by Shana Galen
“He’s saving his conversation for dinner. He’s allowed only a thousand words a day and must portion them out,” Carlisle said, chuckling at his own cleverness.
Edgeberry laughed, and Arthur covered a smile. Even Titania, his mother, allowed her lips to quirk slightly. The family was not unkind, but it was obvious to everyone Dominic was not one of them. The Houghton-Cleveborne family laughed easily, talked copiously, and loved generously. Dominic shared none of those characteristics.
“Leave your brother alone,” his mother said, defending him as always.
“When there is a battle to be fought, Mother,” Dominic said, “I will fight it on my own.”
“Dominic knows we’re only teasing him,” Carlisle said. “He speaks at least fifteen hundred words a day, if one counts the conversations with his horses.”
“Their conversation is a vast deal more interesting than that of some humans.” Dominic looked pointedly at Carlisle. Carlisle laughed, and Arthur slapped him on the shoulder.
“He has you there, puppy.”
“I am certain Mr. Griffyn is considering the importance of the evening,” Lord Edgeberry said, pulling on the sleeves of his wool superfine so that the coat was perfectly fitted. As though mirrors of their father, Arthur and Carlisle adjusted their own coats. Dominic hoped his own was wrinkled, though his valet would never have stood for it.
“I envy you, old boy,” Arthur was saying. “If Miss Bonde was titled, I’d pursue her. She’s tempting, even without the title.”
Titania put a hand on Arthur’s arm. “She’s not for you.”
Arthur shrugged genially. “Plenty of debutantes this year.” But there was no hurry for him to marry. The heir had several more years before his father would demand he choose a bride. Arthur was no saint, but he was circumspect. Dominic was the one who caused the family scandal. And it was true he was the most tainted of all of them. But the marquess still had it all wrong.
“She’s not for me either,” Dominic said. “She is a perfectly acceptable girl—”
“Perfectly acceptable?” Carlisle sounded as though he were choking. “She’s a diamond of the first water.”
“She certainly has many facets,” Dominic agreed. Most young women of the ton were not found climbing cemetery walls and sneaking about on midnight errands on Charles Street. She had secrets, as did he, and the last thing Dominic needed was more secrets. No, the last thing he needed was an attraction to a woman like Jane Bonde. If he allowed himself to be swept up in this farce of a courtship, he would soon find himself in the parson’s mousetrap.
“Give her a chance,” his mother said, reaching over to pat Dominic’s knee. He suddenly felt five again. His mother had said the same thing about Edgeberry. Dominic glanced at the marquess, who was seated beside his mother. Her plum gown sparkled in the coach’s low lights. One of the marquess’s hands rested possessively on his wife’s arm. He had been good for her, and the marriage had saved Dominic and his mother from the squalor they’d been living in. The marriage had saved Dominic’s life, though in other ways, it had also taken it away from him. As Titania Griffyn, his mother had been free to choose her own destiny. As the Marchioness of Edgeberry, she had innumerable responsibilities, and Dominic often felt he was the least of these. He’d been sent to Eton and Oxford and the Continent, while she assumed her new position and raised three more sons.
Had she thought the dorms of Eton or a summer in Italy would make him forget? Had sending him away lessened her own feelings of guilt? Dominic could forgive her, because he saw her in a different light now. She was only human, and she had done the best she could. But the boy he’d been would never forgive her for abandoning him when he’d needed her most.
“We are here,” Edgeberry said, sitting forward with something akin to excitement. Dominic was more subdued. His mother and the marquess descended first, followed by Arthur. Dominic couldn’t remember whether protocol dictated he or Carlisle descend next, and he did not care. He motioned the boy to go ahead. When he climbed out, Lord Melbourne greeted him warmly. “Welcome, Mr. Griffyn. My niece is inside.” He gestured to an unassuming terraced house of white limestone. Window boxes blooming with pink flowers adorned the facade, and lights burned in all but the uppermost windows.
Dominic caught his mother’s eye. She looked nervous, and he gave her a nod to reassure her. He would see this evening through, but he would not be compelled to marry.
Hats and walking sticks were handed over at the entrance, and Lady Melbourne greeted everyone enthusiastically. Her bright, cheery tone all but grated on Dominic’s nerves. The house seemed too bright, and he longed for the shadows. When she reached him, Lady Melbourne said, “I see where you inherited your exotic looks. You and your mother are similarly favored.”
“Gypsy blood,” Dominic said, because he knew it annoyed Edgeberry.
“Rubbish,” the marquess said as if on cue. Titania gave Dominic a quelling look.
“Where is your lovely niece?” Lady Edgeberry asked.
“In the drawing room,” Melbourne said. “Will you come up?”
As one, the family clomped up the stairs. Dominic took his time, studying the paintings and artifacts in the vestibule before following. Melbourne was reputed to be a senior official in the Foreign Office, part of the Secret Service. He had certainly traveled widely. The house had a warm, distinctly Continental feel. The drawing room was no different. The walls were dark, the furnishings covered in sumptuous fabrics and jeweled tones. Interesting objects and artistic pieces had been placed here and there, not demanding attention but adding to the flavor of the room.
And in the center of it, wearing a silk gown that rippled like the deepest lake, stood Miss Bonde. She was pale, a porcelain object surrounded by the dark wood furnishings and luxurious velvet coverings of the room. The drawing room was darker than the vestibule, and Dominic had the urge to step into a shadow and observe. He had forgotten how difficult it was to drag his gaze from Miss Bonde once he had fixed it. The blue of her eyes matched her gown. The pink of her lips perfectly matched the delicate roses in a vase on the side table. The slope of her exposed shoulders seemed made for his hands. She was an alabaster statue he dared not touch again.
But he would not be allowed to set himself apart. Not tonight. He was propelled forward, and before he knew what was what, he stood before her and had her gloved hand in his. “Miss Bonde,” he said, bowing to her.
“That’s two,” Carlisle whispered to Arthur. “Five pounds he doesn’t say twenty-five in the next quarter hour.”
“Make it a half hour, and I’m in.”
Miss Bonde curtsied but did not speak. Her eyes were unreadable tonight. She could not possibly have forgotten about the kiss they’d shared the night before, but nothing in her face betrayed any emotion. Dominic stepped away, and his brothers moved forward. They reminded him of a pack of lions, with their golden manes, moving in for the kill. His fingers itched to claw at them, grab them by the scruff of the neck and toss them back. But he was little more than a jackal. The choicest cuts should go to the kings of the jungle.
And indeed, her reaction to his brothers was much as any other woman’s. She smiled, and her face seemed to flood with life and color. Within a matter of moments, she was smiling and laughing at something Carlisle said, while Arthur was less amusing but obviously vastly interesting, if one gauged by the rapt expression on her face when he spoke.
Dominic took the claret he’d been offered and sipped it, standing off to the side while his parents conversed with the Melbournes. He’d learned his natural expression was somewhat dark and foreboding, and he did not expect anyone to attempt to draw him into their circle. He preferred it that way. But he could not stop his gaze from straying to Miss Bonde. And once or twice he caught her blue eyes on him. Something seemed to leap between them when their gazes met, and she quickly looked away, smiling at Carlisle and saying so
mething that had both his brothers laughing.
She might be standing in the middle of the room, but she was as distant from all of this as he. She played the part of the proper young lady, but he’d met the real woman in the cemetery the night before. And there had been none of the tittering laughter or fluttering of eyelashes he saw now.
Oh, yes, she had secrets. How he would enjoy uncovering them—if such an act wouldn’t put his own secrets at risk. Better to stay away from her.
He glanced at the bracket clock on the table. A quarter hour had passed. Did he want Arthur or Carlisle to win the wager? He’d allow Carlisle to win this time, and he lifted a book from one of the tables and began to peruse it, not speaking again until they went down to dinner.
Despite his brothers’ determined flirting, Dominic was the one asked to escort Miss Bonde to dinner. He waited for the hosts, and then his parents, and then offered his arm. Her body was warm beside his, though her gloved hand rested very lightly on his sleeve. He knew she could walk quickly and efficiently, even run with admirable agility, but she took slow, dainty steps, and he was forced to match her stride.
“Your brothers are quite gregarious,” she said as they started down the stairs.
“Economy is not in their natures.” He felt her gaze on his face.
“Is that what you are, a word economist?”
“I dislike idle chitchat.”
“I believe that. I cannot imagine you doing anything idly.”
He cut his gaze to her. Had he imagined her inflection on the word idly?
“Tell me, Mr. Griffyn, what do you like, if not idle chitchat?”
He hadn’t intended to answer. The question had all the trappings of chitchat, despite her introduction. But then she looked at him, and that indefinable something passed between them again. And he found himself speaking to her, because otherwise he would have bent her over the banister and kissed her.
“Horses,” he said, his voice husky.
“Racing or breeding?” Her voice hesitated slightly on the last word.
“Breeding. His lordship’s stables are renowned for the quality of their stock.”
“You will have to show them to me sometime. I enjoy a breathless ride now and again.”
Dominic met her gaze, and she raised an innocent brow. Still, he doubted they were speaking entirely of horses. He also knew she would never come to Edgeberry’s stables. “When you visit, you must allow me to mount you.”
“You have a stallion in mind?” she asked.
“Griffyn, don’t bore the lady with talk of horses,” Carlisle interrupted as they were directed toward the dining room. “My brother talks of little but horseflesh. I thought we might talk of the theater.”
Carlisle was on her left and Dominic her right as they took their seats. She sat before him, and as he moved to take his place, she happened to lean forward, causing her bodice to gape slightly. Dominic was no gentleman, but even had he been, he could not have looked away quickly enough to avoid the sight of her rounded breasts swelling at the edges of her stays. But it was not the flesh that held his attention. Nestled between her breasts glinted a long, deadly dagger.
Seven
Dinner was strained. Perhaps not for her aunt and uncle, or for Lord Trewe or Lord Carlisle, who really could talk without ceasing, but Jane simply wanted the evening to end. Her face hurt from smiling so much—tight smiles she knew her aunt recognized as false. But every time she looked at her aunt, pleading for her to intervene, her aunt simply notched her chin higher and straightened her shoulders. Jane understood the message: chin up and bear it.
And what could her aunt have done anyway? It wasn’t the chattering boys that unnerved her. It was the dark silent man beside her. Dominic Griffyn was a presence, no matter how little he vied to capture her attention. In fact, he could not have appeared less interested in her. He made no attempt to speak with her, no attempt to look at her, no attempt to extend even basic common courtesy to her aunt and uncle. He was not rude, but he lived up to his reputation—a man who cared little for others’ opinions or for the customs of Society.
It was obvious he wanted to be anywhere but here. She might squirm in her seat at being seated so close to him. She might catch her breath watching his fingers curve around his spoon. His fingers had curved about her waist as well, had pulled her to him, so close she had felt his heart slamming in his chest.
Or had that been her heart?
Surely he had not been as affected as she. If he had been, he could not have ignored her so thoroughly. But there again, he met expectations. In the two days since the ball in Grosvenor Square, she had researched more than the Maîtriser group. She’d researched Dominic Griffyn. He had a reputation as a seducer of women. He didn’t dally with debutantes or the demimonde, but there seemed to be a number of widows, actresses, and barmaids who had been the recipients of his attentions. And from what Jane had heard, those attentions were rather remarkable. In fact, if the accounts she’d heard were to be believed, he cared much more for the woman’s pleasure than his own, though considering he was a man, she hardly believed that. What she could believe were suggestions that he was different than other men—he did not like to be touched, and he was very, very careful not to do anything that might produce a child. And yet recently, one woman had accused him of fathering her bastard child.
Jane was not certain what to think, but as a good spy, she knew she would eventually root out the answers. One thing was certain—he seemed to chafe at being forced to spend time in her presence. Well, she was hardly thrilled to be in his. It had been torture to touch him, walk with him down the stairs. They exchanged banter, innuendo, what he called meaningless chitchat. She wasn’t capable of anything more. She’d deliberately not thought of him again after putting her research on him aside and reading through Wolf’s notes on the Maîtriser group. But it was easy not to think of a kiss or an embrace when she had a mission on her mind. It seemed a completely different person had been kissed in the Smythes’ town house. She’d gone to sleep and dreamed of Foncé slitting her open like a fish. She’d woken sweaty with fear, not lust, and until her aunt had reminded her of this dinner, had not thought of Griffyn.
Now she could not stop thinking of him.
Irritating man!
Her uncle began to recount a story she had heard a half-dozen times—he was an interesting man, but only five of his best stories could be told to anyone outside the Barbican group—and she slipped a hand into her reticule and withdrew her small watch, its gold chain glinting in the light from the chandelier overhead.
It was after ten, and she had to leave soon or risk missing her appointment. Wolf’s contact had agreed to meet her and show her where he’d seen Foncé. This morning a note from Wolf had arrived, stating that his contact had new information as to Foncé’s whereabouts. He wanted to meet her at a warehouse in Westminster, on the Thames. He had heard Foncé was expecting a shipment delivered there. Wolf advised her against going. He wanted time to verify the source and see the warehouse himself. But Jane didn’t have time to wait. She kept thinking that someone had been following her the night before. If it wasn’t Griffyn—and more and more she doubted he cared enough even to open a door for her—then who was it? Foncé or one of his men?
If he knew where she lived and who she was, then Melbourne and the entire existence of the Barbican group was at risk.
But she had to depart soon if she were to arrive at the rendezvous on time. The rest of the company was in no hurry. They seemed happy to chat endlessly, until Jane was afraid she would have to feign sickness in order to escape. Perhaps her aunt saw something of the desperation Jane felt, because Lady Melbourne finally rose and left the men to their port. Jane, Lady Edgeberry, and Lady Melbourne retired to the drawing room. They had barely taken a seat before Lady Edgeberry excused herself.
The door closed behind her, and Lady Melbourne sa
id, “You might have tried a little harder, Jane.”
“I do not even think the doors to the drawing room are closed yet,” Jane said.
Her aunt huffed. “I am sure the marchioness would agree with me, at any rate.”
“Ha! Well then let her look to her son. He did not even notice me.”
Lady Melbourne rolled her eyes. “Jane, you might be a very good spy, but you are hopeless at gauging men.”
“Tell that to the agent in Verona, whom I—”
Lady Melbourne held up a hand. “Dominic Griffyn wants you.”
Jane’s eyes widened. “Are you certain you should say such things?”
“Don’t pretend to be innocent, Jane.”
“It’s not that. I had supposed you were more innocent.”
“I have been married longer than you have been alive. I know something about human nature, and something about men. You are a smart girl, but you don’t see how men look at you.”
“Yes, I do, and Dominic Griffyn was not looking at me. He paid no attention to me whatsoever.”
“He kept his gaze on you the entire evening. You think if a man doesn’t openly ogle you, like Lord Carlisle, he doesn’t want you. Mr. Griffyn isn’t the sort of man to compete with another. Not outright. He’ll allow his brothers to flirt and play the role of lovers all night, but in the end, if they attempt anything more, he’ll swat them away like flies.”
Jane narrowed her eyes. “How many glasses of wine did you drink?”
Her aunt was silent. Jane rose, feeling the need to pace, to move after the long dinner. “That’s a powerful image, my lady, but I see no evidence for it. It’s just as likely that Mr. Griffyn is happy his brothers court me, because then he does not have to bother. Tomorrow he will go home to his horses, and this will all be over.”