Somebody To Love (11 page)

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Authors: Kate Rothwell

BOOK: Somebody To Love
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“Very well, I shall see what can be done.”
“I will pay for—”
“Do not insult me, Araminta.” He answered her unspoken question almost at once. His words were soft and, for once, seemed to hold real gentleness. “I help you for my sister’s sake.”
And not for the sake of whatever strange thing exists between us, she silently added. It occurred to her that she had to admire the man for not trying to use his actions on her behalf to coax her into his bed. Although perhaps he didn’t want her there any longer. Perhaps her embrace had not been satisfactory, and he’d lost any interest in her. Gloom struck her at this thought: she was not as a good a woman as she liked to pretend.
For example, despite all of her lectures to herself, she still wanted to feel his lips on hers again. Goodness, “wanted” was too paltry a word. She longed to press her mouth to his. Every breath ached with desire. Her body screamed for him.
Not a good woman at all.
“Why are you sighing?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m exhausted,” she said. “It has been a long day.”
“You produced a magnificent dinner. Even Mr. Brady commented on it.”
“That salesman? He’d eat the table if he could.”
Griffin chuckled. “Yes, I imagine. But he is the best source I’ve found of information about the rail system.” His gaze followed her fingers as she rubbed her neck again. He apparently came to a conclusion, and stood. “Enough business,” he said, holding out a hand to help her to her feet. “Allow me to walk you home.”
She didn’t take his proffered hand. “I should help my staff—”
“Nonsense. Knowing you as I do, I have every confidence you have them well trained to do their job.”
“Mr. Kane. If he should see us—”
“You have no need to fear him when you are in my company.” He lowered his arm. “Mr. Kane and some of his guests are about to leave the premises to go to a private entertainment.”
A pang of disappointment touched Araminta. “Will you join them?”
“I pleaded tiredness. If you walk with me, we will think about what is to be done with your Miss Smith. Will you come, Araminta?” He lifted his hand again. Though the light was almost nonexistent, the invitation on his face was pure, determined lust, and she could not resist the pull.
Setting her fingers delicately on his hand, she stood and then pulled at the draperies at the back of her skirt. “That would be . . . satisfactory.”
He stepped close and, for a moment, she went positively tottery, but his strong hand grabbed her arm just at her elbow, where her glove ended. His touch on her tender bare skin inside the crook of her arm made the need so great she wondered he couldn’t hear the way her body clamored for him.
Perhaps he did hear her uneven breath, or feel her fast pulunder his fingers, for he did not release her right away. Heat spread through her. She uttered a small breathy sound.
“Really, I wonder,” he murmured. “Is that groan one of joy or displeasure?”
“Let go of me, please.”
She supposed he’d gotten his answer, for he didn’t repeat the question. God save her from smirking men. Especially those who were right.
His large hands now encircled her waist. She realized they were very much alone in the quiet dark garden, and she also realized that Griffin was very solid and strong.
She gazed into his unfathomable face. Her hands, trembling slightly, lay flat against the hard wall of his chest.
“Are you sure you want me to let go?” His whisper was a rasping growl.
At that moment she knew only that she wanted him and didn’t care that wanting him was wrong, and even harmful. Her plans, their stations in life, none of it mattered. None of it seemed as real as the steady heartbeat she felt beneath her palms.
She raised her face, her lips already tingling in anticipation of his touch. She longed for him to press his mouth hard against hers, and send her into a swoon of desire so she could forget everything else. But he paused, inches from her, and only his warm, sweet breath touched her lips.
She shivered with impatient hunger. He hesitated, his mouth maddeningly close. “You are cold,” he said, wry amusement in his muted tone. “Shall I get your cloak?”
She tried to say no, but he’d already drawn away.
As he stepped back, she regained too much of her sanity to remain in Kane’s garden, longing for illicit kisses.
“I must leave.” She swept out of the pergola and walked the winding brick path to the kitchen.
He followed—silently, of course.
“Wait here,” he whispered, and was gone, leaving her to stare through the kitchen window. A good staff, she thought, distracting herself purposefully from the heat pulsing through her body. Even Jack, despite his grumbles, did more than his share. Perhaps if she opened a restaurant, they might join her. But no, if she did open her own establishment, it must be somewhere far away. Not in New York—not when it held Kane.
She watched the people in the kitchen cleaning and chattering until she was startled by a light touch on her shoulder. The man moved like a shadow.
“Let us go by way of the alley,” he said, and handed her a cloak, a gaudy and shoddy purple one that had been drenched in rose water.
“This isn’t mine.”
“I did not want to make a show of finding yours. It belongs to one of the girls who work for Kane. She said I might borrow it.”
“Who is she?”
He shrugged. “I don’t recall her name. No, don’t worry. I slipped her a few dollars for her compliance.”
Araminta understood that for a variety of reasons, he did not want to be seen with her. Ignoring the pinch of sorrow that caused, she drew the hood over her head and they walked through the garden, out the servants’ entrance in the back.
In the next block, he took her arm and led her back to the sidewalk. They walked in silence, or rather wrapped in the noise of the street. Even though it was nearly midnight, a boy’s light voice called out the news headlines, trying to sell the last of the evening papers. A raucous group of well-dressed young men, partygs, pushed along the sidewalk. Rather than attempt to plow through the group, Griffin steered her to the edge of a stoop to wait until they’d passed.
When they turned onto the quieter side street, he spoke at last.
“What will you do when you leave Kane’s? You are still in demand, I imagine.”
She shrugged. “I have hopes of opening my own restaurant.” She thought about her dream of using her own earnings to forge her future. And never again touch the money in the trust.
“You’d give Delmonico’s serious competition.”
“No. I am tired of . . . glamorous dining.”
“An oyster house then?”
“I want a small,
intime
restaurant. I’d like to offer more rustic French dishes.”
“Ah. Crusty loaves of bread and hunks of sliced onions.”
She didn’t bother answering his flippant remark. “And you? Will you stay in New York much longer?”
The question seemed to bother him. He hunched his shoulders. But a few seconds later he spoke as emotionlessly as always. “No. I grow weary of being constantly surrounded by so many of my fellow men.”
“Will you return to London or somewhere more exotic?”
“I await the wind and will cast off in whichever direction it carries me.”
She gathered the edges of her borrowed wrap in her hands and held it closed against her chest. “That does not sound like the proper attitude for a businessman.”
“Perhaps. But my family has never been one to cultivate the proper attitude.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“And yet we manage to remain profitable in our business.”
They stopped at a street corner and waited for a wagon loaded with barrels to pass. Traffic was light this time of the night.
He took her arm again. “I have been thinking about your Miss Smith, and I believe the best thing to be done is to bring her to my hotel. I’ll be able to thwart Kane, should he attempt to take her again.”
“In your suite?”
“I will also let the other suite on that floor. She is used to remaining indoors, isn’t she? She should stay with me until she’s ready to tell me who she is.”
Araminta frowned. “I’m not sure that would be best for her.”
“No?” The quiet word challenged her to voice her doubts.
“Olivia is . . . beautiful. And injured.”
“And you don’t trust me?”
Of course she didn’t. Not when it came to that sort of matter. Araminta drew in a deep breath as she tried to think of how to say the words. “It is more that I am afraid she would be . . . That she would turn to . . .”
“Come now, don’t hide your meaning, Miss Woodhall. You think I would take advantage of her as Kane has.”
“She is very beautiful,” Araminta repeated, feeling thoroughly asinine but unable to think of how to explain herself. “And timid.”
They passed under a streetlamp and he studied her. “I have seen her. And I know what you think of me. You do not trust me around the beautiful and tempting Miss Smith.”
She huddled inside the purple cloak and was silent. Any protests she made would only sound false, she remembered how he had kissed her. The very memory of it made her body hum. If he did that to Olivia, the poor girl would be lost.
She reminded herself that the most important thing was to get Olivia out.
Griffin stopped in front of her house. In the soft light shed by the gas lamp, he was impossibly handsome, lean and lithe. He clasped his hands behind his back and tilted his head. “Will you invite me in?”
Please, yes,
her body clamored. “No.” She bit down hard on her lip, trying to hold back her desperate longing. “I shouldn’t,” she reminded them both.
He stepped close to her. His hands cupped her face. “No,” he agreed, and brushed his lips against hers. “You know me, after all.”
She would have protested the mockery in his voice, but at once she was caught up in a delectable swooning pleasure that would not allow her to move away, that made her open her lips and press closer. Desire that had built up for two days, no, for years, poured from her body into that kiss.
A man’s guffaw came from a window nearby, and she came to the surface again. “Good Lord,” she groaned. “We are making a spectacle for the whole street.”
“Araminta,” he whispered. And she saw that the strength of their shared kiss had hit him as thoroughly as it had her, and he remained captured by its magic. The iceman had melted into heat. She had wielded that power over him. Nothing else mattered. She let him kiss her again and draw her into the shadow by the gate. Only when a clock struck one did she disentangle herself from his arms. A tawdry Cinderella, an hour after her time. No. Lovely girls like Olivia—they were Cinderella. She could only be Cinderella’s cook.
She backed away, her hands out as if holding him at bay. He leaned against the wrought-iron gate and folded his arms.
“Good night,” she said, hoping she sounded normal. She ran up her steps as if pursued by the devil himself and scrabbled at her heavy ring of keys.
His amused voice at her shoulder stopped her. “Allow me.” He reached over and took her ring of keys, and within a few seconds had unlocked the door and held it open. She hurried into the foyer, and then stopped when she heard his footstep behind her.
“You are glorious in that gown,” he said, and she couldn’t look into his face as she muttered yet another farewell.
He held out his hand. Fascinated, she stared at the severe black sleeve, the edge of the white cuff, the small strip of golden wrist, the solid hand encased in the tight glove that did nothing to hide its power. If she could somehow step into that hand, let him encase her in his warmth . . .
His voice interrupted her peculiar fantasies. “The cloak.”
“Oh.” She ripped at the tie, yanked it off and thrust it at him. “Good night. We—we shall talk.”
“Yes, we will. You come to my hotel, though,” he said. “I shall leave word that you are to be admitted at any time. Day. Or night. Yes. Most especially night.”
He strolled down the stairs and disappeared into the shadows.
She did not slam the door on him, but she was sorely tempted. But as she sagged against the door, she reflected that the door should be slammed on herself. He had not ravished her or made demands upon her body, though if he had, she would have quickly transformed into a willing partner.
Griffin Calverson had respected her choice. She moved slowly to the steps, sat on the third sap up and set her chin upon her fists. Oh, it was so much easier to see him, talk to him when she considered him an untrustworthy beast and not a man who could overturn her ordered existence.
 
When she met Kane the next day, she managed to hold her tongue. It took some effort, for he stood in her kitchen beaming around, obscenely cheerful.

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