“Tell me what you want. Give me that at least.”
Her hand slid upward from his sleeve and ruffled the capes on its climb to his shoulder. It did not linger there long, but came to rest at the left side of his face. Her thumb made a light tracing along the path of his scar and stopped at the corner of his mouth.
“I want to be with you,” she said. “With you, not apart from you. I don’t want a residence that is purchased for my shelter and your convenience. I don’t want to wait upon you or your visits. Neither do I wish to serve at the whim of my brother, nor to be dependent upon him for my keep. You will have to think carefully about that before you invite me back to the hell. You will have to be certain that there is a place for me in your life.” She stood on tiptoe and pressed her lips hard to his just once before she settled back on her heels. Her hand fell to her side, and she was gratified to see that she had surprised and alarmed him. “Don’t mistake that I mean you must have me for your wife or not at all. That is not an arrangement that could possibly suit either one of us. I will accept a place in your life without marriage; in fact, I am certain I prefer it.”
It was rather a lot to take in, especially when she’d muddled the thing by kissing him as if she’d been compelled to do so. The impression of her mouth on his remained even as she began walking away. Griffin glanced around, saw that while they were not alone in the park, no one else was giving them notice, and lunged forward to catch Olivia by the elbow. Her feet did not quite touch the ground as he half-carried, half-dragged her to the sheltered side of an enormous chestnut. He shackled her wrists in his hands and drew them as high as her shoulders, then urged her back against the trunk and followed with the press of his hard frame. There was time enough for her lips to part, but no time to draw a full breath.
His capture was complete when his mouth slanted across hers. Hungry as he was for the taste of her, he gave no quarter. His lips worked over hers, his tongue speared her mouth, followed the ridge of her teeth and the sensitive underside of her lip. He stole a soft moan from the back of her throat and savored it as another man might savor smuggled brandy. The fact that there were risks in the pursuit and possession made it all the more dear.
He drew back just enough to reposition his mouth. He nudged her lips at an angle, worried the bottom one between his teeth as she so often did, then ran the edge of his tongue across the tiny indentations he’d made.
Olivia was boneless, held up by his hands on her wrists, the trunk at her back, and the knee he thrust between her skirts. She might very well faint if he let her go; she might very well faint if he didn’t.
His will was not a simple thing to ignore. It was like his kiss—coaxing, teasing, gentle and fierce by turns, insistent. He did not always get his way, but he knew what he wanted. Just now he wanted her.
He made her want him in return.
Even as Olivia thought it, she knew it wasn’t quite right. He had not made her want him, he’d simply laid bare her need. She wanted him of her own volition, and her will was every bit as firm and fast as his own. It was equally difficult to ignore.
She wrestled free of his hands and threw her arms around his neck. Her hood fell back, exposing her hair first to the wind that came in small bursts around the tree trunk, then to his fingers. She lifted herself against him and wished that he could take her inside his coat, inside his skin if such a thing was possible.
His kiss was as rough as the bark at her back, but she returned it measure for measure, wanting him now in no other fashion than this. Her grip around his neck and back tightened.
Her eyes flew open when she felt the vibration of his groan against her mouth. She drew back so quickly that her head bumped the trunk. Careless of the thump to her own head, her eyes focused on his face first, then on the hold she had on him. “Did I hurt you?”
Griffin bent and touched his forehead to hers. “Not until this moment, and it’s not because you have a lock on my neck.” He eased her hands down. “Come. We can’t remain here. Someone will see us. We should—”
He stopped because Olivia had shifted her head and was no longer gazing into his eyes. The point of her attention was somewhere past his right shoulder. Apparently they had already drawn attention. He straightened, turned to seek out the same view she had, and caught the young gentleman in the act of replacing his hat. His posture suggested he had recently doffed it, and the smirk on his lips suggested it had been done with a certain insolence. Griffin’s eyes were drawn to the shock of fair hair cropped and curled close to his head.
He turned his head sharply toward Olivia. She was pale as salt. No other confirmation was required. Griffin took off at a run.
Chapter Twelve
Olivia wished she had never seen her attacker in the park. Had Griffin been able to run him to ground, there might have been some good come of the encounter. Griffin had not, however, and it changed the routine of everyone in the hell as a consequence. No one save her made noises about the inconvenience, and because no one paid her the least attention when she did, she learned how to set her jaw so that a muscle twitched in her cheek. It was a source of amusement to Griffin as he considered that her imitation of him not only hit the mark but was flattering besides.
Olivia was required to have two escorts when she left the hell and a pair of footmen standing post when she dealt faro. The gentleman villain—as Wick insisted upon calling him—was considered to be a reckless and dangerous rogue, one who might very well have already returned to the hell unnoticed. Griffin was convinced that it was not happenstance that put him in the park, but that he had been observing her for some time. Even if it wasn’t true, everyone around Olivia agreed it was the safer course to act as if it was.
Olivia twirled a quill pen between her fingertips as she made mental calculations over an open ledger. She sat with her feet curled to one side, her kid slippers lying under the chair. She had yet to change into her nightclothes. Her only concession to the lateness of the hour and the completion of her duties in the gaming room was to remove her wig and paint before she sat down with the book of accounts.
Griffin reclined on the chaise in his study and watched her. It was a pleasure, really. She was capable of such fierce concentration that it changed the shape of her face. The space between her eyebrows puckered; the line of her mouth all but disappeared as she pressed her lips together. She used the feathered end of the quill to occasionally push back a fallen lock of hair or absently make a pass across her temple.
The skirt of her ice-blue gown spread over the chair like frosting. She wore a loosely knotted silk shawl about her shoulders. Her throat was bare, a condition he could not rectify because she would not accept jewelry from him and preferred not to wear those few pieces his wife left behind except when she was turning cards. An emerald, he thought, would be the obvious complement to her eyes and coloring, but something sapphire would work as well—something so deeply indigo that it would hint at violet in certain light. He watched her touch the quill to her throat, lightly tickle the hollow. That raised his smile. He had reason to know she was sensitive there. He’d made it a point to sip from that particular spot whenever he could, and she surrendered the tiniest of whimpers each time he did.
Griffin loosened his stock and unbuttoned his frock coat. He plowed four fingers through his hair. The heat that was in him now could not be explained by the roaring fire. He knew the source of it well enough: she was currently occupying his chair and amusing herself with a feather.
“I could make better use of that quill,” he said.
Olivia looked up, blinked owlishly. “Oh, you’re still here. I thought you’d gone.”
She was so entirely guileless at times that he could not take offense. He pushed ravishment to the back of his mind and sat up. He removed his stock, folded it around his hand. “Are you almost finished?”
“Almost. One more column. Do you wish to see?”
“Perhaps when you’re done. I trust you.”
“I know you do, and it remains a puzzler. I can make a mistake the same as anyone.”
“I don’t doubt it, but you won’t cheat me.”
