Authors: Kate Rothwell
Somebody To Love (25 page)
Araminta edged away from him but still prickled with the awareness of his watching presence next to her.
Mrs. Burritt hugged Elizabeth, then held her at arm’s length. Her smile faltered. “But your clothes! What is that dreadful thing on your head? Could it be a straw bonnet?”
Araminta sighed. A fool, but at least the woman was a loving fool.
“Lovely, very touching, the reunion of mother and daughter,” said the senator, and Griffin thought that despite the clichéd words, for once the man’s sentiments were sincere. “But I’m sure they’ll want to be alone, and the gentlemen would prefer to discuss more interesting subjects?”
He hustled Griffin and Williams from the salon into a library across the large, gloomy hall.
They settled in huge armchairs arranged around the empty fireplace.
“Try these cigars. Straight from one of my constituents’ Cuban farms.” The senator thrust the foul objects at Griffin and at Williams. “So, gentlemen, thank you for agreeing to visit us. And giving me the time to talk about some of my ideas.”
Within a few minutes, Griffin understood that Burritt was seeking sources of funding for his next election.
Williams nodded, smiled and made agreeable noises. He appeared to be entranced by the senator’s conversation.
A future politician.
That had to be the reason Williams had always struck Griffin as not quite trustworthy. At least he wasn’t a regular thief or a thug, like previous Calverson Company crooks.
Law books and philosophical tomes crammed the floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves of Burritt’s impressive but dusty library.
Under a bell jar next to the mantel, a stuffed snowy owl stared back at Griffin, a baleful, superior expression on its face. Did the senator notice the fact that with his jutting white eyebrows and beak of a nose he resembled the dead bird? Griffin supposed so. The man seemed very aware of his own image and likely wanted to associate himself with the bird of wisdom. A thick-headed bull, the white-headed breed, was more appropriate.
Griffin settled into the armchair with a glass of brandy and a cigar. People as animals again. It was a disease he’d caught from Araminta, one that left its victim with a propensity for the absurd.
He’d give the eager Williams a gift of fifteen minutes of this tedium, and then he’d flee the dismal Burritt ménage and spend some time with Araminta. He daydreamed about what they’d do together, as the two other men droned on.
Williams actually protested when Griffin issued his farewell.
“Stay and discuss the bill,” Griffin said, indifferent. “I shall expect you back by five.”
Williams agreed at once. “Yes, sir.”
The senator pouted at Griffin as if, by departing, he was taking away a favorite toy. “I am sorry that you did not get more time with my daughter, Mr. Calverson.”
“I’ve had several days with your daughter.” Griffin was so tired of the man, he hardly cared about the sinister insinuation of this remark. “Good-bye, Senator.”
Burritt insisted on walking him to the sitting room and left Williams reading informative literature about future farming bills.
Griffin took the opportunity to play up Williams, using words he knew would impress the senator. “A good, steady fellow. He’s come up through the ranks of the company. I trust him implicitly. And he seemed very taken with your daughter.”
He was pleased to see a thoughtful gleam in the old blighter’s eye as they entered the parlor.
When Griffin announced they were leaving, Araminta eagerly jumped up from the sofa. “Thank you, Mrs. Burritt, for the delicious pastry.”
She embraced Elizabeth and allowed Griffin to escort her from the house.
As they rode back to the hotel, he examined her furrowed brow and compressed lips. “That bad?” he asked as he propped his booted feet on the bench next to her.
“The discussion consisted of nothing but planning a new wardrobe for Elizabeth. But Elizabeth seemed happy enough. And she assured me that she will never go near any kind of opium again. I believe her.” She sighed and absently nibbled the end of one of her gloves, a strange but endearing habit he’d noticed recently.
“What else is bothering you?”
Her brow grew darer and she burst out, “If only I could be as certain about the happiness of the others still at Kane’s. I worry most about Maggie and Alice.”
“Kane will need to hang on to his help now. He won’t hurt anyone in the kitchen now that you’ve flown the coop.”
“What on earth does that mean?”
“Idiom for escaping prison,” Griffin explained. “Speaking of birds, I met one today.” He told her about the snowy owl in Burritt’s library.
Araminta laughed so hard she had to grab the handle dangling from the corner and pull herself upright. “Oh, dear. Perhaps we should move away from animals and consider the plant kingdom? I am afraid we are growing too impertinent and cruel.”
Griffin raised his eyebrows. “Only when we are too accurate.”
Araminta still grinned, but her amusement faded as she recalled the senator. “I wish I could like Elizabeth’s father.”
“That man will be a pest, I imagine,” Griffin said as he climbed from the carriage. When she descended, Griffin instead of the footman waited to help. His strong fingers gripped her arm.
Araminta gently disengaged her arm as she made a show of smoothing her skirts. Any public display made her uneasy. “But aren’t you glad to have him as an ally? I thought he is terribly important.”
“As far as I’m concerned, he is merely terrible. I have no need to own any more politicians.”
She smiled. “How many do you have as pets, then?”
“Pols are not pets. Merely domesticated animals.”
“I was right. You are the worst sort of cynic,” she teased.
“Nonsense.” He gave her a brief smile—an almost common occurrence lately when they were alone together, though she was not yet accustomed to the kindliness it lent his features, and those smiles still could send a jolt of longing through her.
They walked across the wide lobby of the hotel. Araminta no longer hesitated before stepping into the lift. As the doors rattled open, Griffin moved close to her. Araminta ordered herself not to jump when his warm hand covered the small of her back. Hungry for more, she fought off the urge to lean against him.
He must have noticed her discomfort. He shot a glance at the elevator operator, and she could have sworn she heard Griffin give a tiny growl. “Come,” he said as they stepped off the elevator. “Listening to Burritt talk has made me thirsty. I shall order some tea.” They walked companionably toward the suite, chatting about the ideal times to drink tea.
As she watched him, she realized,
This is what it would be like to be his wife.
Living with the passionate undercurrent of attraction, but more than that, a friendship that grew with each conversation, each shared folly. The thought was as sharp as one of her best-honed blades. It forced her to recall the truth: He did not want a wife, or even a companion. He wanted an employee.
This is what it would be like to be his wife.
Living with the passionate undercurrent of attraction, but more than that, a friendship that grew with each conversation, each shared folly. The thought was as sharp as one of her best-honed blades. It forced her to recall the truth: He did not want a wife, or even a companion. He wanted an employee.
Restlessness seized her. She stopped in the doorway. Polite as always, he waited for her to enter first.
She paused to covertly study his face, and wondered how she could have thought him an iceberg of a man. Ah, no, she’d always instinctively understood his core consisted of pure passion. From the first moment she’d seen him, she’d likely felt his hidden passion in her body’s response to him. She had selfishly wanted his heat for herself.
She’d had her taste of him, and her time with him had perhaps ruined her fr anything less delicious.
“I have changed my mind about the tea, thank you. I—I think I shall go for a walk,” she said.
They’d drawn close, of course, as inevitably as a magnet and metal, and his fingers made gentle circles on her arm. Becky came into the room, but he did not stop his caress.
Araminta sidestepped away. “Please,” she whispered.
“Eh?”
With her chin, she indicated the maid.
He gave a small sniff of amusement, no doubt at her desire for propriety, then pulled out his watch and flipped it open. “Blast. I forgot Marcus is still here. I’ll send him back to the office. And I need to pen a note to send along with him. You might want to take Annie with you if you go for a walk—I imagine she could use the exercise.”
He flashed her a smile, and stroked her cheek before he strolled away. She listened to the echo of his footsteps as he walked across the parquet floor to the library.
She forced herself to face the truth: the moment to say good-bye had arrived.
It was over.
Elizabeth was gone. There was no need to remain as chaperone. And anything else was out of the question. Now she would leave this apartment, leave the hotel, make her way back to her small, snug and empty house.
What then?
She absently rubbed at her arm, the small patch Griffin had stroked.
Instead of anguish, dead calm filled her. Perhaps the storm would come later, once she was home and alone and drearily safe.
She forced herself to make plans. A few weeks to explore New York. She would not open her restaurant here, after all. And then, before she grew too restless with the life of leisure, a boat back to Europe. A small café. Not London. Which smaller city in England would accept the food she enjoyed preparing?
The thoughts, familiar lists of her goals, flitted through her brain, but she barely paid attention to them. Reassuring words reminding her that life would carry on, even if she didn’t believe it at the moment.
She walked across the spacious rooms, her mind so filled with a disarray of thought and emotion, she was rather surprised to find herself in her bedroom.
The room had been straightened, the three gowns she’d brought hung in the armoire.
She pulled the portmanteau from under the bed and packed quickly. She lifted the little velvet sack containing the pearls he’d given her. It lay heavy on her palm. She imagined his disgust if she left them, and she shoved the sack into her bag.
Would she dare to say good-bye to him? She wanted to, more than anything. But she’d finally learned that what she wanted wasn’t necessarily what was best for her.
If he touched her . . . No. She couldn’t risk it. Contact with Griffin would ruin her resolve. No matter how he looked at her—with a smile or amusement or scorn or even as coldly as he could manage—she’d be trapped. She would turn into the creature Richardson had mistaken her for that night in the restaurant.
By continuously biting hard on the inside of her cheek, she managed to keep the tears at bay. She went to the yellow bedroom, where Annie was cleaning up after Elizabeth.
“I’ve come to say good-bye, Annie,” she said. “Please say good-bye to Becky. And to the others.”
The maid tilted her head and frowned at the bag in Araminta’s hand. “You’re going then, miss?”
“Yes, I must.”
“Aren’t you going to say anythng to him?”
Araminta shook her head.
Annie absently tucked a glossy black sausage curl back under her cap. “What’ll I say when he asks?”
“Anything you’d like. No. Wait. Tell him I’m gone. Say good-bye.”
“You know, miss, he’s not so rotten as he likes to pretend.”
Araminta nodded. “Yes, I know.” Her words quavered a little, so she bit her cheek again.
Annie tossed a dusting cloth onto the bureau and flopped down on the bed. “I’ve heard about you, miss.”
Despite the weight in her heart, Araminta’s curiosity was pricked. “Have you? What do you know about me?”
Annie held up a hand and ticked a list off her fingers as she recited, “You’re a kind person, you’re a good friend, and you cook the best food in the universe.”
“My goodness. Who told you all of that? Mr. Calverson?”
“No, his sister did. She’s a good ’un.”
Araminta stared at the maid, remembering bits of a story Timona had once told her, of a girl who’d worked in a brothel. A girl named . . . “Oh, my. You’re that Annie. The, ah, one . . .”
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