Everything felt so disjointed of late. She was weepy and tetchy and ill-tempered. It didn’t help that her husband seemed discontented in his pursuit of her. It was like he was waiting for something, expecting something that she dangled just out of his reach. Grif rarely left her side, which would have been fine, except that he seemed miserable to be there. It was as though he felt obligated, reluctantly following his bride from place to place, a tight smile plastered across his face.
She couldn’t even provoke him anymore, which was damned infuriating. When she questioned him, he never voiced his opinion. When she pushed him, he never raised his voice. He gave her everything she wanted and more without a moment’s hesitation. He was just so un-Grif-like, a shell of himself.
She glanced idly at the ring he had given her. Their first night in London, he had pulled her aside and carefully slipped it onto her finger, as promised. Kyra looked at it now, loving and hating it. It was beautiful—a gorgeous emerald brilliantly cut. It was perfect, really perfect. It was exactly what she wanted. And yet looking at it made her miserable. He still had not told her the truth of his finances—or the truth behind his marriage proposal.
The transition to take over his household went as smoothly as expected. Poring over Lady Eleanor’s ledger confirmed two important facts. The first was that the Griffin family had been skating on the brink of utter ruination for quite some time. The signs were there, but they were subtle. Had Kyra not managed her father’s estate for the last several years, she might not have even recognized them.
There was evidence of some very clever cost-cutting: family menus were kept so simple as to be almost spartan, the wine cellar was stocked with limited albeit high-quality bottles, several properties received minimal attention, a skeleton staff was kept to manage those properties that were used, gowns had been remade for the girls whenever possible and travel accommodations were well-maintained but sparse. Kyra was duly impressed; only a sharp eye close to the family would ever pick up on these minor cut-corners.
The second more intriguing fact was that Grif and Lady Eleanor had somehow, miraculously, managed to keep them from going under completely. More incredibly, they had been able to stop their secret from becoming public—no small feat when one considered they had two young ladies to debut and marry off. Whatever Grif had done to keep the family solvent had been very effective.
And possibly illegal.
She’d never heard anyone speak of the Griffins dirtying their hands with business—something that would have ostracized them from polite society. Gentlemen, everyone knew, never worked. They owned things. According to the accounts, however, Grif didn’t have any regular income. It came in bits and pieces—very large bits and pieces—and was used frugally. The types of activities that could bring in such large amounts of cash to keep an aristocratic family afloat were few.
Apparently, however, it still hadn’t been enough. A rich bride was inevitable.
Kyra bit her lip, fighting back tears. A horrible, niggling thought kept haunting her. Grif resents being bought. Society might believe they were a love match, but Kay knew better. She also knew Grif was not the type to marry for money, even though he had. It didn’t surprise her that he found it chafing. It explained his empty interactions, his frustration with her.
Her stomach clenched as it did every time the wicked thought crept into her consciousness. She was losing him and she had no idea how to stop it. Ever since their confrontation in the gazebo, he’d grown more and more distant.
Except when he was touching her. When he kissed her, when he made love to her, she knew he wasn’t completely lost—yet. Kyra wondered how long until he tired of their lovemaking. Would it become awkward between them—the same forced attention that had taken over their daily interaction—or would he merely stop visiting her bedchamber? Certainly once she was with child he would stop, as most husbands considered it the end of their marital duty. Perhaps she should ask Patricia or Annabelle about preventing pregnancy, at least for a while.
Kyra’s stomach clenched again and she had the overwhelming urge to lie down and cry. She closed her eyes and let her head droop, too tired to keep it up any longer. Thoughts of Grif drifted in and out of her consciousness. She was enjoying a delicious memory of Grif in the Sheffield arboretum. They had been picnicking and he’d managed to get her alone in a cozy summerhouse. He was kissing her, caressing her cheek, her neck, her shoulder. Her shoulder, however, seemed to have developed an unnerving twitch. Kyra shook it off, savoring his kisses. He was trailing kisses down her throat, across her collarbone...
Her shoulder twitched again, this time with some force. Kyra jolted awake to find her sisters-in-law staring down at her, concern clouding their sea-green eyes. Annabelle and Patricia exchanged glances, there was something telling in the silent exchange, and they helped Kyra sit up properly.
Groggy, Kyra mumbled, “Where’s Grif?”
Annabelle shushed her. She and Patricia had a quick, hushed conversation then Patricia nodded and quickly crossed the room, hustling out the door with a grace Kyra hadn’t felt in an eternity. “Kay,” Annabelle said softly, “when did you last have your courses?”
Kyra stretched lazily and yawned. She felt foggy as she tried to remember. At last she shook her head. “I’m not really certain,” she murmured. “It’s been a while, I guess. Before we arrived in London.” Realization hit her like a bucket of ice water. Her hands fluttered to her mouth, then to her stomach. “Oh! Oh, my!”
Annabelle smiled kindly at her. “Congratulations, my dear.”
Kyra burst into tears.
* * *
Grif was in a foul mood. He’d been searching for his wife for the last hour. Looking around his sisters’ glittering ballroom for any sign of her, the bile rose higher in his throat. Lord, but he had made a mess of everything! The harder he tried to make her happy, to make her love him, the more distant she grew. Lately she was either angry with him or icy to him.
The fact that she was so miserable when he was around her made his chest hurt. And yet he didn’t know what to do. Admitting the truth seemed moot once she took over his household finances. There was no hiding the fact that they’d cut corners anywhere they could. Proving to her that he hadn’t married her for her money was impossible.
He kept trying to show her that he cared for her, hoping she might believe it. Of late, he seemed to be failing famously. He never left her side if he could help it, despite the fact she left him at every turn. He never argued with her anymore, even as her tongue became more stinging. He never lost his temper with her, even though she quite deliberately prodded him.
Grif swallowed his frustration. He had made himself the consummate husband—kind and thoughtful and doting and...and full of it.
He’d reduced himself to the role of overzealous pup, he realized, sniffing anxiously at his mistresses’ skirts for any castoff she might toss him. No, he amended, he’d become a marionette. Kyra’s puppet. She waggled her little finger and he jumped to do her bidding. And when she was through with him, she tossed him aside.
Of course, she needed him for very little lately. In fact, the only time she ever seemed to truly want his company anymore was for bedsport. Oh, he was always agreeable, but it rather chafed that she wanted him solely for stud service.
How she deemed him so immaterial after he had given her everything cut him to the quick. All she had to do was say three words—three little words—and he’d have given her the moon if she’d asked for it.
An uncomfortable thought skittered across his mind as it so often did anymore. Just tell her you love her. As usual, Grif tamped it down. Why should he tell her? She clearly did not share his feelings. She was the one pulling away.
He caught sight of Patricia across the room. She met his eye and nodded, a huge grin on her face. Grif tried not to glare at her. Lately his sisters had become too conspirator
ial with his wife. Every time Kay dropped out of sight, they chased after her like hounds on a fox. Bad enough that the little hellcat had his mother as an ally in this whole debacle, now his sisters were fawning over her like two crazed mother hens protecting their precious chick.
Making his way through the crush took near half an hour. Patricia, as the evening’s hostess, was surrounded by well-wishers congratulating her on such a successful event. It took another quarter hour to pry her free of the dandies and matrons cooing over her. “She’s a little under the weather,” Tricia told him, almost giddy, as soon as he was within earshot.
“Again?” Grif grumbled.
Tricia’s smile was blinding. “She has been sick rather often lately. Ah, me, the maladies of the young bride. Tell me Grif, is she a bit grumpy, perhaps? Weepy, even?”
Grif looked at his sister and shook his head in exasperation. “Where is she?”
His sister rolled her eyes. “Thick,” she muttered good-naturedly. “Annabelle is sitting with her in the powder room. I told her to have Kyra meet you in the library. I have a footman assigned to watch the door for you. You two have a lot to discuss.”
“Yes, we do,” Grif murmured, already turning his sights on the Montrose house library. By now the eleventh earl of Ashford’s temper had reached its limit. As of this moment, he silently vowed, he would no longer let Kyra lead him around by the nose. It was time to cut his little puppeteer’s strings.
* * *
Kyra followed Annabelle blindly to the library, where she and Patricia had made arrangements for the happy couple to meet. Kyra tried protesting, to no avail, that she was not ready to tell Grif. Of course, his sister shared the Griffin family capacity for stubbornness, so Kay’s pleas fell on deaf ears.
Kyra allowed the other young woman to fuss over her, completely numb to everything going on around her. She was still trying to wrap her mind around the unnerving notion that she was with child. She really shouldn’t be shocked, she reasoned, considering the amount of time they had put in to just such an endeavor, yet somehow it didn’t seem real. That they were going to have a baby was just so—
A smile pulled at her lips. They were going to have a baby.
Annabelle, green eyes dancing, noticed the subtle change in her sister-in-law’s demeanor and hustled over to her. Bussing Kyra on the cheek, she whispered, “Grif is going to be thrilled. I’ll give you a few minutes alone to savor your news.” She squeezed Kyra’s hand excitedly. “Congratulations.”
Kyra squeezed Annabelle’s hand, unable to speak. A thousand thoughts raced simultaneously through her head, barely registering that Annabelle had quietly closed the heavy oak door behind her. She rubbed her stomach, wondering about the little person growing inside her womb. Was it a boy or a girl? She smiled at the thought of Grif, so large and muscular, holding a little scrap of human in his big hands. He would be thrilled, she understood with the entirety of her being. He might not be in love with his wife, but he would love his child completely.
The sound of the door opening and then shutting barely registered, though it managed to drag her out of her fog. Kyra took a deep, fractured breath and rose from her seat. Unable to contain her smile, she turned to face her husband. As soon as she did, the smile dropped from her face.
Brumley the troll stood at the door, sneering at her. She swallowed a lump as she watched him turn the key in the lock. “Well, well,” he said quietly. “It seems at last I’ve found my errant bride.”
“My husband is on his way,” Kyra warned, her voice strong and steady in spite of the fact that her legs were trembling. She took a step back, her eyes scouring the room for anything she might heft. “He’ll be here any minute.”
Brumley shrugged, his pale eyes gleaming wickedly in the soft candlelight Annabelle had provided. His angular, pale features barely masked an excited, sickening tension. He smiled at her, an unpleasant twist of his mouth that didn’t make it to his eyes. “A minute will do, my dear.”
“What do you want?” she asked, praying Grif was in the hallway.
He took a few steps closer to her. “I just want to talk, my sweet.”
He began removing his gloves, one finger at a time, giving Kyra a chance to search the room again. Where was Grif?
“We had a deal,” he said softly, moving closer. “And you have not lived up to your end.”
Kay shook her head. “We had no deal, sir.”
“Edmund told me how you’d taken notice of me.” Brumley grimaced. “He told me that you repeatedly asked about me. He said you were amenable to my proposal.”
“Whatever Edmund told you, I had no knowledge of, sir, I swear,” Kyra said, keeping her voice even, hoping she might soothe him. “I made no such comments to Edmund. He used us both, I am afraid, to further his own ambitions.”
Brumley’s eyes met hers, a cruelty in their depths that chilled her to the bone. Having discarded his gloves, he was busy now fiddling with his signet ring. “You were promised to me, you little whore,” he said, his voice low and tense. “You were to be mine.”
“You were misled, sir,” she insisted.
Kyra’s heart lurched at the realization that the man before her was likely insane. She inched closer to the fireplace—a poker was lying just inches from her grasp. If she could get a clean swing, she might buy herself enough time to unlock the door.
His hand shot out, something glinting as it did. His thin physique belied his speed and strength, for when his hand connected with her cheek it was with enough force to knock her back. The sting of it took her breath away. A second later, still stunned, she felt a warm trickle oozing down her face. Gingerly she touched it. When she pulled her shaking hand away and looked down, she was shocked to see her fingertips were crimson. It took a heartbeat to realize she was looking at her own blood.
“Misled, eh?” he said, the timbre of his voice changing at the sight of her wounded cheek. He twisted his signet ring, toying with the spot of her blood it now had upon it. “He told me you were in love with me. That you were scared I might not have you. That’s why you ran off to that godforsaken cesspool called Scotland.”
His lips grew thin. “You left me, but I waited. I waited for you, Kyra. I had no mistress because I was to have you. That’s how much you meant to me.”
Kyra had regained her wits and edged closer to the poker.
“Do you know,” he continued in a casual, conspiratorial tone, “I told Edmund not to send that whelp Griffin. I knew this would happen.” He shook his head tightly, clearly agitated. “I knew he’d take one look at your dowry and pounce. Griffin is the worst kind of opportunist, after all.”
Kyra nodded, hoping to appease the man. “Yes.”
“Edmund insisted.” Brumley sniffed angrily. “Swore he kept the boy on a short leash. I tried to tell Edmund that Griffin would just use you to buy his freedom. I tried to tell him. But did he listen? No. And now I’m out a bride and he’s out a mercenary.”
“What do you want?” Kyra asked again.
“I want you, my sweet,” Brumley said through clenched teeth. “I want you to honor your part of the deal.”
“I wish I could, sir,” she whispered. “But the marriage can’t be undone. I’m carrying his child.”
His hand flashed out again, too quickly for her to avoid. This time she felt his ring cut deep into her lip, splitting it open. She tasted blood, and a sob broke from her lips as she grabbed her face. She reeled closer to the fireplace as she did.
“Don’t toy with me.” His voice was full of fury. He ran his fingers through his hair in agitation. “I would have been good to you, do you know that? I would have treated you like a queen. You were mine. You are mine.”
Kyra nodded, trying to garner her strength. All she needed to do was reach her arm out and grab the poker. She just needed to be faster than Brumley. “I can’t l
eave my husband,” she reasoned, though her voice was shaking. “He’ll not allow it,” she said.
He stepped close enough that Kyra could feel his breath on her face. “Perhaps a bit of motivation might convince him.” He backed up a fraction, allowing her to breathe a little. “What if I tell certain matrons of the ton the truth of your little Scottish escapade? Or that the Griffin family is broke? Do you think that would be enough? Once Society understands that you are a whore and he is a pauper, there would be no life here for the two of you anyway.”
A knock on the door was enough to distract him. In an instant, Kyra had the poker in her hands and swung it at him with all her might. It connected with a sickening thunk, and Brumley dropped to his knees. Kyra rushed to the door, shouting for help. A rustling behind her warned her Brumley had recovered and was on her heels. She made it to the door and turned the key an instant before he reached her. The lock tumbled just as she felt a hand yanking her back by the hair, scattering her pins across the floor. Shrieking, Kyra found herself thrown roughly to the ground, unable to see where her attacker was.
Disoriented, Kyra scrambled to pick herself up. Combing the hair out of her face, she looked up in time to see Brumley reeling backward toward her. Kyra rolled out of his way, but her skirts tripped the man up. Frantically, she tried to pull her dress free before he could grab her again. Instead, she tumbled in a graceless heap.
She was plucked unceremoniously from her pile of satin and ribbons. She flailed and kicked wildly, hoping to hold him off long enough until Grif could arrive. Strong hands grabbed her wrists, capturing them against a solid chest. Kyra kicked and felt her foot connect with something, bringing tears to her eyes.
“Dammit, Kay,” Grif hissed. “Stop fighting me.”
Kyra stilled. Frightened, disbelieving, she allowed herself to look. Brumley, she realized, was in a heap on the floor. She looked up to meet her husband’s green eyes and let out a sob. Kyra clutched blindly at him, burrowing into his chest as though she were unable to get close enough.
An Inconvenient Wife Page 24