A Dangerous Love (25 page)

“Is it?” Her voice caught on the words. “All right.
Answer a question that’s been plaguing me, and I’ll consider your…proposal.”

“What?”

“What have you been searching for so secretly at Swan Park?”

Damnation, that would be her question. And the simplest answer was the truth. It would certainly correct her misconceptions about his “contempt” for “Knighton,” and she’d understand why he’d delayed in proposing.

He sighed. Yes, she’d understand all right. She’d understand that he meant to ruin her father. She might not care, but if she did, then he risked her refusing him. And then she’d also make sure he never got his proof. Why should he gamble when the woman wouldn’t even admit she
wanted
to marry him?

“I haven’t been searching for anything, I told you,” he said evasively. “I’m only taking stock of the property—”

“Balderdash, sheer balderdash.” She approached, the candle suddenly bathing her with light that glinted red in her hair and reflected hellfire in her eyes. “Don’t treat me like a sapskull. You haven’t even spoken to our steward yet or asked to meet Papa’s own man of affairs. You would have done both right away if your concern had truly been for the future of the estate. Not to mention that I haven’t smelled tobacco on you once. For a man desperate for cigars, you’ve been dreadfully remiss in smoking them.”

By God, the woman had certainly paid close attention to his activities and come to some very astute conclusions. But he would expect no less of his Athena.

He tried another evasion. “If you’re so certain I’m
searching for something, then why don’t you tell me what you think it is?”

Rosalind heard Griff’s question with a hint of alarm. It took all her will not to glance at the foot of her bed where the trunk with Papa’s box lay. She’d already glanced at it too many times since he’d been in the room. “I have no idea. That’s what I want you to tell me.”

“You have no idea what I’m looking for, but you’re sure I’m looking for something. If your suspicions are so sound, why haven’t you said anything to your father? Had him throw me out?”

His snide tone rankled. She tilted up her chin and glared at him. “I’d planned to do that very thing this afternoon when I discovered the unsealed door to the stairs in your room. But then you…distracted me and afterward—”

“Afterward, you went to my employer,” he bit out. “Come to think of it, why didn’t you mention these suspicions to Knighton when you were offering yourself to him? Or have you forgotten he’s the one I work for? You only seem to consider
my
motives suspect, yet I do what he commands.”

He had a point, Rosalind thought. If Griff were playing some deep game, Mr. Knighton must indeed have something to do with it. But if they were both in it together, why had Mr. Knighton accepted her proposal when Griff had been so decidedly against it? Something wasn’t right here.

“Very well,” she said, “perhaps I
will
ask him about it later. But first I want to know what you have to say about it, since you’re the one doing the searching.”

He glanced away, and his profile gave her a new view of his battered condition, which easily matched that of his employer’s. His upper cheek
bore an ugly bruise, and the corner of his lip was crusted over where it had been split open.

She tamped down a sudden wave of tender concern. So what if he had fought over her? It meant nothing. Why, she wasn’t even sure how much the fight had to do with her at all. Mr. Knighton clearly didn’t care enough about her to fight anyone on her behalf. As for Griff…well, he was driven by pride, that’s all. He seemed to have an inordinate supply of it for a mere man of affairs.

“Believe what you wish about my activities,” he finally answered, “but I had no aim other than the one I’ve professed all along.” He fixed her with an earnest look. “Besides, it has nothing to do with us, with why we should marry. I want to marry you. Isn’t that enough for you?”

Pain seared her throat, not only at his refusal to tell her anything, but at the flat, unemotional tone of his proposal. He acted as if the very fact of his offering for a spinster like her ought to make her fall down at his feet in gratitude.

Well, he could wait until doomsday for that.

“While I’m terribly flattered that you’d deign to marry me—” she began frostily.

“What the hell do you mean, ‘deign’ to marry you?” he interrupted.

Tears stung her eyes; she struggled to hold them back. She wouldn’t let him see her cry again! “You clearly lack enthusiasm for the prospect, Griff.”

“Goddamn it, Rosalind,” he roared, “what do you want from me?”

She blanched. “The truth. And some sign that you care about me.” When his gaze darkened in a familiar manner, she added hastily, “Not merely about my physical attributes. You’ve made it perfectly clear you have that sort of ‘caring.’”

“I didn’t hear you making any such demands on
Knighton,” he snapped. “You didn’t ask
him
for the truth, or want
him
to care about you.”

A shaft of sorrow pierced her heart.
That’s because I don’t want him to marry me. I want you
.

Dear God, it was true. She
did
want the wretch to marry her. To her shame, she realized she’d relinquish almost anything—her hopes for Juliet’s future, her family, even her dream of being an actress—to marry Griff. But only if he truly wanted her.

The trouble was, he didn’t. Another man had taken his discarded toy, and that had made him want it back. But not enough to tell her the truth or show that he cared for her. She wasn’t even worth that to him.

With a sinking heart, she walked to the door and opened it. “I didn’t ask for that from Mr. Knighton, because he’d already offered me something I didn’t have—his willingness and ability to help my family.”

She swallowed her tears. “You haven’t offered me anything that I can see, not even a good reason for marrying me. Given the choice between two men who don’t care for me—a gentleman whose offer may only suit my practical needs but who treats me with courtesy and consideration, or a selfish schemer who calls me names and only offers marriage in a fit of pique—I’d be a fool to choose the schemer.”

His eyes narrowed to slits. “A fit of pique? The only one having a fit of pique, Rosalind, is you. I didn’t offer for you this afternoon when I should have, so now you want to punish me by refusing me. Is that it?”

Her heart twisted in her chest. What was the point of arguing with him? He simply refused to consider anything beyond his own feelings. “Mr.
Knighton was right: you
are
a bastard, and I don’t mean in the literal sense. Well, I already have Papa to deal with—I don’t need another secretive, selfish bastard in my life.”

His eyes blazed in the darkness. “Fine. And I don’t need a meddling, suspicious harpy in mine. Enjoy your ‘engagement’ to your ‘gentleman.’ I suspect you’ll find it vastly unsatisfying in the end.”

He strode to the door, started to walk out, then returned to her side. Grabbing her about the waist, he pulled her to him for a hard, thorough kiss. At first she struggled, keeping her mouth firmly closed as he tried to deepen the kiss.

Then he urged her hips against his, forcing her to feel his arousal through her silk wrapper, and to her utter shame she yielded, a complete weakling as always when it came to his seductions. Her mouth opened of its own accord, and with a dark groan of triumph, he conquered it, stabbing his devilish tongue inside.

There in the open doorway to her bedchamber where anyone could see them, he kissed her like a lover, hot and deep, his hands sliding down to cup her buttocks and plaster her against his bulging trousers. He didn’t relent until he’d reduced her to a boneless, quivering mass of jelly.

That’s when he broke off the kiss to stare down at her, eyes gleaming. “It seems you’re right—I
don’t
know what a gentleman is. But next time you’re with your ‘fiancé,’ my lady, remember that it isn’t the gentleman whose kisses you crave, whose hands you want on you. It’s the bastard’s. And whether you admit it or not, it’s the bastard you want in your bed.”

Then the insolent devil left.

Long after he’d gone, she stood there shaking
with unfulfilled need. God help her, he’d spoken the truth. She did want the bastard in her bed.

But if it meant marrying him when he didn’t care a farthing for her beyond desire, that was another matter entirely. She still had some say about whom she married, thank God. And though it probably wouldn’t be Mr. Knighton, it would definitely not be Griff.

Chapter 15

Good humor, like the jaundice, makes every one of its own complexion
.

Elizabeth Inchbald, English playwright
, A Simple Story

O
ver the next two days, Rosalind discovered that being engaged to a man she didn’t wish to marry had decided disadvantages. To her annoyance, despite Papa’s joy at the engagement, her sisters lacked enthusiasm. Rosalind had told Helena privately what she really intended, and to her surprise Helena had disapproved. She’d said it was awful of Rosalind to mislead Mr. Knighton like that.

But Rosalind could endure Helena’s icy demeanor. It was Juliet whose behavior puzzled her. When Papa had given Juliet the news about the engagement, the girl had burst into tears and fled. Rosalind had scarcely seen her since.

Only today had Rosalind figured out the source of Juliet’s discontent. The girl’s heart had been set
on saving the family and in her eyes, redeeming the grievous blow she’d dealt it with her birth. Rosalind had denied her that chance at redemption.

But Rosalind couldn’t regret that. Juliet was too young to act as a virgin sacrifice.

Not that Rosalind was very good at it herself. She’d hoped her offer would rid her of Mr. Knighton; instead, it had drawn him in. Though she regularly protested that she didn’t need him around to plan the wedding, the blasted man wouldn’t listen. He insisted on spending time in her company, squiring her to town to order a fictitious gown, consulting with her and Cook about a fictitious wedding feast. She began to fear she’d soon find herself standing before a minister who wasn’t the least fictitious.

Today he’d proposed a picnic on the grounds for the two of them. She dreaded so intimate an outing, yet she couldn’t refuse without rousing suspicion. So she now awaited him in Swan Park’s drawing room, trying not to fret and failing miserably.

She was woefully unaccustomed to courtship and certainly to a pretended courtship. Her previous encounters with men had all ended when her admittedly irascible behavior sent them running for the next shire. No man had ever come close enough to pierce her defenses, and she’d been happy with that state, since none of them had appealed to her.

Until Griff. A shiver swept her. Dear God, the last time he’d kissed her…

Hot need poured through her veins, despite her memory of his arrogant remarks. His absence the past two days—for he’d avoided her entirely—had illustrated painfully just how much she desired the scoundrel. He might be insolent and uncaring and a complete bastard, but he reduced her to a blithering idiot whenever he kissed her.

Thankfully, he hadn’t done so again. He hadn’t even been around. Her relief at being spared his unsettling presence had prompted her to ignore her suspicions about where he’d been spending his time. No doubt he was still occupied with searching for…whatever was in Papa’s strongbox.

Well, that was fine, just fine. Let him search the place, the wretch. She’d tried asking Mr. Knighton about Griff’s secret searches, but he’d claimed that his man of affairs merely did his job thoroughly. What a lot of fustian. She’d even told Papa of her suspicions, but he hadn’t cared, except to make sure she’d hidden the box well. He refused to tell her what was in it, however, especially now that Mr. Knighton had agreed to marry her. The man would have to be looting the house before Papa would kick him out now, him
or
his man of affairs.

So she’d taken the precaution of moving the strongbox to her wardrobe, beneath her unmentionables. Not that Griff would balk at searching her unmentionables, she thought testily. Clearly, the man was wholly unacquainted with the concept of shame.

Very well—let him have whatever was in the blasted strongbox if he found it. Protecting it had brought her far too much trouble already. Let Griff rifle the house with impunity. As long as he didn’t rifle her body with impunity, she was safe.

Now if only he’d stop rifling her thoughts at night in bed—

“Are you ready to go, m’dear?” came a cordial voice from the door.

Startled, she glanced up to find her curst cousin standing in the doorway. She walked toward him with a wan smile. “Of course.”

Though his battered face was healing remarkably well, it added to his often incongruous appearance.
Sometimes he put her in mind of a bear bedecked in finery for a fair or the circus, stoically enduring the indignities of his inappropriate attire even though he’d prefer to return to his natural state. Today, however, he was a bear with a picnic basket, and that actually suited him.

“Where should we go, Lady Rosalind? You’ll have to find us a spot, since I don’t know the place too well yet.”

She smiled and laid her hand on the arm he offered. “I fear we have few truly pretty vistas. We’ve not had a regular gardener for some time now, so our grounds have grown quite wild.”

“I don’t mind wild.”

“Yes, but no doubt you miss London with its well-kept parks and gardens.”

His eyes gleamed with mischief. “How could I miss London when I have such lovely company here?”

Having grown accustomed to his compliments over the past two days, she surprised herself by blushing like a green miss. Mr. Knighton might be unpolished, but he possessed a facility for gallantry that Griff lacked. It was a refreshing change from the whirlwind Griff invariably roused in her. But not so refreshing that she’d want the man around all the time. Whereas Griff…

She squelched that thought at once.