Authors: Kate Rothwell
Somebody To Love (18 page)
“Araminta,” he said, exasperated. “My aunt’s view of the world allows for no human mistakes, no foibles and no imagination. Unless they are all her own, of course. If you try to live up to her standard you will be trapped in a nightmare of a life.”
Araminta’s smile was more real. “You are trying to make me feel better, and I appreciate it. Thank you.”
“Dammit, I’m doing more than trying to put you in a jolly mood. I mean every word.”
“Perhaps, but the words are still considerate. I would never have guessed such a thing of Mr. Cold-as-the-North-Pole Calverson.”
To look into her eyes was to see into her heart. What he saw—a combination of mischief, gratitude and a touch of sorrow—made him want to leap out of bed and grab her. How dare she disbelieve him? How dare she be ashamed of her lineage? And how dare she be so entirely appealing?
He again felt weak with something more than simple desire. And weakness was not something he courted. Griffin turned his gaze away from her and gathered the cards and letters to keep his hands busy.
In a light voice, he said, “If you decide to marry, you’ll do better than a dyspeptic hedgehog with a perfect pedigree.”
“I don’t think I will ever marry.” She sounded so challenging, he glanced up into her face, and was taken aback by the fierce light in her eyes.
“I don’t know why you sound angry about it,” he said. “I agree—you should be overjoyed you don’t need marriage to survive. You will have a better life than most women. You have ambition for yourself and your future.”
She stood and picked up the tray. “And I have work I must do. Will you want any more to eat?”
“No, thank you.” He shifted onto his side, so he could see her more clearly. The tension had smoothed from her brow and her mouth curved into an impersonal smile, and he knew that, for once, she successfully hid her thoughts from him. He knew that he was going to have a tough task figuring out how he could turn her back into his eager, sloe-eyed, hot-mouthed bed partner.
“I am much better,” he said. “I will return to the hotel as soon as possible.”
“The doctor says you cannot leave. You can’t even negotiate the stairs.”
“I certainly can. But I won’t argue with you, Araminta. What sort of work are you supposed to be doing?”
“I must go make some stew,” she said. “You must rest.”
“What a homely dish for a chef.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Nothing wrong with a good stew. Perhaps you’d like it better if I call it pot-au-feu?”
“Is it for me?”
“It’s for the Downtown Relief Bureau on Fulton Street. I’ll take it to them tomorrow.”
“I am not surprised, though I did not know you were a lady of mercy. Who will eat your pot-au-feu?”
“The poor of the lower wards of the city. There e ho need to be so glib—I am no lady of mercy. Remember for whom I work. Lie down, Griffin.” And with a rustle of skirts and a clink from the tray she held, she was gone.
He waited until her footsteps faded before he picked up the bell. Rather than argue about it, he would show her, and himself, that he could manage the stairs.
Wurth appeared at once.
“Clothes,” Griffin ordered.
“Yessir. Right away.”
Wurth brought him the standard businessman’s suit of morning coat and trousers. “Will you need help, sir?”
“No. I’m not helpless.”
He felt like an old man as he dressed and made his painful way down, clutching the banister.
Eyes wide, Araminta stood at the bottom of the stairs, clutching the newel post as if she’d like to yank it up and throw it at him. “What do you imagine you’re doing?”
“Proving that I am well enough to leave your house within a day or two.”
She aimed a glare of sour disgust at him and put her hands on her hips. “Well now that you’re down here, you’d better sit. Do you want to be in the parlor or the breakfast room?”
No point in resisting temptation. “I want to go to the kitchen.”
He eased himself into the chair and dismissed the hovering bodyguard. “Go, Wurth. I’ll call you if Miss Woodhall turns vicious.”
Araminta gave a gentle snort as she set a cup and saucer of tea, a delicate, floral cup, in front of him.
He drank, and watched her fast hands as she peeled and chopped vegetables. Such competent hands, even when they moved less quickly, and he recalled the feel of them on his body.
To distract himself from the nagging desire, he glanced around her kitchen. Clean, well-organized and practical, it was nevertheless cozy. The herbs hanging from the ceiling, the bright plates arranged on shelves—perhaps those touches set it apart from other places he knew? It occurred to him that he did not visit the servants’ areas of his residences, and perhaps this was like any kitchen. Yet he’d gamble that Araminta’s personality made it feel like home.
“What is your favorite food?” he asked idly.
“Chocolate. Which is yours?”
“I have none. Which food I eat is not terribly important to me.” He’d said it carelessly, and usually it was true. He did not often think about food, for unless he was traveling, everything served to him was of first quality. But Araminta couldn’t have looked more shocked if he’d screamed an obscenity in a church.
She put down her knife and wiped her hands on her apron. “You cannot believe that. No food that takes you back to the best moments of your life? Nothing that makes your mouth want to cry out with joy?”
“Ah, the flavor of food does not move me the way other tastes might.” He was delighted to see her blush at the leer he gave her.
She turned her back, saying, “Oh, you just do not pay attention. Here. Start with the scent of food. Close your eyes.”
“Araminta. Don’t be foolish.”
“Close your eyes. No, I’m not going to play a dirty trick on you. I think that when your eyes are closed your other senses will be more awake.”
He listened to her rummage around. “Sniff,” she ordered.
A delicate scent of coffee, chocolate and something earthier. Some sort of nut, perhaps.
“Open your mouth.”
A delicate sweetness filled his mouth.
“I brought back a piece of hazelnut torte from Kane’s.”
He hummed his appreciation. “Very good.”
“It should bring tears to your eyes, Griffin. It should make you sing.”
He laughed and opened his eyes. “Rather conceited about your cooking, aren’t you?”
She smiled. “No doubt. But wait.”
She went to the pantry and came out with a shriveled lemon. “This should make you sing too, and I had nothing to do with its creation. Pardon its appearance—it’s not really the season for the fruit. I know you like it because your soap smells of lemon.”
She knew his scent, of course, yet he was stirred by the memories of how she’d been close enough to memorize it. Ridiculous how easily his lust was roused these days. Spring fever.
She scratched its surface and thrust it under his nose. “Take a deep breath of it. Now taste the bitter skin.” He obediently chewed the bitter rind she put in his mouth.
She put the lemon on the table and chopped the end off, watching him.
“I can almost see your mouth watering.”
It was, but for a taste of her, not the damn lemon. “Hmm,” he agreed. “I enjoy your lecture, Dr. Woodhall. Go on, do explain what else I miss when I pay no heed to food.”
She grinned at him. “Do you know what the sight of a lemon will do to you if you try to play your flute?”
He watched with amusement as she held the fruit up reverentially in the palm of her hand.
She ruined the solemn effect by waggling the lemon at him. “It is a wondrous, fresh, clean taste. And you don’t think there’s anything important about flavor?”
“Oh, we’ll go back to scent. More scent.” She pulled down several branches of dried herbs, took some leaves between her fingers and rolled them. She held her fragrant fingers to his nose. The sharp, musky scent of oregano nearly hid the faint sweet scent of her skin.
She held up herb after herb and commanded him to breathe them in. “I suppose it is like any skill. You must practice discerning scent and flavor. What in life is important,” she demanded, “if it’s not the joy of smelling marvelous aromas and eating delicious food?”
Was the question rhetorical? Hardly mattered, for he’d answer it. “Feed me more of that hazelnut tart. Just a finger full of the cream.”
She wiped her hands clean, dipped her finger into the thick, creamy filling, and pushed it into his mouth. He grabbed her wrist when she tried to pull away. He thoroughly sucked and licked her finger clean. With the tip of his tongue he tasted her palm, a sweet and salty melding of all the flavors she’d passionately shared with him. He pressed a kiss into her palm and for good measure laid his mouth against the warm pulse of her wrist.
“Yes,” he agreed. “It is delicious.”
With a strangled noise, she wrenched her hand away and turned back to chopping vegetables for her stew.
Griffin leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes and breathed the air of Araminta’s kitchen. Practicing.
She did not visit him that night, though he waited, alert tach small squeak.
He gave up waiting when the house had been silent for hours. He lit a candle and began to carve the wood again. He stopped after a moment and lifted the hunk of cherry to give it a sniff.
She was right. The faint scent brought him back to his childhood and the best places he’d lived, the untamed forests where his father had dragged them. He lay for a time and allowed his mind to drift with the scent. He smiled.
CHAPTER 17
Araminta stood in front of the towering, ugly armoire in Olivia’s bedroom and pulled out several neatly folded chemises. “Olivia. Listen. I know you’re frightened, but we don’t have a choice.”
They had packed several gowns, but now the girl had cold feet. Olivia sat on her bed and twisted her elegant but too thin hands. “You are so kind to go to such effort on my behalf. But, truthfully, I owe a great deal to—to Mr. Kane.”
Araminta clutched the chemises. She counted to ten under her breath. It didn’t work.
“Yes,” she snapped. “A broken head, a broken arm, countless bruises and perhaps something worse. I cannot imagine you’ve always been such a spiritless child. I say we leave now, before you change your mind again.”
Indeed, at that moment something like spirit flashed in the beautiful Olivia’s white face. “You do not know the circumstances. And you have no right to issue orders to me,” she said. “You are nothing more—”
She was no match for the disgusted Araminta, who interrupted her at once. “If you are about to remark that I am nothing more than a servant, stop at once. I know exactly what I am, but that doesn’t stop me from being your friend. Even when you behave like a ninny and don’t heed good advice.”
Olivia’s face turned pale except for the pink blazing on her cheeks. “Yes. You are right about it all. You are my friend. I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I am scared, and no matter how grateful I am to Mr. Kane, he . . . is not a good man. I know that.”
Araminta sighed with relief, but then remembered that her house was filled with Griffin and his merry men. She would still have to find a place to put Olivia.
Griffin had mentioned his suites, or he might think of another answer that would serve.
“I have to go back to my house for a brief time,” she told Olivia. “You finish packing. No more second thoughts. Promise?”
Olivia smiled. “I promise.” She rose from the bed and went to the armoire. “I shall be ready when you come back.”
The moment Araminta appeared in the bedroom doorway, out of breath, Griffin knew why she’d left Kane’s early.
“I’ve succeeded,” she said. “Olivia will be willing to leave him and come here.” She leaned against the doorjamb, obviously unwilling to come any closer.
Griffin laid his pen on the portable desk propped on his lap. He had been about to display too much eagerness. Bad show for a man who knew how to hunt. One should wait for the best opportunity to strike. Move cautiously, he reminded himself.
He picked up the letter he’d been writing and skimmed it. “I shall be departing later today, and so it would make more sense for her to come to me.”
She began, “But she is ready now, and the doctor saythat you must—”
“I’m nearly well. I require the hotel’s services to conduct business. This house is too small for my needs.”
And,
he silently added,
too full of you to keep my brain where it belongs
.
And,
he silently added,
too full of you to keep my brain where it belongs
.
“I don’t like the idea of Olivia going to your hotel.”
“Fine.” He picked up the pen and dipped it in the ink.
She walked to the chair next to the bed and sat down. “I’ve already made that clear.”
“Yes, you have.” He scratched out some numbers on an estimate and wrote in new ones.
“But maybe . . .” She hesitated. From the corner of his eye, he saw her pretty forehead furrowed in thought. “You suggested that we find a chaperone for me when you first arrived here. Perhaps for Olivia, we could find some unexceptionable—”
He looked up at last. “No. Not in my suites.”
She licked her lips and frowned.
Come on,
he silently urged.
Go ahead and offer.
Come on,
he silently urged.
Go ahead and offer.
Instead she asked, “Why not?”
“I do not like being surrounded by strangers.”
“Ah.” Her tongue passed over her lower lip again. He glanced down to hide his triumph and interest in that lovely mouth. He waited.
Araminta spoke slowly. “For Olivia. Perhaps. If it were not very long before we made certain she was safe. What I mean is for a few days I could act as chaperone . . .”
She made it almost too easy. Griffin put down his pen at once. “That would be acceptable. A good plan, in fact.”
Before she had a chance to change her mind, he called down to his men. When they appeared, he issued orders at once.
“Fetch my carriage from the livery.”
“We will move now,” he told Araminta. “I know that Kane’s business in Albany was fruitless.”
“I suppose there’s no need to ask why you know that.”
He continued as if she hadn’t interrupted. “And he might return earlier than you anticipate.”
Araminta rose from the chair. “I shall go back Olivia now.”
“Good. I shall have your trunk moved to my suites.”
At the doorway she stopped and glared at him. “Stay away from my trunk. I’ll pack my own things, thank you.”
She was down the stairs and out the door almost at once and probably missed his chuckle.
Olivia stared around the largest downstairs gaming parlor, an uncertain frown on her face. With some coaxing, she had almost made it to the front door.
Araminta resisted the urge to pat her yellow hair. “Olivia, love, he has killed women. Come on. Pick up your parasol, and use it to help hide your face if you feel you must. We must leave, for I’m coming back to work after I deposit you at Mr. Calverson’s.”
“Do we have to go in the front entrance of the hotel?”
Araminta looked at her steadily. “Why not? Will anyone recognize you?”
Olivia took the parasol and did not answer. Araminta followed her out the door and down the block to the corner. She refused to worry that she had volunteered to stay in Griffin’s hotel. One problem at a time.
The man Griffin had t with Araminta had insisted on hiring a hack for Olivia and ordering the coachman to park around the corner. “And no luggage, mind you,” he’d said to Araminta.
“For goodness’ sake,” Araminta grumbled as she tucked her skirt under her and took her place in the carriage next to Olivia. “You’d think that we were sneaking away with the sterling silver. All of this intrigue and carrying on as if we were thieves.”
The man sat across from her and gave an apologetic shrug. “Mr. Calverson’s orders. Here’s the rest of it. At the hotel entrance, you’re to ask for a Mr. Bendlow, who’ll escort you to a meeting room where you’ll meet another gentleman.”
“Who are these people?”
“I dunno. I suppose it’s just because there’s no need to advertise you’re there for Mr. Calverson,” the man said.
Araminta gave an impatient click of the tongue.
Mr. Bendlow proved to be a small man with thick glasses and impressive ginger muttonchops. A desk clerk at the hotel, Araminta supposed.
“This way, ladies.”
He led them across shining marble floors covered with thick carpets to the same private room where she’d met Griffin.
“This is Mr. Williams.” Mr. Bendlow introduced them to another well-dressed businessman.
The lean and smiling Mr. Williams bowed, and Mr. Bendlow left the spacious room.
“It’s a whole parade of gentlemen, isn’t it?” Araminta muttered to Olivia, who wore a pallid, wide-eyed expression of fear. Araminta took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. She needed reassurance too, something to combat the rising unease as she ventured deeper into Griffin’s domain.
Mr. Williams escorted them up to Griffin’s suite. Araminta watched her friend’s face as one of the wide double doors swung open to admit them. Olivia kept her eyes focused on her gloved hands, which clutched the handle of the parasol. She only briefly examined the palatial rooms.
The girl was either too afraid to show interest, or she’d seen rooms as marvelous and rich as Griffin’s suite before. Araminta guessed both were true. Her own heart beat far too quickly. She repressed the nervous laughter that formed in the pit of her stomach when she recalled the title of an unpleasant print hanging on a wall at Kane’s mansion:
The Scene of Her Seduction
.
The Scene of Her Seduction
.
“Mr. Calverson will see you in the drawing room,” said the maid, who had a wide smile and a wink for Araminta.
Griffin lounged on an emerald-green velvet divan that matched his eyes. If he’d been a woman or a vainer man, Araminta would have wondered if he’d picked the color for that reason. Though he wore a dressing gown over a loose white shirt and had a rug across his knees, he looked nothing like an invalid, for he exuded his usual quiet strength. He’d been shaved since Araminta had seen him two hours earlier. And except for the lines at the corners of his mouth and circles under his eyes, no one could have guessed that he’d been stabbed three days earlier.
He did seem too washed out, now that she examined him more carefully. She resisted the urge to press her lips to his forehead to see if he had developed a fever. The image of him succumbing to a fever or lockjaw twisted through her—not for the first time. She held her breath with the sharp ache of an imagined loss.
He did not look at her. Instead he directed one of his rare and devastating angelic smiles at Olivia. “Miss Smith. Thank you for agreeing to come here you felt you had to leave Mr. Kane’s household.”
Olivia returned his smile, and Araminta saw how gorgeous the two of them would be together. The tableau of angelic Olivia and glorious Griffin almost made her heart catch. The hair of near gold and the hair of moonlight would be a perfect match.
She resisted the urge to kick them both. How long was she going to have to endure this? And from where did this oh-so-gentle and thoroughly charming Griffin come?
At least he was no longer smiling, though he seemed gravely polite instead of blank faced. “I would conduct you to your chamber, Miss Smith, but I’m afraid I am under the weather. I hear that I have you to thank for my rescue?”
Araminta had told him the story of how Olivia had overheard the men planning the attack. But really, now he acted as if Olivia had blazed in with a sword and fought off the villains. But of course not—ladies would never be so bold as to tackle evil assailants. Araminta’s knees still ached from hitting the cobblestones. She’d ripped one of her favorite gowns that day.
Araminta gritted her teeth. She might have been a spoiled child, and her jealousy shamed her. For heaven’s sake, she was the one to drag the girl here. And if Griffin fell under Olivia’s spell and Olivia succumbed to this new Griffin, she had only herself to blame.
The grinning maid appeared to show them to their rooms.
They crossed the wide front parlor and walked down a hall to Olivia’s bedroom, a sunny yellow room with pure white trim.
“It is perfect,” Olivia assured the maid. She turned to Araminta. “Will you come say good-bye before you return to work?”
“I’ll just go to my room, wash up and meet you here again,” Araminta said.
The maid led her back across the huge parlor and through the smaller drawing room.
“This one is yours, ma’am.”
The bedroom was also pleasant but more modest and much smaller and—oh, good God . . . as Araminta knew from her previous memorable visit, it lay next to Griffin’s.
She drew in a thick breath and grew dizzy. His plans were so obvious he might have shouted them. He would turn on this unexpected charm and polite breeding to entertain Olivia during the day. And at night, he expected Araminta to entertain him. After all, she did not deserve the same consideration as a lady.
She threw her shawl on the bed and directed a new surge of anger at herself. For though she hated the idea and felt she hated him as well, her stupid body hummed with something she knew was excitement. Too bad for the treacherous ache inside her, and too bad for Mr. Calverson. He was doomed to be disappointed in his odious plans.
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