“Well, I’ve grown accustomed to you there,” she said stoutly. She carefully withdrew an ivory cashmere shawl from one of the valises and refolded it so it would fit neatly in the chest of drawers. “Wick is certainly going to pine for you. All of the staff, I should think. His lordship as well, though you were never under his feet the way you were mine. Why is that, Beetle?”
Wick took a sharp jab at Beetle’s ribs and answered for him. “It’s on account that you smell better.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Like rose petals.”
Olivia made a threatening gesture toward both boys, which only caused them to giggle. “It’s lavender, not roses.” She turned away before they could see she was smiling.
Beetle jumped down from the trunk to pick up one empty valise and scoot another toward her. “You’re wrong about his lordship. Missing me, I mean. Oh, maybe just a little he will, seeing how I shined his boots all proper and Wick never got the knack of it, but he’s got his own boy now, so that’s good, though I don’t suppose that one will have to polish boots.”
Olivia straightened slowly as she lifted the valise. She did not set it on the seat of a chair as she’d meant to, but hugged it to herself instead. “His own boy? What do you mean by that?”
Beetle hopped back on the trunk, clutching the empty valise much as Olivia was. “His son, miss. His lordship has himself a son.”
Olivia sat in the wing chair in Griffin’s study, a wool rug thrown over her legs. After a brief burst of spring-like weather, the turn in the skies was a disappointment. Rain hovered again, falling intermittently throughout the day. The chill was deep, almost impossible to dismiss, and sitting as close to the fire as she could reasonably do safely did not help overmuch.
She closed the book in her lap and tucked it between her hip and the arm of the damask-covered chair. Tipping her head back, she closed her eyes. It had been nearly a fortnight since she’d returned and still there was no word from Griffin. The hell remained closed night after night, during which Olivia slept restlessly, the incoherent but constant hum of voices and rattling traffic from the street serving to punctuate her sleep at odd moments. She’d awakened once with the sheets tangled but not twisted, hugging her pillow, but not throttling it. A dream then, she’d decided. No nightmare. No terror.
When Griffin returned she would tell him that she’d dreamed of him. It was probably true. She wanted it to be true.
The household staff was pleased to have her back, though they treated her with rather more deference than she wished. They hardly knew what to do with themselves with the doors closed each evening. It was inevitable that they turned to cards and dice and spun the roulette wheel themselves. Thus far, Wick and Mr. Truss had winnings exceeding everyone else, which meant a great many others were engaged in doing their chores. She’d had a turn trimming candles after making an incautious wager with Wick—and losing.
She heard the door open behind her but didn’t turn. “Bring the tea here, Wick, and set it on the table. Have a care not to topple the books, or anything else. I cannot be certain I put it all in order the last time you stumbled and went head over bucket.”
“Someone’s guts will be garters if you didn’t.”
Olivia didn’t move, didn’t dare move. She let the whiskey-soft voice wash over her, settle in her hair, caress her face, slip under her skin. She felt him approach, but he remained behind her. She stayed just as she was, eyes closed, breathing in the scent of him. His fingers touched her hair, caressed her face, and slipped under the edge of her shawl to lay her skin bare.
She reached for him then, laid her hand over his. Just that, nothing more. Olivia welcomed him home.
Griffin required a few moments to collect himself before he could stand before her. Relief briefly shuttered the pain and weariness in his eyes. He removed the rug from her lap, took her hands, and lifted her to her feet. “I didn’t bring tea.”
“It’s all right.” She drank him in instead. His face was thinner than she remembered, more sculpted, the scar more noticeable. His hair was damp at the edges, darker than chestnut there, curling just above the collar of his frock coat. There was the faintest bluish tinge in the outline of his mouth, lingering evidence of the bone-chilling wet that had been his companion on his journey. Shadows marked the underside of his eyes, their color not so different from what she observed in the line of his lips.
Olivia removed her hands from his, stepped close enough to feel the chill coming from him, and unbuttoned his frock coat. She inched closer still, this time to bring her body flush to his, and slid her arms under his coat and around him. She rested her cheek against his shoulder, turned her face into his neck, and held on.
Griffin’s chest heaved once, then his arms closed the circle at her back. “Christ, but I wanted you to be here. I was afraid…so afraid that you wouldn’t come back.” He turned his mouth toward her, pressed his lips to her forehead. “Your housekeeper said you’d gone,” he whispered. “She didn’t know where. I don’t believe she would have told me if she’d known. I was wild for finding you; I think she was afraid of me.”
“You went to Jericho Mews?”
“Mmm. It’s where I thought you meant to stay. When she said you’d left…bloody hell, Olivia…I was going to make your brother account for it.”
“Alastair didn’t show me the door. I found it myself. I didn’t want to wait for you there, not any longer.” She tipped her head back and looked at him. “He brought me the notice of her ladyship’s death. I pitied her, Griffin, but I was sorry for you.”
“I know,” he said gently. “I know.” He brought her head back to the curve of his neck as a small tremor slipped through her slender frame. She wept softly, almost soundlessly, and when she was done he gave her one tail of his intricately tied stock to wipe her eyes. He glimpsed her watery smile as she did so. “I wished I could have told you myself.” He shook his head, sighed. “If wishes were horses…”
“Do you think I didn’t understand? I did. If you’d written, I don’t believe I would have been able to stay away. Can you imagine?” Alastair’s words came to the forefront of her mind. “How would you have explained me to your family?”
Griffin’s arms tightened. He laid his cheek against her ginger hair. “What accounting could I give save the truth? I would have introduced them to the woman I love.”
Olivia stayed upright because she was already leaning into him. “Is it truly so simple as that?”
“It is, for me. I cannot say what they will make of it.” He nudged her hair. “Nor can I say how you will receive it. You are not going to be sick, are you?”
She smiled because he did not ask if she was going to faint. He knew her that well. “No, I am not going to be sick.”
“Well, there is something to be said for that.” Griffin did not anticipate a like reply and did not receive one. He was satisfied for now that she hadn’t squirmed out of his arms and charged for the dressing room. He felt another tremor slip down the length of her back. No tears this time, but a reaction to the cold he’d brought into the room and pushed right up against her. She’d absorbed his chill while he’d taken her heat. It was, as so often was the case in his dealings with Olivia, an exchange in which every advantage was his.
Griffin set her from him long enough to remove his frock coat and settle her shawl evenly on her shoulders. He picked up the rug and set himself in the wing chair, then invited her to join him. “Do you think I’ll break?” he asked when she lowered herself with so much care onto his lap. “You weigh as much as a thistle. Come, ease your legs over here. Let me cover you with this.” He snapped the rug across her and tucked it around them both. “Here. What’s this?” He found the book she’d been reading, held it up, examined it. “Songs of Experience. You like Blake’s work?”
“It’s very fierce, isn’t it? Fearless, too. I admire that.”
