She lifted her gaze to him and found he was closer than she’d realized, and everything about him seemed more focused. The blue in his eyes was richer, the silver brighter. His golden lashes were a darker hue than she remembered—but then she couldn’t recall if she’d ever truly noticed them. They were long. Would rest on his cheeks when he slept, or when he closed his eyes as his lips met hers. “What are they wagering?”
“A touch . . . a whisper . . . a kiss. Perhaps more. Something that can’t be given in this room, in front of others.” His voice was raspy, raw, and sensual. What would he whisper in her ear, along her skin?
“Glance slyly at the couple in the far corner,” he continued. “I would say at some point he wagered his neckcloth, and she the pins in her hair.”
Doing as he bade, she saw the gentleman shrugging out of his coat while the lady opposite him smiled in triumph. “How far will they go?”
“As far as they’re comfortable. Then perhaps they’ll move to a private room to finish the game.”
She jerked her attention back to him. “Is it a game?”
“Only they know.”
“What if he misreads her intent?” It seemed a dangerous gamble. “What if he takes advantage? Or hurts her?”
“Then he’ll answer to me—and it will not be a pleasant experience for him.”
“Did you tell him that during the interview?”
“I showed him. I have a little wrestling match with prospective male members.”
She was rather confident he was attempting to be subtle in his boasting. “And you won.”
“I always win.”
She didn’t know why she suddenly felt an immense amount of pride. “I wasn’t aware you wrestled.”
“I didn’t until recently.” He backed out of the doorway. “There are other rooms.”
A small ballroom. She was tempted to ask him to take her on a turn about the floor, but she refrained. He seemed intent on ensuring no portion of him touched any portion of her. Not so much as his small finger gliding along her elbow.
A dining room in which only candles provided the light that created an intimate setting. Perhaps some of the couples at the linen-covered tables had wagered in the cardroom on having dinner together.
A billiards room. A dart room.
Then he led her into a smoking room, where men and women had gathered. Some stood, some sat, but it was obvious they were enjoying each other’s company. In the finest of houses, ladies were never allowed into the smoking room. How often had her father taken their male dinner guests to his private domain so they could puff on cheroots while the ladies sipped tea elsewhere?
“You’re putting women on equal footing with men, giving them access to what they are usually denied.”
“Don’t give me too much credit. The choice was between having smoking in here or embroidery.”
She laughed lightly. “Did you think the men might not enjoy spending their time as we do?”
“There is a library farther down the hallway. On the floor below is a recital room. I would have shown it to you, but the door was closed, indicating a private performance.”
Pride caused her chest to swell. “You adopted my suggestion regarding a pianoforte.”
“I favor a woman being comfortable enough to do as she will with her fingers.”
Her eyes widened at that. “You do encourage naughtiness.”
He shrugged. “No one is forced to come here. Those who do are old enough to know the risks and to be responsible for themselves.”
“The women have to be twenty-five. I’m not.”
“I know. Not until August fifteenth. I made an exception for you.”
“You know precisely when my birthday is?”
He didn’t say anything, simply studied her with that intense way he had developed, as though he now possessed the ability to mine souls. What path had he traveled since that fateful night when his family’s world had come undone?
But this room, with its rich tobacco scent was not the place to make inquiries, to delve for answers, no matter how badly she wanted to know all his life had entailed since she’d last seen him. She doubted he would tell her anyway. So instead, she asked, “May I try a cheroot?”
One corner of his mouth hitched up. “What a wicked woman you are, Lady Kathryn.”
She did feel a trifle naughty. Because she shouldn’t be here, and yet she was. Because she shouldn’t enjoy his company, and yet she did.
Without touching her, he guided her to a table where a large dark intricately carved wooden box rested. He opened it and removed a long cylinder of pressed tobacco leaves. “I’ll prepare it for you.”
“It has to be prepared?”
“What? Did you think you just lit and smoked it?” He picked up a silver device, placed it over the rounded tip of the cheroot, and snipped it off.
“I did rather.”
He met and held her gaze. “The most pleasurable aspects of life require preparation.”
She was left with the impression he was speaking about more than cheroots, was referring to something a bit more personal, an aspect of life that required closed doors.
Using a nearby burning candle, he lit a small paper taper and held it to the end he hadn’t cut, running the flame slowly over it. Mesmerized, she watched as he placed the cheroot in his mouth, turning it as he applied the taper again. When he was apparently satisfied with the results, he inhaled, removed the cheroot from his mouth, and exhaled the smoke.
After extinguishing the flame, he set the taper aside and studied the end of the cheroot. “You don’t want to inhale.”
“You did.”
He shook his head. “I drew the smoke into my mouth. You don’t want it going into your lungs. A nasty bit of work there. The first time I wouldn’t let it fill more than half your mouth. Just draw in the smoke, savor it, release it.”
“Savor it?”
“Hmm. Afterward you can tell me what you tasted.” He held it out to her.
She was going to place her mouth where his had been. At the prospect of it, she shouldn’t be quivering with warm sensations and forbidden thoughts. She certainly shouldn’t take delight at the intensity with which he watched her. Even as she told herself he was merely interested in gauging her initial reaction to this novel experience, she couldn’t seem to dismiss the thought that she wanted a husband who would always look at her thusly, who wanted more from his wife than convenience and quiet.
Placing the collection of tobacco between her lips, she drew the smoke in—
Too far, too fast. It hit the back of her throat, and she thought she might be ill. She gave a little gag before coughing in the most unladylike manner. The smoke was hotter, thicker than she’d expected.
“Easy, easy. Blow it all out. Get some fresh air in there. Come on.”
He’d placed his hand on her back, near her nape, his fingers kneading and massaging the space on either side of her spine, and she focused on the roughness of his skin against the silkiness of hers. She blinked back the tears that had filled her eyes, studied the concern in his.
“I handled that . . . rather poorly,” she croaked, before taking another cleansing breath. “There was so much more of it than I was anticipating.”
“It’s all right. It takes practice to achieve a proper puff. Did you get any taste at all?”
She shook her head, held her hand to her mouth as she coughed again. “Somewhat of a chocolate flavor, perhaps?”
“It does dominate, but there are other subtle aspects. Did you want to try again?”
“I don’t think so. I fear I’ve gone a bit green.”
“Only a bit. I’m impressed, though. I cast up my accounts the first time I tried a cigar. But then I was only twelve. Snuck one from . . . the duke’s study. Gave it a go behind the stables. The coachman caught me. Taught me how to do it correctly.”
She didn’t miss how he referred to his sire, so formally, and she wondered at the emotions that might be roiling t
hrough him with the thought of his father. He had yet to move his hand away from her back, and he seemed as lost in the sensations as she.
“What happened to your hands? How did they get so scarred?” She’d noticed them last night, the faint white lines on the back of his hands, the result of cuts or scrapes, but it was his palms that concerned her most. Ropy bits of raised flesh and calluses. Strange that he didn’t wear gloves, didn’t try to hide them. Perhaps he wanted them seen, perhaps they delivered a message, and she wanted to know it. Although, now she wished she hadn’t asked because he was no longer touching her. He took the cheroot from her, gave it a little puff, and scrutinized the glowing end of it.
“After the Crown seized the titles and properties and left us with nothing, I began working on the docks, carting crates and sacks of goods. The hauling caused blisters and welts. Ropes and wood bit into my flesh. Until my hands toughened from scars and calluses, they were raw a good bit of the time.”
She could only imagine how painful it must have been as his skin bled and oozed. “And you toughened up along with them.”
Another puff, a slow release of the smoke. “Some of that had happened before, when they took us to the Tower. Some happened later, after the docks. But don’t ask me for details, because I won’t tell you about any of that.” Looking past her, he gave a small nod of acknowledgment. “Gertie.”
A woman she judged to be at least a decade older than herself held a folded bit of paper toward him. “This was just delivered.”
He took the offering. “Lady Kathryn Lambert, allow me the honor of introducing Mrs. Ward, who manages things here.”
“It’s a pleasure, Mrs. Ward,” she said.
The woman’s nose went up ever so slightly. “You’re the exception to all the rules.”
Kathryn glanced over at Griff, who was grinning slightly as he unsealed and unfolded the missive. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
Because she was watching him, she noted all the humor disappearing from his features, the alertness that suddenly seemed to dominate. He placed the cheroot on a glass dish. “I have an urgent matter I need to attend to. Gertie, if I’ve not returned by closing, see that all is done up tightly. Lady Kathryn, feel free to continue exploring at your leisure. Ladies.”
He strode from the room, not in a rush, but definitely with some resolve. Surprised by his abrupt departure, she followed into the hallway and watched as he darted up some stairs at the far end of it. Mrs. Ward had stayed close as though fearing Kathryn would make off with the silver candlesticks. “Where is he going?”
“To his rooms, probably,” Mrs. Ward responded. “Is there anything you require of me before I return to my duties?”
“No, thank you.” As someone who no longer had anyone to accompany her, she would be wise to take her leave but couldn’t shake off the sensation that something was terribly wrong. Acknowledging a couple of people she knew who were mingling about, she casually wandered along the hallway until she reached the stairs. She was tempted to go up them but didn’t wish to intrude or become a bother when he’d seemed anxious to be rid of her.
Then he was coming down them, hat and walking stick in hand, purpose in his stride. When he reached the last step, she glided in front of him.
Impatience marred his features. “Lady Kathryn, I haven’t time—”
“What is it? What’s happened? Is it Althea?” As far as she knew, her friend was still in Scotland, but if some tragedy had befallen her, surely he would have been told.
His eyes reflected sympathy and understanding. “No.” He hesitated before continuing. “I must meet with Marcus. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“You mentioned it was urgent.” His actions certainly reinforced that notion. “Even if you’ve a carriage, you’ll need to have it readied. Mine is waiting in the mews. Allow me to provide you with transport to wherever you need to go.”
“I’ll hire a cab.”
“My carriage will be quicker. I’ve seen all I wanted to see, anyway.” Because all she’d truly wanted to see was him. “My driver could drop you off before taking me home.”
He gave a quick nod. “All right, then. I appreciate it.”
This time when he escorted her toward the other stairs, the red-carpeted wider ones that led down to the main floor, his hand rested lightly on the small of her back, the heat from his fingers pronounced, burning through the silk of her gown so strongly it was like it had been when they were near her neck, flesh on flesh. She welcomed the surety of them, the familiarity, the intimacy. As though he’d touched her without thinking, as though doing so was as natural as breathing. As though they were in this together, whatever this was.
She suspected it involved an element of danger and dearly wanted to instruct her driver to go in the opposite direction of wherever Griff indicated they should travel. To keep him safe, to protect him from harm.
She’d offered her carriage not out of benevolence but out of crushing curiosity, desperate for a little more time with him, to learn the secrets of what had transpired to make him the man he was now, one who hardly resembled the gentleman who had kissed her in the duke’s garden.
He should have refused and have found his own transportation to meet with Marcus. But here he was, within the close confines of her carriage, with her faint orange fragrance wafting around him. When he should be nowhere near her.
“Why did you leave your cheroot to burn as though you intended to come back for it?” she asked. “It seemed a waste.”
“It leaves a more pleasant aroma if left to burn out on its own. I prefer the pleasant to the unpleasant. And it will be wasted. A young man will come through and toss it in the rubbish bin.”
“So many things to consider.”
More than she’d ever know.
“Before Althea left for Scotland, we had a few occasions to visit, but she wasn’t able to enlighten me as to what you and Marcus were doing.”
So now she wanted to get to the heart of his urgent matter. It shouldn’t please him that she’d asked after him, and he was no doubt reading too much into her inquiry. People asked after their friends’ families as a show of politeness. It had probably been no more than that—or perhaps she’d wanted to find him to express her upset over the wager. “Marcus is striving to determine who organized the plot for which our father hanged. I helped him for a while but grew weary of the hunt.”
“Is he in danger?”
Possibly. Probably. “His letter indicated only that he needed to meet.”
“Yet you didn’t hesitate.”
“He’s my brother. I am always there for him.”
“What of Althea, being there for her? You didn’t attend her wedding.”
He detected a bit of censure in her tone. “It wouldn’t do for those with whom Marcus associates to catch wind of him having any connection to the aristocracy, and there is evidence that he is often secretly followed. At the time, it seemed best for me to keep away as well.”
“Considering how the lords and ladies turned their backs on your family, I’m surprised to see so many of them at your club.”
He grinned. “I kept my involvement secret at first. By the time they realized I was the owner, they’d decided they enjoyed the place too much to avoid it on principle.” They seldom acknowledged him, merely tolerated him. But he didn’t mind. He was making a bloody fortune off them. He glanced out the window. “We’re near enough to where I need to be.”
Using his walking stick, he knocked twice on the ceiling. The horses began to slow. “Thank you for the use of your carriage.” When the vehicle stopped, he opened the door, leapt out, and looked back at her. While she was naught but shadows, still he saw her clearly in his mind. “Safe journey home.”
Suddenly her fingers were clutching the lapels of his coat. “You will be careful.”
He wanted to cradle her face between his hands and take possession of her perfect mouth, to have a final kiss, a final taste, rather certain Marcus’s reasons for sending f
or him did not lend themselves well to his being careful. But Griff was on his way to meet with a man for whom he’d taken unforgiveable actions, and he wasn’t going to sully her with a touch when he was so near to the reminder. “Always.”
“We’ll wait for you.”
“No. Go home now, Lady Kathryn. I can find my own way back to the club.”
Her fingers loosened their hold. He stepped back, closed the door, and called up to the driver. “Carry on.”
Without waiting to see them off, he began running toward one of the bridges that crossed the Thames, striving to calm his racing heart because Marcus’s note had said simply, “Life and death.”
Chapter 13
He slowed his steps as he neared the water that reflected moonlight. It created the sort of tapestry that evoked romantic overtures, but nothing about his present mission would lend itself to taking advantage of the beauty. He and his brother had used this spot repeatedly for their clandestine encounters, when one or the other of them had news to share or information to impart. So the missive hadn’t needed to tell him where to go. He’d known where his brother would be waiting.
“Marcus?” It wasn’t a shout, but it carried just the same, over the grass toward the shoreline where the water lapped with the incoming tide.
From behind a pylon stepped a familiar shadowy figure, and Griff drew comfort from seeing Marcus moving toward him with no hindrances. He’d feared the worst, feared seeing his brother hovering at death’s door. Wishing he’d brought a lantern, he met him beyond the shadows of the bridge so the moon and stars could grace them with enough light to make out features. “Are you all right?”
His brother scoffed. “Have any of us been all right since Father was hanged?”
“I suppose not.” Although, the interest in his club and its increasing membership were a salve allowing him to sometimes go hours without reflecting on the past. He’d always considered Marcus the fortunate one, the one who would inherit titles, properties, position, and wealth. While he’d never expected to have anything of value unless he’d earned it himself. Althea had recently found her place through love. Griff was finding his through hard work. But what did a man trained to be duke do when he was placed in the position of never becoming duke? “Are you injured?”
Scoundrel of My Heart EPB Page 13