Authors: Kate Rothwell
Somebody To Love (16 page)
“I know I have you to thank for the package of vanilla beans that came after I complained of having none,”
she’d written.
“Just as I know you must have sent the lemons as well. If you tell me this is so, I shall give formal thanks. In the meantime I’ll use the beans with pleasure. And I shan’t
’t
think of you at all as I do so.”
He could tell that some of the letters had been destroyed, for she made references to her own words that he couldn’t find, and he found himself wishing he could read the missing letters. In his current weakened mood, he found he enjoyed reading the life of a young girl discovering the world.
The full-grown woman’s angry voice dragged him from his musings. “I don’t recall giving you leave to read my correspondence.”
He looked up and cocked an eyebrow at the flushed and frowning Araminta. “They were spread across the top of the open trunk. But I apologize if you are annoyed.” He held up the stacks. “Here. Take them.”
He’d read them all anyway. Most of them more than once.
She marched to the bed and snatched away the piles of letters, and then left the room clutching them to her breast.
She soon returned, still glowering.
Bemused, he examined her scowling face. “You seem more upset than is necessary. You wrote nothing terrible.”
“It is none of your business what I wrote. I cannot believe that you are such a sneak.”
He feigned a yawn, one of her tricks. “I was bored.”
“I shall fetch you some books then.”
“I’d rather talk to you.”
She perched on the edge of a chair, ready for flight. “Five minutes.”
He settled back on the pillows and gazed into her wary eyes. “Are you happy, Araminta?”
The question had obviously hit her amidships. She brushed her hand down her sleeve and chewed on her lip. He wondered what she’d expected from him. Mockery perhaps.
“I shall be,” was her cautious answer. He’d forgotten that she was almost always honest.
“But you aren’t, yet. Is there anything I can do for you? Or your friend Miss Smith?”
For the first time, her brow cleared and her eyes smiled. “You are generous.”
“Not really.” He could be honest too.
She tilted her head. One of her curls slipped from its mooring and came to rest against her long neck. “Why do you say that?”
“Can’t you guess, Araminta? I still have hopes.” And he knew from her blush that she understood him. Really, the woman blushed often for such a strong creature.
She did not grow indignant, however. She merely rose from her chair and went to the door, her shoulders set in a stiff, proud line. He knew she fought the urge to dress him down and wondered why she did not give in. He waited expectantly. Instead she stared at him with shadowed eyes that made his mouth go dry with longing. When had such a glanced cause the world to reel? At last she twisted away and, with her back to him, remarked, “You said you were bored. I will send up some books.”
Araminta went down the stairs, skirting the two large, taciturn men who rested on her sofa, reading a newspaper. She wanted to ignore them, but her mother had trained her too well.
“May I offer you some refreshment?” she asked at last.
“No, ma’am,” one of them spoke up. “We have had plenty to eat. And we took the liberty of putting some food in your kitchen. Mr. Calverson’s orders. He doesn’t want you to be disturbed.”
“How long will you remain in my parlor?”
“Would you like us somewhere else? The kitchen, maybe? We gotta stay on the premises until we get orders we can go. Sorry,” he added.
Araminta smiled politely. It wasn’t their fault she’d dragged the pestilential Griffin Calverson to her house. If only she’d had sense enough to haul him back to his office!
He had hopes, he’d said. What nonsense. Why would such a canny man practically announce his plan to seduce her? It flustered her more than a subtler method such as flirtation. Ah, of course. That must be why he said the words. Araminta realized her lips had crooked into a smile, and forced it from her mouth at once.
She found a few books, including a copy of Lady Asquith’s on proper etiquette, and asked one of the men to deliver them upstairs. Then she went to the kitchen and started to assemble a tray of food for the dratted Griffin. One of the bruisers appeared in the doorway. “We’re supposed to take care of that. We’re going to order in food for Mr. Calverson.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I’d rather prepare it myself. I promise you. No arsenic in his food, no matter how tempted I might be.”
The man gave her a dubious frown, and sat down at the kitchen table to watch her. Perhaps he wasn’t convinced her arsenic remark was a joke. He must know Griffin well.
The man, who said his name was Wurth, insisted on accompanying her up the stairs—and on carrying the tray.
Wurth left, but she lingered in the doorway and watched Griffin eat.
He sipped the tea and watched her over the rim of the cup. “You might as well come in and sit down.”
She came far enough to lean against the wall just inside the door. Even from several safe feet away, the lure of his body and eyes tempted her.
“Why not? I shan’t bite. Remember, I’m an injured man.”
Who had managed to get out of bed and rifle though her trunk. “I am happy enough here,” she said and crossed her arms across her chest.
He put down the cup. “Timona met you at some baroness’s house, didn’t she?”
“For a man who appreciates details, you’re almost as slipshod as Timona about titles. Really, I can’t believe you don’t know the difference between a duke and a viscount. Aha!” She flashed a triumphant smile at him. “No doubt you pretend ignorance because it drives your aunt insane. I saw her while I worked in London. She is a dragon, and you can’t bear to leave monsters unchallenged.”
He rubbed a hand across his chin. She could hear the rasp of his stubble. His golden brown hair was rumpled, too. The normally immaculate Griffin was disheveled—and as horribly appealing as ever. More perhaps.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “So says the pot to the kettle. Yes, fine, I’ll admit that Aunt Winifred is dreadful. And expensive, as well.”
“You pay for her pkeep?” She hid her amazement, yet truly she should have guessed that he was a generous overlord to his subjects and family. No, she knew her sneering thought was unfair. She recognized that Griffin had a strong sense of morality, though his principles were unlike others she knew.
His mouth wore a faintly annoyed scowl, as if he hadn’t meant to reveal the fact that he paid for Lady Bronclarke. “My aunt is hardly worth the attention one pays to more dangerous dragons.”
He picked up his spoon and stared at the tray that lay across his lap.
Araminta folded her arms. “The doctor said that you must eat if you want to regain your strength.”
He gave the custard a halfhearted poke with the spoon.
“The doctor ordered mild, easily digestible foods,” she explained.
“If I must eat such nonsense, at least you do them well,” he grumbled.
Araminta laughed, and at his enquiring look, explained, “You are as much a child as any man is when he is ill.”
He laid the spoon on the tray and regarded her with hauteur. “And where have you had experience with ill men?”
“At my work, naturally.” Feeling more in control of the situation, Araminta strolled into the room and began tidying it—and rooting around for other embarrassing writings or objects she did not want him to find. “I had a position cooking for invalids.”
“Ah, of course. At the Krankauer Institute.”
The letters. Indignation filled her again. “You had no right to read those letters.”
“No, and I can see that you dislike being reminded that I know about all about you.”
The words seemed to echo through sudden, heavy silence. Knew all about her. He knew that she was a bastard, that her grandfather had murdered her father, a servant, and had never been accused of the crime.
The snake Griffin knew more than anyone else alive about Araminta’s shameful heritage. She frowned down at her hands and saw they trembled. She would leave before she made a fool of herself and did something disgraceful like crying.
Griffin spoke so softly she barely heard him. “You are a brave woman, Araminta. That is what I learned from your letters.”
“And the rest? You already knew?” Oh bother, her voice trembled, and she knew that the tears were close. To stay calm, she squeezed her hands into tight fists. “I’ll leave you to your dinner, Mr. Calverson. I believe that you have a handbell now to summon help. Good evening.” And she fled the room rather than look in his face. She wouldn’t risk seeing anything like scorn, or even worse, sympathy, in that handsome, cold face.
She had trouble sleeping that night. Since Griffin lay in her bed, she had taken the spare bedroom. She stared at the walls, aware of the males all around in her small house. Several men kept watch downstairs, and Griffin lay in her bed.
She shifted to stare at the ceiling, recalling the feel of his body on hers. No, she did not have to make love, but the warmth of a human so close. She missed that, even though she had never truly experienced it.
The quiet night creaked on with only a few distracting noises. Outside carriages rattled and clopped; inside the house sighed. It was too warm to bother with a fire in the fireplace, so she lay in darkness, thinking.
He would not want to do
that
wit a woman, for he had been injured—and he would certainly have drunk the brandy so she’d be safe.
that
wit a woman, for he had been injured—and he would certainly have drunk the brandy so she’d be safe.
Griffin would go back to his hotel soon. Araminta would have her bed, her house and her life back. No one would be hurt if she simply lay down beside him. Just for one night.
Could it be that lust drove her to pull on her dressing gown and tiptoe across the small hall to her room? Surely women did not suffer from the demon of lust as men did. Loneliness. The desire to feel the rhythm of another’s breathing through the long night.
She stood, heedless of her bare feet on the cold wood floor, and tried to memorize the shadowy picture: Griffin in her bed. At last she pulled back the light counterpane that covered him. He lay on his back asleep, breathing deeply, his head, muscular neck and shoulders such an odd sight against the lace-edged pillows she knew so well. She resisted the urge to reach out and stroke the bare skin. The heat flashed through her as she remembered their evening together. Shame and embarrassment seemed so petty when she saw that powerfully built body again. Even remembering his insulting offer to hire her as his whore could not quench her thirst for his touch and the feel of his body on hers.
Stop. She reminded herself that she came here only to sleep. As she climbed in next to him, she tried hard not to touch his skin and wake him. With tiny movements, she wiggled onto her side to face him. She closed her eyes. Desire swamped her, and pumped through her with every beat of her heart. Though he lay inches away, she swore she could feel the heat radiating from the man. She sat up suddenly. Could he have a fever? She allowed her hand to lightly rest on his forehead, which was cool.
Satisfied, she lowered herself down and matched her breath to his slow, easy breathing. This sort of joy, of simply existing companionably in the middle of the night—this is what she might have had, if she’d ever found someone she could happily marry.
Tonight she could imagine what it would be like to be a wife—impossible outside her imagination, since she’d been born on the wrong side of the blanket, and with the wrong sort of grandmother. Not to mention wanting the sort of man who did not value marriage.
She planned to stay awake and feel the thrum of desire and soak up the pleasure of another person, of Griffin, in her bed. But perhaps his sleeping presence calmed her enough to release her from anxious wakefulness, for she eventually drifted off.
In the early part of the night, Griffin had lain awake, aware of his injury but not allowing it to fill his body or brain. He’d taught himself to focus on keeping pain at bay and not permitting it to influence his breathing or tighten the rest of his muscles. He found pushing back and controlling painful sensation a useful exercise.
But his late-night concentration was interrupted by the creak of floorboards. He’d frozen, feigning sleep, and waited, ready for an attack—or as ready as he could be with a couple of knife wounds in his side. A second later, he recognized Araminta’s scent. She’d drawn back the covers. And though she did not seem to be fond of him just now, she was no assassin.
He almost shouted his delight when the bed tilted as she climbed into it, but her far-too-slow motion told him that she did not want to wake him. If he’d shown her he was wide awake, she would undoubtedly flee the room.
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