“Naturally,” she said dully.
“Come, there is no cause for you to act defeated. You cannot seriously have supposed I would permit you to work the faro table when I do not even employ a single female on my staff. It is dangerous, as you have good reason to know.” He could not imagine that she needed to be reminded of the assault.
“This is different.”
“How so?”
“I would be engaged in my work in front of you. It does you no credit if I cannot not be safe with you in the same room.”
God’s truth, but there was some logic to her argument, although he wondered if she had any sense that he might pose the greatest danger to her. He’d meant what he’d said about not wanting another mistress, but he was not entirely opposed to a less formal arrangement, one that brought her around at his whim, not hers. He had been thinking of it of late, unable to ignore the fact that she was sleeping in his bed—without him.
The carnal thoughts were not easily dismissed, and in truth he had not put forth much effort to do so. Olivia Cole was appealing in an otherworldly fashion. Her ginger hair would not be tamed by combs or braids and the wildness of it made him think she had walked through fire. It was a vision supported by the fact that she had survived one.
Her eyes, with their faintly exotic slant and emerald coloring, invariably aroused his interest. On most occasions she offered a direct, even impudent, stare that he appreciated simply for its novelty. When she avoided his gaze, it was not because she was shy of a sudden, but because she was unable to shutter strong emotion. She hid it behind long lashes as she glanced off to one side, an expression that might easily be misconstrued as demure, but was in fact a response to fear.
It was difficult to know with any degree of certainty what made Olivia Cole afraid. She’d remained clear-eyed and level-headed facing her attacker and didn’t panic when fire began to consume the room. She’d been willing to incur his displeasure by not only leaving her room this morning, but presenting herself at his door. If he had to advance a theory, Griffin would say that the thing she feared most was herself.
That also intrigued, drawing him in when perhaps the wiser course would be to increase his distance.
He finished his coffee, set the cup aside, and rolled the stiffness from his shoulders. Too many more nights on the chaise, he decided, and self-preservation would dictate that he present himself at her door.
“You are in expectation of a reply,” he said, studying her, “as if I might be inclined to change my mind. I am not so inclined. When your brother’s debt is finally settled to my satisfaction you will thank me that I did not permit you in the gaming rooms. You have some sort of society to which you will return. Your life will proceed more smoothly if it is not rumored that you were once the faro dealer at Breckenridge’s hell.”
“You know nothing about my society. It is not a consideration.”
Griffin thought he might throw up his hands in frustration. What kept them at his side was a suspicion that they might find their way to her throat. “You are relentless, Miss Cole.”
She actually smiled.
“There is no reason you should be so full of yourself. It was not a compliment.” He watched her school her expression but did not imagine for a moment that she was chastened. “You are Sir Hadrien Cole’s daughter. I have not forgotten that, even if you have.”
Olivia was quiet a long moment in which her stare did not waver. “You have it wrong, my lord. It is Sir Hadrien that has forgotten.”
It was rare that Griffin found himself at a loss, but he knew that feeling now. Her voice did not hint at sadness; her eyes did not hint at pain. It was in the stillness of her posture, in the way she seemed to draw into herself that he sensed her self-protective isolation. Lonely, perhaps, almost certainly alone, she imposed distance without retreating and effectively, eloquently, told him she would say no more on the subject.
“Why is it so important to you?” he asked at last. “I’ve told you that I will see to your house and your staff and your creditors. What is it that I don’t understand that makes you want to do this thing?”
Olivia responded with a question of her own. “Do you believe women can desire to act honorably, that they have a duty to account for their own debts?”
“You do not want to hear my opinion of women and honor and duty.”
“That is a kind of answer, isn’t it? You would not be looking for an explanation if I were a man; honoring a debt would be your expectation. You have satisfied yourself that I am no more than my brother’s marker, and it is not only you, but Alastair, too, who sees me in such a manner. If I go on as I have, it is how I will come to see myself.” She glanced at her hands, shook her head. “A marker. Can you imagine? Not flesh and blood, but currency. It is too lowering.”
Even for me. She did not add the words, but they flitted through her mind. Afraid they would make her sound pitiable, she held them back.
Griffin regarded her with a certain amount of skepticism. “I cannot decide if you are sincere or well rehearsed.”
She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. It is honest.”
“You are correct,” he said, inclining his head to salute her. “It doesn’t matter. My mind is unchanged.”
The hell was particularly crowded this evening, Griffin noted. He was aware that Mrs. Christie’s absence had led to some speculation among his regular patrons. There were wagers in the betting books as to when she would reappear. Griffin did not discourage the activity, though he suggested adding a column that permitted bettors to mark their wagers aswhen hell freezes.This led to further speculation that perhaps a blizzard was in the offing.
It was a harmless enough activity and aside from that one comment, he remained quiet on the matter of his former mistress. He’d learned that she was frequenting some of the competing clubs—Johnny Crocker’s most often—but this did not concern him. In spite of the acrimony of their parting, he wished her well, and if she did deign to visit his hell again, he knew it would happen only when she had captured the attention and the arm of someone she considered his rival.
It would not be enough for Alys Christie that she was doing well. She would want to know that he was not.
“Lady Rivendale,” Griffin said, lifting the hand she extended to him and bringing it to his lips. “You are looking particularly fine this evening. It occurs to me that you will be the very devil to beat at the tables.”
