He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to the palm. “I can guess what you and I will be doing with our nights—other than making love, that is. You’re going to work your way through Shakespeare deciphering all the naughty parts, aren’t you, my love?”
“I am not!” she protested, then stilled.
My love
. He’d never called her that before. She clung to him in a terrible confusion. Perhaps she was being too hasty in her decision to leave for London. Perhaps…
Curse him, she’d known this would happen if she let him seduce her. She’d known he would turn her heart upside down. Feeling lost, she slid off him and crossed to where her gown lay.
“Where are you going?” he asked in a rumbling voice.
“I thought I’d dress. It’s late, you know.” Too late.
“I’d hoped to stay here a while longer.”
If only they could…But no, that wouldn’t do. “We can’t, Griff. Someone might find us.” She needed time to make her decision. Because if she did leave, it should be as soon as possible or he’d catch up to her easily on the road.
She also needed to talk to Helena. Helena would help her either way.
He propped himself up on one elbow. “Very well. We’ll move to your room.”
She stifled a groan. “No, we won’t. If we go there, we’re liable to fall asleep, and the maid will find us together in the morning.”
“Who cares? We’re marrying anyway.”
She thought quickly. “I know…but…It would be embarrassing.” She drew on her gown, trying to ignore the disappointment in his face.
“All right. I suppose I can wait until we’re married.” He sat up and stretched his legs out, obviously quite self-satisfied and completely unabashed about his nudity.
“Aren’t you going to dress?” she asked when he just sat there. She fastened her gown.
“What’s your hurry? I’ll dress in a minute.” He shot her a rakish grin. “I’d rather watch
you
dress.”
With a low curse, she strode over to where his clothes were piled and began tossing them at him. “Well, you can’t. I’d be mortified if some servant found us in here alone together.” She started to throw his coat to him, then halted when something fell out of it. A folded sheet of vellum.
She stared down at it, her heart sinking into her stomach. In a daze, she bent to pick it up. Though she unfolded it, there was no reason. She knew what it was. It shouldn’t even surprise her, yet it did. She’d almost begun to think he might care for her.
A deep sadness stole over her. She should have known better. To him, she was simply one more acquisition—the adoring wife who happened to also be a wanton. But certainly no one whose feelings would require him changing his plans.
Woodenly, she tucked the paper back into the coat pocket and walked to him. As she handed him his coat, tears welled in her eyes. He must have seen them, for he caught her by the hand before she could escape. “Rosalind—”
“I see that your haste to run after me didn’t prevent you from grabbing the certificate first. God forbid you should leave that behind.” Only then had he followed her to make his insincere declarations. “At least I know where I stand with you.”
She tried to tug free of his hand, but he wouldn’t let her. “This has nothing to do with you or how I feel about you. It’s business, that’s all.” When she refused to look at him, he softened his tone. “If I don’t attend to business, darling, we won’t eat, will we?”
It was Papa’s I-am-the-man-so-I-know-best tone of voice, the one that always infuriated her. To have
Griff use it only proved her worst fears about him. “Don’t speak to me as if I’m some witless female. You’ve never done so before, so don’t you dare start now. We both know this isn’t about business, and it certainly has no effect on whether anyone eats.”
Muttering an oath, he dropped her hand and began pulling on his drawers with jerky movements. “Then what do you think it’s about? I assure you, if I wanted vengeance against your father, I’d choose something more devastating than the mere loss of his title. I could have bedded you and refused to marry you, you realize. I could have ruined him financially fifteen times over. For God’s sake, I could have had him poisoned! But that would have been pointless, foolish, and yes, morally wrong. Despite what you think of me, I do have morals. I should think you’d know me well enough to realize I wouldn’t do this for something as petty as vengeance.”
“No, you’d do it for something as petty as ambition.”
Leaping to his feet, he began to pace in front of the settee. “Ambition is not petty. Without it, there’d be no Knighton Trading. I see no reason why I should ruin my firm’s chances to garner a large share of the Chinese trade simply because you don’t want a few people speaking badly of your sisters.”
She tossed back her head. “You know me, Griff—I’m not as ‘practical’ as you. I happen to care more about people than property or your bloody company’s success.”
“You care about your family perhaps, but not me. You’d rather save your sisters from gossip than see me succeed. I
am
practical, thank God. I don’t listen to nonsense like gossip when making decisions that benefit my company and its many employees.”
Oh, he made it sound so noble. He made it sound as if she were the one selfishly pursuing her own
interests. But she wasn’t fooled. She’d heard the emotion in his voice earlier when he’d confronted her father, when he’d spoken of the pain of being a bastard. This ran deeper than any “practical” reason.
The truth came to her in a flash of insight, a simple truth that tore her heart. “Keep telling yourself this is all for the benefit of your employees, but you know better. The truth is, you do care about nonsense like gossip. You care too much.”
Her throat felt raw with anguish, for him as well as for her. “You hate being denied your legitimacy. You resent all those who call you bastard, all those in society who dismiss you for consorting with criminals, all the lords who still won’t let you into their little circle because you’re illegitimate. You want that title, and you want it publicly, so you can grind their noses in it and make them see that you were unfairly wronged by all of them, that you’re better than what they always thought.”
His stricken expression proved that she’d hit it exactly.
She went on. “You’ve tried to prove yourself with your success, yet it hasn’t satisfied you, so you intend to find a bigger, more impressive way to do it. That’s the real reason you’re willing to sacrifice anything and anybody to gain your title, isn’t it?”
“Like hell it is!” he hissed, but his face said otherwise. His lifelong hurt and humiliation and anger drove him.
He needed to prove himself to his naysayers, yet he’d never succeed. He’d never be satisfied, no matter what pinnacle he reached, because someone would always hold him in contempt. Besides, what he really wanted was to fill the empty space where his heart should be, and those ridiculous men in the House of Lords couldn’t do that for him.
“I’m so very sorry that my father did this to you,
Griff. If I could change what happened, I’d do it in an instant. I’d remove your pain if I could. But I can’t. You must do it yourself. And you’re going about it all wrong.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion,” he ground out, “but it changes nothing.”
“Yes, I know.” That’s why she couldn’t marry him, why she must leave tonight. Because her opinion would never change anything for him as long as his past entangled him so inexorably.
She hurried to the door, but he got there first and braced his hand against it. “It changes nothing,” he repeated. “We’ll be married, no matter how our opinions differ on this. You admitted you cared for me despite my supposed faults, and I won’t let you take it back, damn it!”
She gazed up at his dear face, her stomach knotting painfully. She’d probably not see it again for some time. In a burst of tenderness, she laid her hand across his rigid cheek. Her poor fierce, tormented griffin. She now knew why he hoarded treasure and tore apart his enemies. Someone had stolen his treasure long ago, and now he only felt safe when amassing ever greater quantities of it.
Unfortunately, there was no place for love in the midst of all that amassing of treasure, was there? There was no place for her, whether he admitted it or not.
“I do care for you,” she whispered. “I love you, and that is my curse. But you don’t know how to love—and that is yours.”
When she finally dropped her hand and slipped from the room, she didn’t look back.
Faith, Sir, we are here today, and gone tomorrow
.
Aphra Behn, English playwright
, The Lucky Chance
I
love you, and that is my curse. But you don’t know how to love—and that is yours
.
Long after she left, Griff sat on the settee in his drawers, fingering his parents’ marriage certificate and staring blindly at the Swanlea coat of arms on the wall across from him.
Rosalind loved him. His Amazon said she loved him, and he knew she meant it. She might have used a deceptive ploy or two in her attempt to save her family, but he knew her character. When it came to matters of the heart, she didn’t lie.
He tossed the certificate aside and buried his face in his hands. Goddamn it, she loved him? What was he to make of that? He’d never believed in romantic love. Familial love, yes. But romantic love was a fanciful term women used for physical desire, nothing more. Or so he’d always told himself.
Now he wasn’t so sure. Unlike most women, Rosalind seemed to feel no need to call her physical desires by another name. She accepted them, even reveled in them. For God’s sake, how many gently bred women would engage in a frank discussion of the euphemisms for one’s privates? Rosalind might rail against her desires for conflicting with her morality, and she might rail against him for rousing her desires, but she didn’t pretend they were something else—like love.
No, if she said she loved him, then she did. The thought terrified him.
Affection he could handle. He felt a great deal of affection for her, too. But Rosalind in love…By God, the woman never did anything by halves. If she’d given him her love, she’d given her whole heart into his keeping.
Now what was he supposed to do with it? How could he ever satisfy her, please her if she wanted love from him in return? She was right—he didn’t know how to love. He hadn’t the faintest idea.
Feeling as if someone had punched him hard in the chest, he rose and mechanically began to dress. What of her other accusation about his reasons for wanting the certificate?
He scowled. She was wrong about that, completely wrong. Rosalind was merely being her usual suspicious self and seeing deep meaning where there was none. He did
not
want to “grind their noses in it,” as she had put it. That wasn’t it at all.
Was it?
Swearing loudly, he snatched up the certificate and stuffed it into his pocket. No, it wasn’t, and she’d realize it once the matter was settled. He’d make sure he achieved the title so discreetly she’d hardly be bothered by the ensuing scandal. Once
she recognized how much success it brought to Knighton Trading and how much wealth…
He groaned. Rosalind didn’t care a fig for wealth. The bloody woman would probably spend all his money in support of theaters and God knows what else. He’d have to keep a sharp eye on her expenditures, for they were sure to be wild and impractical.
He rolled his eyes. As if he could ever begrudge her anything she wanted. Thanks to his “willful St. Peter,” she could ask him for the Thames, and he’d bottle it for her.
But in one matter, he’d remain firm. She wouldn’t keep him from regaining his title in time to be part of that delegation. No, indeed.
You’re going about it all wrong
.
Damn her! Must her absurd opinions torment him even when she was absent?
Trying not to heed them, he strode about the study, making sure he’d left nothing for the servants to find, then headed up to bed. The house was unnaturally quiet, as if holding its breath. Perhaps it was—waiting for the old earl to die, for the daughters to marry, for him to inherit. No, he reminded himself sternly, that would come before the earl died.
Once in bed, however, he had trouble falling asleep. Rosalind’s words plagued him, no matter how much he tried to squelch them.
All right, so perhaps he did wish to prove himself. What was wrong with that? Most men sought to prove themselves. Why should he be any different?
You’re going about it all wrong
.
With a groan, he turned his cheek to the pillow and tried to shove her voice from his head. After a while he did fall into slumber, but only a fitful one. He tossed half the night, never comfortable, never
able to drive her words away. Then shortly before morning, he began dreaming.
He stood in the House of Lords, waving his parents’ wedding certificate as a loud, sonorous voice pronounced him the rightful Earl of Swanlea. Secure in his success, he glanced around, but to his shock, the lords in their robes had all become children. When he looked down at himself, he was a child as well. He was twelve again, fatherless, friendless, and the boys jeered at him. He tried to explain that he was legitimate now, but their clamor drowned out his voice.
Then he saw her. Rosalind stood above him in the visiting chamber, watching the proceedings. He called to her, but couldn’t make her hear him either. With a sad glance, she turned away and left. Panic struck him. He tried to get to her, but the boys surrounded him, blocking his path, preventing him from following.
Rosalind!
he cried.
Rosalind!
He woke up thrashing about in his bed, still calling out her name. It took him several moments to realize where he was, and to get his racing pulse under control. When he did, he rolled onto his side and pounded the pillow, cursing and moaning.
Oh, God, she was right. The woman had seen clear into his soul, damn her, when even he had refused to see it. His quest wasn’t merely healthy ambition, was it?