He shrugged, unrepentant. “I do my best thinking in the bath. The warm water calms me, soothing my listless devils. Given recent events, I cannot help but to think my time here is limited and your dearest brother will be keen to see me put on trial for my supposed sins.”
The notion of Lucien sending Strathmore to prison, and the thought of the duke being prosecuted for treason, made her mouth go dry. “He has said nothing of the sort to me. I cannot think, given what you have told me about the limited evidence he has against you, and given your very presence here, that he has enough to prove your guilt.”
Strathmore raised a brow. “Do you truly believe he would inform you of his intentions concerning me, my lady? I had an interview with him and Swift a few days ago, and then another each of the following days. I can plainly see the direction of the train I am traveling in, and it is barreling down the tracks straight to Newgate, no stops in between.”
She shivered at the certainty in his tone, wondering how he could be so calm and cool when he spoke of the specter of his imminent arrest and trial. He had such an ease about him, as if nothing could perturb him, and she could not decide if it was a façade he wore, or if he was truly so inured by the life he had led to expect the worst and face it without fear.
Violet had a feeling it was the latter, rather than the former.
But his revelations gave her new purpose, a greater sense of urgency, and with those twin impetuses, she too thundered forth, much like the figurative train he had just described. She took a deep breath, gathering her courage.
And that was when she noticed it, odd markings upon his chest, marring his otherwise perfect flesh. Without thought, she moved forward, closing the distance between them, and pressed her bare hand against his hot skin.
“What happened to you here?” she asked, tracing a line to the edge of his dressing gown where it continued beyond her sight.
His breath caught, and she could not be certain if it was because of her touch, or if it was rooted in embarrassment that she had seen his scars.
“Torture,” he said simply, his fingers closing around her wrist in a firm grip. “Endured for the sake of my Crown and country.”
His hold on her was not painful, but it was firm, and she knew he could hold her in place if he wished, or hurt her if he liked. But she also knew, without hesitation, that he never would; that if she made to free herself from him, he would allow it.
But the playful ease he had exuded when she had first arrived had dissipated. Now, he was tense beneath her touch, body held stiffly, shoulders back. His lovely mouth was a hard, firm line she longed to kiss into surrender.
She did not. Instead, she moved just her forefinger, tracing the scar gently. She ached to think someone had taken a weapon to this man at some point. Someone had cut into his perfect flesh, had made him bleed, had given him pain.
“Do you want to tell me?” she asked.
“Would it repulse you any less with an explanation?”
She glanced up from his battle-scarred chest to his face, falling into his startling blue eyes. “I do not find your scars repulsive, Strathmore. I find them admirable, signs of your bravery.”
His lip curled. “Do not seek to mollify me with words, my lady. I know I have a pretty face and the body of a beast.”
The urge to undo the knot on the belt at his waist and bare him completely to her seeking gaze struck her then, along with an arrow of heat to her core. She would show him how beautiful he was, from head to foot. She would kiss all his scars, run her hands over him, show him with her touch just how much she longed for him.
She settled for just one of those acts now, pressing her lips to the scar. How warm and smooth his skin was, interrupted only by the raised line of his healed flesh and the hair stippling his chest. A jolt of awareness coursed through her. His scent, pine and musk and male, was all around her, heady and delicious. She inhaled, wishing she could forever remain this close to him, that she could capture the sweetness of this intimacy and trap it in her heart.
He made a low sound—part growl, part grunt—, the only sign her kiss affected him. She tipped back her head, looked into his gorgeous face.
And that was when the words she’d been determined to say to him emerged at last. “Marry me.”
Griffin stared intoLady Violet’s upturned face, certain he had misheard her. His heart was thumping, his cock was rigid and demanding, tenting his robe and, thank Christ, but she had not seemed to notice. When she had kissed his ugly scars, it had required every bit of willpower he possessed to keep from taking her in his arms and carting her to the bedchamber, throwing her upon his bed, and making his claim upon her, then and there.
Mine, roared something primitive inside him. And it would not be stopped. It became a litany, ringing inside him like a hymn he would always know how to sing.
Mine, mine, mine.
She could not go to Flowerpot and become his wife. Could not belong to such a milksop.
Not this intrepid, daring, beautiful lady, who somehow managed to find her way into his chamber when she had guards dogging her every move. Who believed in his innocence, when her own brother did not. Who wanted to learn how to shoot a pistol, so she could protect herself. Who was bold and fierce and defiant in a way he had never before seen in a female.
But with all that roaring, and all that blood rushing in unison to his galloping heart and his throbbing cock, surely he had not just heard Lady Violet demand he marry her? Nay, surely not.
“I beg your pardon, my lady?” he asked.
“I-I know it is, ah, an unusual request,” she stammered, her face flushing a becoming shade of pink. “But think upon it for a moment before denying me outright, I beg of you.”
There had been no mistake then. The two words she had uttered moments before had been precisely as he had heard them. Precisely as his reeling mind and equally stunned heart had concluded.
