“Griffin.”
“What?”
“My name is Griffin. We are intimates, remember?”
“Pretending to be intimates,” she said under her breath. Over his shoulder, she smiled at a couple passing them on their way to the gaming room. “Pretending, my lord. It is not the same as actually being intimates.”
“I am quite aware.”
The way he said it, a bit darkly and edged with a certain roughness, made Olivia feel winded of a sudden.
“Say it,” he said, watching her closely.
She shook her head. “There’s no one around.”
He placed one hand on the banister and the other on her shoulder. “Humor me.”
“You are too often humored, I think. Denial will improve the strength of your character.”
“Astute and priggish. I cannot imagine that you will remain my mistress for long.”
Olivia pursed her lips.
Griffin laughed. “Oh, very well. Run along.” He removed his hands and stepped back, still chuckling as he watched her climb, haughty and stiff-spined, to the top of the stairs.
Olivia made straight for the window bench as soon as she reached her room. She peered down at the street, angling for the best view. She did not have to wait long. In spite of her assurance that the gentlemen meant no harm, she saw all four of them summarily run off. They nearly tripped over one another in their haste to reach the street, though she was confident their intoxicated state also contributed to their clumsiness.
They took to the center of the cobbled street, dodging hansom cabs, private carriages, and ladies openly plying their trade. These near brushes with mishaps of every variety seemed to amuse them, for they laughed uproariously and continued on the wayward path they’d set, scattering only after one of them became violently ill.
Olivia recognized the gentleman bent over at the waist, spilling guts and drink into the street, as the sandy-haired fellow who had tried to peer beneath her paint and place her face. She could not summon any sympathy for his plight.
She turned away from the window and arranged herself comfortably on the bench awaiting Breckenridge’s return.
Griffin knocked politely but didn’t allow himself to be delayed by waiting for Olivia’s response to enter. She rose from the window seat immediately. He held out a hand. “A moment if you will,” he told her. “There is no hurry.”
“That is because you will take your winnings regardless of who is dealing faro. I only collect my share if I am at the table.”
“You are without doubt the most single-minded female of my acquaintance.”
“You flatter me.”
“Naturally you would see it in that light.” He pointed to the bench. “Sit. I promise you this will not take long, and you have been standing since we opened the doors.”
She sat but was compelled to add, “I am no hothouse flower.”
Griffin hitched his hip on the arm of a wing chair. “Neither am I,” he said, “but notice that I am enjoying a moment’s respite as well.” He paused, considering how best to approach her. She seemed to appreciate straightforwardness. “How is it that the blond fellow knows you?”
“Pardon?”
Griffin felt certain that her polite response was merely a tactic to permit her to gather her wits. He’d spoken clearly; it was not the words she misunderstood. Still, for form’s sake, he repeated the question.
“I don’t understand. Did he say he did?”
“I believe he was attempting to say just that when you interrupted him—twice.”
“I remember the conversation differently. He compared me to an angel and a queen. It is a tiresome compliment men are wont to give when they are in their cups. Harmless enough, just as they were. You did not have to throw them out. I could have managed them.”
Griffin realized that she had given him several openings by which he might distract himself from his purpose. He was as admiring of her talent for diversion as he was frustrated by it. “He compared you to neither of those things, although his friends had done so earlier. Once he moved closer to the table he watched you most attentively.”
