An Inconvenient Wife

by Caroline Kimberly

Satisfied, he let her move, just a little, enjoying the small sounds she made as she did. It wasn’t fair to elicit such declarations from her in the heat of the moment. But he needed to hear it from her lips, this one time. While he understood that lust did not necessitate love, the words had managed to make his heart skip its beat.

  Kyra hitched her hips again and Grif lost any ability to think. Kissing her savagely, he gripped her hips roughly as she rode him. He knew he was marking her, but he was unable to bring himself to stop. Grif kissed and nibbled every inch of her skin within his reach, tracing a path along her jaw to the spot on her neck that always made her boneless.

  Kyra nipped his earlobe in response, then the juncture of his neck, then his shoulder, causing him to very nearly spin out of control.

  “You always have to push me, you little baggage,” he hissed. In one fluid motion, he’d lifted her off of him and spun her around, safely out reach of her tantalizing mouth. Before she fully understood what he was doing, he repositioned her on his lap once again to continue where they left off. The position offered him a new brand of torture, however, as the silky backs of her thighs pressed against his.

  “Interesting,” she murmured, trying the new arrangement. She let her feet dangle over his for an instant, then found purchase with her tiptoes on the top of his feet. Being a quick study, she figured out her advantage and took it, arching slightly and sinking onto his lap as deeply as possibly.

  Grif stifled his curse, knowing she was pushing him to lose restraint. What she didn’t seem to realize, though, was how utterly vulnerable she might be in such a position. When she pulsed on him, he realized in desperation that he’d better wrest back some portion of control. He cupped her breasts, causing her to make the most delicious little sigh. He pinched a pert nipple, just a little, and her sigh broke into something more desperate and demanding.

  She seemed to have gathered her wits a few moments later and rocked against him, hard, her perfect bottom rubbing snugly along the tops of his thighs. Two could play dirty, he mused, so kissing her cheek to distract her, he let one hand wander down to where they were so intimately joined and squeezed.

  Kyra broke instantly, on a sob, arching back into him and tensing for what felt like an eternity. Unable to hold off any longer, Grif allowed himself to follow, pulling her onto him hard and barking his triumph into her shoulder. He finally slumped against the tree behind him, not really caring about the rather uncomfortable way it dug into his back. Kyra slumped back against him, completely and deliciously boneless.

  Grif let himself come slowly back to reality, still breathing heavily and relishing the absolute peace he felt with Kyra in his arms. He smiled into her thick mass of auburn that curtained her temple. “I think I like my goddesses vengeful,” he murmured.

  Kyra chuckled in spite of herself. “Really? Dare I ask how many vengeful goddesses you have had?”

  “Just one. But she’s more than enough,” Grif said, kissing her lightly. “I don’t think I could handle much more wrath.”

  He watched his wife right herself, pulling her gown back into place and fumbling to pin her hair up. By the time she was done, it was similar to what she’d worn before, but instead of sleek perfection it was somewhat loose and messy. The effect was rather wanton, he thought, his passion stirring again. He wondered at his incessant lust for his wife. It had been six weeks, he reasoned, and she was dressed rather provocatively...

  He reached out to skim the curve of breast that peeked out above her gown. Kyra stopped his hand, gently but firmly, a cynical smirk dancing on her lips. “I don’t think so, ‘Zeus,’” she chastised. “You’ve had quite enough. Besides, someone might stumble along and see us.” At his protest, she reminded him, “I really don’t want to tempt fate any more than we already have. You are something of a fugitive.”

  “Drat.” Grif sighed at her but removed his hand. “I’d forgotten that.”

  She was right, of course. He hadn’t risked his freedom simply to get arrested because he was too much of a libertine to stay in costume. He threw his domino around his shoulders and retied it. Kyra scooped up his mask and settled it on his face, not meeting his eyes. Then she replaced her own and rose to her feet.

  “Would you care to walk me to my carriage?” she asked, her tone decorous once again. “Or are you otherwise engaged this evening?”

  “As you are my only engagement for the evening,” he said stiffly, “I’ll gladly escort you wherever you would like to go.”

  Grif offered her his arm, disliking how quickly her icy veneer slid into place. It irked that she seemed so unaffected by their encounters, especially when he was so affected by them. How she could one moment screw him senseless and the next pull Lady of the Manor on him was well beyond the realm of his patience.

  “So, Grif,” she asked as they strolled through the garden, “what do we do now?”

  “I don’t know,” Grif answered honestly, not pretending to misunderstand her meaning. “I suppose we need to sort out the whole messy business of Brumley’s death before we can decide on our future.” He stopped walking and turned to her. “Whatever has happened between us, Kay, I swear to you on what little honor I do have that I didn’t kill Brumley. I wanted to, but I didn’t.”

  Kyra nodded and patted his arm. “I know.”

  Before she could drag him up the path to the house, he cupped her willful little chin in his hand and forced her to look up at him. “I meant what I said earlier, Kyra. I would do anything for you.”

  Kyra snorted dismissively and took his hand in hers, steering him onto the veranda. “Ah yes, the walking to hell and all. I appreciate your ardor, Zeus, but I prefer my husband to be rather less inclined to throw away his soul on my behalf. That’s much more power than I should have, considering my rather ill-temper.”

  Grif glared at her. “Don’t mock me,” he warned.

  “But I always mock you when you act self-important,” she stated haughtily, waving a hand at him dismissively. “That is, in fact, the time you most need to be mocked.”

  “Self-important!” he bellowed. Kyra hushed him as they entered the ballroom. Most of the guests seemed rather busy, so Grif doubted they cared, but he did lower his voice as they crossed the dimly lit room. “You think I’m being self-important?”

  Kyra smiled sanctimoniously and continued leading him through the gigantic room. “I think, darling, that for the first time in a long time you have no idea what to do about a sticky situation. It’s been my experience that when you feel cornered, you bluster about and order everyone around until you’ve found a solution. It’s a very impressive display of raw masculine prowess.”

  Grif couldn’t contain his chuckle as they waited for her cloak. “You are a vengeful little goddess.” He eyed her lasciviously. “Perhaps I could interest you in a different display of—how did you put it?—my raw masculine prowess.”

  His wife glared back archly, wrapping herself in the swath of material the footman handed her. “You’ve been quite accommodating already.”

  Grif escorted her down the stairs and to the line of carriages, his hand on her lower back. At his wife’s gesture, he steered her toward the unmarked coach she and Thomas and Annabelle undoubtedly had arrived in. As they neared, he leaned over to whisper in her ear, “I think you might find me more accommodating yet.”

  As he’d hoped, a little shudder passed through her. She tried to suppress it, but he knew her too well to be fooled. Playing with fire, he murmured, “Perhaps I could accommodate you in the carriage. We could take the long way home.”

  Kyra kept her laugh affable, but he heard that smoky undertone that always managed to kindle a fire in his blood. “It’s unnecessary to see me home, milord. I likely know the way better than you.”

  “Nonsense,” Grif said, handing her up into the vehicle. “I promised to escort you wherever you are going. I i
ntend to do just that.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, clearly trying to devise a way to outmaneuver him. He would have none of it. He barked an order to the groom, climbed right in and shut the door, completely deaf to Kyra’s protests. And for the next two hours, the earl of Griffin worked tirelessly to accommodate his wife in every manner he could.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Kyra stared unseeing at the ledger entries in front of her, trying to remember what she was supposed to be recording. It was something to do with redecorating the salon, she was certain of that, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember if she had paid for the curtains or the plaster.

  It was all her husband’s fault, she mused crossly. Appearing out of nowhere like that with no warning and doing those...things to her. Really, when someone like Grif entered the room, there should be some sort of divine warning. A thunderclap would do. At the very least a hint of brimstone should mark the air.

  He’d spent several hours with her in rather confined spaces and yet he still hadn’t divulged where he was staying or what he was doing about Brumley. Even after she’d spent quite a lot of time and energy trying to wrangle the truth from him, he’d used the excuse that it was safer for them both if she didn’t know.

  Kyra frowned. She disliked that he so easily thwarted her. No, she realized, she disliked that Grif was truly able to handle her. She hated letting someone else take charge. The fact that it was her husband particularly grated.

  It didn’t help that she turned to jelly when he touched her. That was clearly the reason he was able to so adroitly manage her. She was like a ravenous lioness pouncing on a wounded gazelle, really. Of course, the gazelle never really tried to run. In fact, the gazelle seemed perfectly willing to provoke the lioness at every turn then throw himself down as soon as she roared.

  Last night was the perfect example. All he needed to do was smile that wretched smile, crook his little finger and whisper a few naughty suggestions, and she’d quite fallen all over herself to oblige him.

  He knew it too, which was the worst of it.

  “Pompous,” she muttered, glaring at the ledger.

  If he thought last night’s ridiculous speech counted as some sort of declaration of love, he was sadly mistaken. Really, telling her he’d commit a litany of sins on her behalf—how was one to interpret that? Convenient, that’s what it was, considering he’d already committed most of the sins on his own anyway.

  “Sneaky,” she scoffed.

  Of course, that still left her with the little problem of what to do about her husband. She simply couldn’t manage him. Worse, once Grif cleared his name he would move back into the house and start managing her on a daily basis.

  But what to do about it?

  Kyra carefully mulled over her options, which seemed sadly few. It was late afternoon by the time a knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Ferguson entered, a distinct air of distaste on his pinched face. Barely moving his lips, he announced, “Mr. Conroy to see you, Lady Kyra.”

  Since they’d hatched their plan to investigate Edmund, Conroy had only had cause to visit her twice. Both times, as agreed, he’d made a great fuss about how he needed to talk to Lady Kyra regarding her errant husband’s whereabouts. Ferguson had taken an immediate dislike to the man, which Conroy found endlessly amusing. He never missed a chance to fuel the proper butler’s ire.

  Conroy flopped into a chair before Kyra had finished rising, which caused a vein in Ferguson’s forehead to bulge and turn a rather alarming shade of purple. “Tea, milady?” was all the stoic butler could mutter.

  Kyra reseated herself and looked at the large, unkempt man across from her and forced a frown. She noticed an expectant twinkle in his eye and nearly chuckled. Far be it from her to stop his fun. “Would you care for tea, Mr. Conroy?”

  “If I wanted tea I’d be down at one of the shops on the lane,” Conroy said, deliberately poking the butler’s fury.

  It was almost impossible to stifle her grin. “No tea. Thank you, Ferguson,” Kyra said, finally dismissing the poor servant for fear of seeing him in the throes of an apoplectic shock. When the door closed behind him, Kyra turned her attention to the Bow Street Runner, who was busy studying her with eyes much sharper than usual.

  “If you aren’t here for tea, Mr. Conroy,” she said slowly, trying to quell the hope that was rising in her chest, “might I presume you’ve uncovered something useful?”

  “Well, girlie.” He smirked. “That’s why I am here.”

  “Indeed,” she said and rose, taking her time to walk to the sideboard to pour him a glass of his favorite whiskey. Kyra managed to keep her hand steady as she offered him the glass. “Please, enlighten me.”

  Conroy took a huge swig and closed his eyes. After draining the contents in a second swallow, he held the glass out to her, which she promptly refilled. He studied her again. “Did you know Ashford’s got a whole houseful of servants?” he asked rather cryptically.

  Kyra eyed him sardonically, as she seated herself. “Yes,” she said. “Much like this one, I would guess.”

  The big man laughed at her. “Not at all like this one, girlie,” Conroy crowed, pointing a huge finger at her. “Not at all! Y’see, you and Grif have something that most of the peerage would sell their firstborn son to have.”

  “And what, Mr. Conroy, would that be? Precisely?”

  “Loyalty, my girl. Undying loyalty.” He waggled his finger at her, as though she were trying to hide treasure from him. “When we interviewed the staff here after Grif’s disappearance, they all said the same thing, in some variation or other. From that stick-in-the-mud butler down to the last little scullery maid, not one of them ratted him out. Do you have any idea how rare that is?”

  Kyra shook her head. “You’ve come here to tell me Grif’s servants are loyal?”

  Conroy snorted. “Yours are almost bloody worse! None had any scrap of information when we was looking for you. Nothing bad to say about you. And that housekeeper of yours! That Mrs. Myrtle!” He blew out a gusty breath. “I near feared for my life when I asked an unkind question about you!”

  Kyra sighed in exasperation. “I hardly think discussing house staff is a worthy use of our time, Mr. Conroy.”

  “Well, now, that’s where you’d be wrong,” he said. “It’s been my experience that servants talk. They always talk. Sometimes it’s a butler who’s disgruntled with the lord and lady. Or a housekeeper can be bought. Or a groom can be blackmailed. But there is always someone.”

  “But not here?” Kyra asked, rolling her eyes. “While I find it truly gratifying to hear I’m not living in a den of vipers, I fail to see how this is pertinent to—” At Conroy’s twinkling eyes, she stopped. “Edmund’s household isn’t as devoted?”

  Conroy nodded. “Den of vipers, it is.”

  “Really?” Kyra asked, suddenly piqued. “And what do the vipers have to say?”

  “He keeps a ledger,” Conroy said, taking another slug of whiskey. “Two ledgers, actually. One is for his legitimate business dealings.”

  “And the other?” Kyra asked breathlessly.

  “The other,” he said in measured tones, “is a record of everything else. Everything.”

  Kyra let her breath out on a huge exhale. “Dare I ask which viper told you of this ledger?”

  “Apparently, Ashford needs two valets to keep him in his finery.” Conroy sneered. “The head valet, a man named Mellon, truly is a viper, and a loyal viper at that. The second valet, Mellon’s assistant, is a lad who harbors a bit of a grudge against Ashford.”

  “Why?” Kyra asked.

  “The lad’s sister was a chambermaid in the house. Apparently the girl fell out of favor with the master, so he sent her packing.” Conroy looked at Kyra slyly. “Rumor has it the girl was with child.”

  Kyra pull
ed a face in disgust. “Edmund’s?”

  Conroy shrugged. “That’s the story anyway. After the young woman left, the lad stayed on to support his sister and his new niece. Bright lad, he is. He was promoted rather quickly through the ranks, and is now second valet.”

  “How did you learn all of this?” she asked, hoping Conroy’s source was reliable.

  Conroy shrugged. “I made a lady friend in the house. Nice little scullery maid named Tess. She told me the sad tale of her friend and was happy to point me in the lad’s direction. I tossed a few coins down for drinks one night when he was off duty, and we got to talking about things.”

  He looked at Kyra and smiled. “He dislikes Ashford...and Mellon. Apparently Mellon doesn’t treat him too nice. Bragging sort, Mellon is. He likes to put the lad in his place by touting his own rank.”

  “Interesting,” Kyra said, mulling everything over. “Did the boy say where we might find the ledger?”

  “That he did.” Conroy looked at his empty glass and then at Kyra. She rose and grabbed the bottle. He nodded as she poured, clearly enjoying keeping her on the hook.

  “Ashford keeps it under lock and key in his study,” he said after a swig. “It’s hidden in a safe under the floorboards by his desk. There are only two keys that open it. He keeps one key on his person at all times. The other is entrusted to his favorite viper.”

  “Mellon,” Kyra finished for him, chewing her lip.

  “Unfortunately, this very afternoon Mellon has had a sudden attack of the stomach and has taken to his bed,” Conroy said slowly. “Doctor says the poor bloke will be laid out for another day or two at least.”

  One look at the Runner’s face, and Kyra knew it was better to not ask how the valet had gotten sick. “So the question, Mr. Conroy, is, how do we get the key?”

  The big man readjusted his enormous weight and fumbled around his pockets. He pulled something shiny from their depths and held it up for Kyra to see, his pale eyes gloating. Kyra’s eyes went round.