimented huskily as he all too easily pictured the hovel in which she had been kept prisoner.

  A blush slowly warmed her cheeks, lashes lowered over her eyes. ‘I do not feel like a queen.’

  Griffin looked at her searchingly. ‘Something else is troubling you.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘What is it, Bea?�
�� he asked sharply. ‘Have you remembered something else?’

  Tears glistened in her eyes as she looked at him. ‘It is what I do not remember that now troubles me.’

  ‘Such as?’

  She gave an abrupt shake of her head, no longer meeting his gaze.

  ‘I would rather not put it into words.’

  Griffin frowned darkly. Bea had been physically beaten, emotionally tortured, what else could there possibly be to—? ‘No, Bea!’ he gasped harshly. ‘Surely you do not think—? Do not believe—?’

  ‘Why should I not think that?’ Bea dropped her spoon noisily into her bowl as she gave up all pretence of eating. ‘I was alone with these men, and at their complete mercy for goodness knows how long. Surely in those circumstances it would be foolhardy to assume that—that one did not—’ She could not finish the sentence, could not put into words this last possible horror of her captivity.

  Once it had been thought of, Bea had been unable to put the possibility of physical violation from her mind. She had tried to appear calm as she’d joined Griffin in the dining room. Had been determined not to speak of her worries with him.

  But the what-ifs had continued to haunt her.

  To plague her.

  Until it seemed it was all she could think of.

  Griffin also looked suitably horrified at the possibility of violation as he now placed one of his hands firmly over both of her trembling ones clasped tightly together on her thighs. ‘Bea, I am sure that did not happen.’

  ‘You are no surer than I am!’ she instantly rebutted, eyes glittering. ‘I want these men found, Griffin. I want Jacob found and the truth beaten from him if he will not give it any other way!’ Two bright spots of fevered colour heated her cheeks.

  ‘Bea!’

  ‘If you will excuse me, Griffin?’ She pulled her hands away from his and threw her napkin on the tabletop before standing up noisily from the table. ‘I do not believe I am hungry, after all.’ She turned on her heel and almost ran from the room.

  Griffin sat alone at the dining table, once again at a loss to know what to do where Bea was concerned.

  Should he go after her and offer her more words of comfort?

  Or should he leave her alone and allow her time to come to terms with her thoughts?

  Was Griffin himself not in need of several minutes in which to fully take in the shocking implication of Bea’s suspicion regarding her treatment at the hands of the man called Jacob?

  Chapter Six

  Bea found it impossible to fall sleep. She was afraid to fall asleep. For fear that more of those dreams might come back to haunt her. For fear that she might learn more from those dreams than she was comfortable knowing...

  So instead of sleeping, she threw back the dishevelled bedclothes and paced her bedchamber long after she had heard Griffin pass her door, no doubt on the way to his own bedchamber further down the hallway.

  What must he now think of her?

  Nothing she did not think of herself, Bea felt sure!

  Of course, she was not to blame if she had been violated, but that would not make it any less true. Any less of a disgrace. Whether she had been forced or otherwise, it would not change the fact that Bea was no longer—

  Bea raised her hands and pressed her palms tightly against each of her temples, sure she would go mad if she did not stop this circle of thought from going constantly round and round inside her head.

  It felt as if there were no longer any air in her bedchamber for her to breathe!

  Not enough room in here for her.

  She needed to flee.

  To escape!

  ‘I believe you are safer, here with me, than you would be anywhere else, Bea.’

  She had no sooner thrown open her bedchamber door and stepped out into the hallway, her nightgown billowing about her bare legs, her hair loose about her shoulders and down her back, when she came to a halt at the sound of Griffin’s calm and reasoning voice.

  Her eyes widened as she turned and saw him leaning casually back against the pale pink silk-covered wall just a short distance down the hallway.

  He had removed his jacket, but still wore the rest of his evening clothes. He somehow looked younger now that he was less formally clothed, and with the darkness of his hair tousled on his brow, his grey eyes heavy with exhaustion.

  Bea eyed him uncertainly. ‘I thought you had gone to your bedchamber some time ago.’

  ‘I did.’ Griffin straightened away from the wall to walk down the hallway towards her, his movements as silent and graceful as a large cat’s. ‘But I heard you pacing and muttering to yourself as I walked past your bedchamber, and guessed that you would find it difficult to sleep tonight. That you would perhaps have thoughts of running away?’ He came to a halt just inches in front of her, hooded lids preventing Bea from seeing the expression. ‘The things you remember suffering are bad enough on their own, Bea. Do not torture yourself further with thoughts of something that might not have happened.’

  Tears stung her eyes as she gave a shake of her head. ‘That is all well and good for you to say, Griffin, but you cannot possibly understand.’

  ‘Bea, I was once held prisoner myself.’

  ‘You were?’ She blinked up at him uncertainly as he spoke quietly.

  ‘I was captured by the French after the battle of Talavera,’ he admitted grimly; it was not a time he normally chose to talk about. To anyone. And yet he knew that he had to. That it was his only way of assuring Bea that he knew a little of how she was feeling tonight. ‘I do not pretend to understand the devils tormenting you, but I know what it is like to lose your freedom, to have suffered physical torture. To know of the scars it leaves on the soul.’

  ‘How long were you held prisoner?’

  He shrugged. ‘A week or so, until I too escaped. What I am really saying, Bea, is that we all carry scars about with us we have acquired from life, whether they be physical or emotional.’

  Bea felt shame wash over her at learning Griffin had been held a prisoner of the French in the war against Napoleon. She had also forgotten, caught up in her own self-pity as she had been, that Griffin must grieve still for his dead wife, making her doubly ashamed at her own self-indulgence.

  ‘Life can be so cruel!’ She rested her forehead against Griffin’s wide and muscled chest, at once able to feel his reassuring warmth through the material of his waistcoat and shirt, and the steady, comforting beat of his heart. ‘Truth be told, I am afraid to fall asleep,’ she admitted huskily.

  ‘Understandably.’ Griffin’s arms moved about her as he held her close against him.

  She could not seem to stop the trembling. ‘I— Would you—? Could you possibly sit with me for a while? Knowing you are there, and that I am safe, perhaps I will sleep and not dream?’

  Griffin tensed at the request, knowing that his self-control was not at a premium where Bea was concerned. Just holding her in his arms like this, being completely aware of her nakedness beneath her nightgown, of her beautiful silky dark hair flowing loose down the length of her spine, was sorely testing that control.

  At the same time he knew that it would be cruel of him to deny Bea this small comfort. He had already borne witness to her distress this afternoon, following her nightmares. The concern she had voiced earlier, about what else might have happened to her, disturbed him almost as much as it did her.

  The thought of any man—any man—laying hands on Bea, let alone the animals who had kept her a prisoner in such filthy conditions, who had abused her both emotionally and physically, was enough to fill Griffin with a murderous rage.

  His hands now closed into fists as he fought against that anger, knowing that it served no purpose right now; Bea needed his reassurance, not his rage.

  The time for Griffin to let loose the full extent
of his fury would come if—when—he caught up with Jacob Harker.

  Because he would find him. And when he did the other man would suffer as he had made Bea suffer.

  ‘Of course,’ he now agreed briskly. ‘What else are godfathers for?’ he added lightly, and knowing he was deliberately using that tenuous claim in the hopes of amusing her, but also as a means of attempting to place their relationship on a platonic footing.

  As a means of convincing himself that his feelings towards Bea were indeed platonic.

  A husky laugh caught in Bea’s throat as she straightened. ‘I believe I shall like having you for my godfather.’

  Griffin had never felt less like someone’s godfather—Bea’s godfather, in particular—than he did as he followed her inside her bedchamber and closed the door behind them.

  A single candle burned on the bedside table to alleviate the darkness of the room, the bedclothes badly rumpled from where Bea had obviously gone to bed earlier, but had only tossed and turned, before rising again when she had been unable to sleep. When she had been too afraid to sleep, Griffin corrected himself grimly.

  He moved to briskly straighten the bedclothes before turning them back invitingly. ‘Ready?’

  Bea felt more than a little self-conscious now that they were alone together in the silent intimacy of her bedchamber, the very air about them seeming to have stilled.

  Almost with expectation?

  She kept her gaze averted as she climbed back into bed, laying her head back on the pillows as Griffin rearranged the covers over her and tucked them beneath her chin. Bea almost expected him to place a fatherly kiss upon her brow!

  When her own feelings towards him were far from paternal.

  Griffin, instead of kissing her brow, now moved to carry the chair over from the window and place it beside the bed, before folding his long length down into it as he sat down beside her.

  What would they have thought of each other if they had met under normal circumstances, at a society ball, or perhaps a musical soirée?