Somebody To Love (28 page)

Authors: Kate Rothwell

BOOK: Somebody To Love

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He grinned. “Good. At last you begin to make sense. I understand precisely how you feel.”

“No, Griffin. I can’t afford to . . .”

His finger glided lightly across her mouth. And slowly, he leaned in close and tilted his head. “On the contrary. You can.”

He waited for two heartbeats as he’d done once before, and then took his hand away from her and leaned in to kiss her. Or so she thought, but the kiss did not come.

He angled toward her and placed his warm mouth just above hers. “Oh, no. You see, I promised”—the whispered words gusted against her lips—“not to touch you first.”

She could feel his fast breath on her cheek, the soft tickle of his mustache. If it weren’t so arousing, their position, frozen this way, would have struck her as funny.

Back away,
she thought;
get away from him
. The mew of longing that came from her throat surprised her. She closed the last tiny space between them, and pressed her mouth to his. The delicate touch of his tongue undid her.

Oh, no, I give up,
was her only thought, as she moved and her mouth slid against his, silently demanding more. His arms came around her, and the hunger filled her at once. She pushed her body to his, opened her lips. Her heart pounded, almost as if it fought to get as close as possible to him.

His hand grasped hers and he pulled her to the stairs.

“A mistake,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Then we shan’t,” he said. And smiled. His eyes shone with the heat of lust now, but with a fondness, too, that was almost worse. “We will do nothing bad. Nothing that you don’t want.”

She allowed him to lead her up to her bedroom. Ever so passive.

Reality set in again as she watched him undo his neckcloth, unbutton his waistcoat and then begin on his shirt. She suppressed her eagerness to see more of that warm golden skin.

With a strangled voice, she took a stand. “No. I will not undress. And you must stop.”

He nodded, and immediately his hands dropped away from his shirt. But he did not refasten his shirt, and she caught fascinating glimpses of his beautiful torso beneath the starched white front. He folded up his sleeves, exposing tanned forearms. She remembered when they’d made love how she’d run her tongue over that skin, tasting the fine hair. And tried to encircle his substantial wrists with her fingers.

“I imagine your limbs are tired?” he asked in a tone appropriate for a drawing room.

They were. She sat down on the edge of her bed. Better to have picked the chair, but she did not want to push past him. The solid presence of the man against her again would perhaps be too much, and her unruly body would take control away from her good sense. Again.

“Allow me.” He knelt, one knee on the floor by her feet. For a moment she wondered why the position seemed familiar. Of course. The traditional position for a marriage proposal.

She closed her eyes and let herself fall backward on the bed, in desolation or in heat—she no longer knew which. His strong hand reached under her skirt and petticoat and she held her breath, dizzy and unsure how she would respond. Her body trembled. But he didn’t reach up and between her thighs. Instead he fumbled at the top of her garter, undid it and pulled down her stocking.

His hands, large, warm and strong, touched her feet. She jumped. “I’m ticklish,” she whispered.

But his thumbs on her arches rubbed hard. She had not known that the feet’s sensitivity could turn them into yet another part of her body that he could command to respond. His hands moved to her calves and thighs, rubbing, stroking her muscles, making circles on her flesh and melting her resolve. She could hear his breath, harsh and uneven, and knew his touch affected him as well as her. Which of course made her swirl even deeper into passion.

Someone banged at the door.

Araminta jumped up as if she’d been stuck by a pin. Ignoring her stockings she hastily shoved her feet into a pair of denim half boots that lay by the bed.

Griffin watched her rush off; fierce longing pushed him close to bellowing with frustrated need. He buttoned his shirt and waistcoat, folded his neckcloth and shoved it into his trousers pocket. He stood in the hall above, listening, and heard the deep voice of Hobnail Hobbes.

CHAPTER 25

Griffin strolled down the stairs.

Hobnai
l stood in the parlor, his hair slicked back. He held a hat, a far less battered homburg than he wore at Kane’s, and thumped it rhythmiclly against the side of his leg. He’d been saying something about a last-minute desire to see the fireworks, a halting invitation to Araminta, but fell silent when he saw Griffin.

For a long minute he met Griffin’s eyes, and his lips pressed together with what might have been disgust. Araminta couldn’t have seen them exchange glares. She was apparently unable to look up from the floor.

This was the way the wind blew, then. But naturally a woman like Araminta would have other admirers.

Hobnail spoke at last. “Well. I see that you were busy with company. I won’t keep you, then.”

He turned to leave, but suddenly he dropped his hat onto the sofa and put a hand on Araminta’s shoulder. Even from across the room, Griffin could see her start of surprise.

Hobnail drew in a deep breath. “I must say this. I’ll hate myself if I don’t.”

His face turned red and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously. He gazed at Araminta and did not so much as glance in Griffin’s direction again. “I pray you don’t end up with him, Araminta. He doesn’t treat you like you deserve. I’d offer you more. I said it before and I mean it—I’d be honored to marry you.”

Griffin considered himself a fair man. What the hell didn’t he do that she deserved? He expected her to say no at once, to put poor Hobnail out of his misery. Instead, she hesitated. Her head tilted back and she smiled at the large man as if he’d offered her some kind of amazing gift.

God, no. Not Hobnail. But then again, why not? He was an honest, clean, trustworthy copper. And a dead man if she said yes.

Griffin wanted to howl with rage. Why hadn’t she said anything? Had she been too polite—or too cowardly—to explain that this was the reason she had grown so distant? She longed for a large, inarticulate and modest copper. Instead of a midsize, articulate and arrogant businessman.

He knew that none of his despair showed on his face. And he knew that even if it had, the two people standing across the room would not even notice, for they seemed lost in each other’s eyes.

Could life hold any moment more miserable than this? Frantic greediness for Araminta filled him. Why on God’s green earth had he ever allowed her to escape from him? If only there was a legal way he could have bound her to him, never allowed her to escape.... Oh, bloody hell. Bloody stinking pits of hell.

Then Araminta shook her head. “No. But Hobnail, you do me great honor,” and when she said the stock words of refusal, she plainly meant them with every fiber of her being. “I will always, always be grateful. And thank you for coming here today. I rather think you saved me.”

She stood on tiptoe and kissed Hobnail’s cheek.

“Araminta,” Griffin began, but she walked out of the room without so much as a glance at him.

From the front of the house she called back, “Please just close the door behind you when you leave, gentlemen. There’s no need to lock it.”

The door slammed.

Hobnail’s blue eyes stared daggers at him. “Don’t you hurt her, Calverson. You don’t deserve a woman like her.”

Griffin suspected the man was right, and so had no answer. Hobnail, walking quietly for so large a man, left him alone in the silent house.

Marriage. No matter what she said, that’s what she wanted. He could tell by the way her eyes had shone at the not-so-dim-witted cop.

Griffin had long ago promised himself he’d never marry. What was the point of marriage for a man unless he wished to create children? There were more than enough children in the world, especially neglected, unloved children. He had never felt the need to make any more.

But as Griffin strode purposefully toward the front door, he had a vision. He saw a baby with Araminta’s smile and those dark, bottomless eyes. She was not going to make that child with any other man if he could help it.

And even without that baby, marriage was what she wanted, the liar. And he wanted her. More than that—he ruddy well needed her.

He swore, and snatched his hat from the tree in the hall.

Twilight approached, but he spotted her perhaps a half-block from her house. She had not gotten far, though she walked quickly. He trotted after her, and easily caught up. The quick staccato echo of her steps sped up when she caught sight of him.

He fell into step next to her. “Where are you going? Running away from your own home? I thought you were exhausted.”

“Leave me alone, please.” She pulled gloves from her pocket, and instead of putting them on, began twisting them.

The sight of her familiar mannerism created a strange sensation. He desperately wanted to laugh or kiss her. Or both. “I wonder how many pairs a year you destroy.”

She at once shoved them back into her pocket. Her steps quickened, and he matched her stride.

“I saw your face, Araminta, when Hobnail asked. You want to be married, don’t you? You lied when you said you didn’t. Dammit, I’ve heard you say you’d never marry. More than once. You spoke of the subject with convincing fervor.”

She didn’t answer. Her arms swung at her sides in a most unladylike manner as she increased her pace.

He continued, managing to capture a more conversational tone. “I’ve said it myself many times, you know. I never planned on marrying. Unlike you, however, I meant it.”

“I know. Because you don’t believe in love.” Her voice was as sour as the lemon she’d made him taste in her kitchen. Just a matter of days, really, though it might have been a lifetime ago.

“But you. If you’re fond of the institution, why haven’t you married? I understand that Hobnail’s not your dream mate, but a woman like you—surely you could find a good man who’d marry you?”

She stopped at last, and glared at him as if he were filth, her lip curling. “I will not marry without love. I happen to believe that the emotion exists.”

She might have been observing a fly that had landed in her
poulet au champagne avec fromage et champignons.
“But at the moment, I wish there were no such thing as love. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, it is a terrible source of anguish.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I love you, Griffin.”

Other women had said the phrase to him before. And he knew one or two who’d uttered the words actually believed they did care about him. But never before had the phrase given him a tangible sensation so strong it might have been pain. He thought perhaps he understood what she meant by a source of anguish.

“Ah,” he breathed. “I wondered.”

“Is that all you have to say? ‘I wondered?’ ” She turned on her heel and walked away so quickly her rosy silk skirt swung like a bell.

“No, no. Stop. Let us go where we can discuss this more sensibly.”

She turned to him again, but all the anger and disgust were gone. The sorrow he saw in her lovely eyes hurt him as much as a blow to his chest. More tangible evidence of love, he supposed.

“Your idea of sense will kill me, Griffin. There is no heart in your sense. Nothing but business. Details, arrangements. I can’t live as if I were your employee or some project in which you’ve decided to invest. No.” Her mouth tightened and her eyes squeezed tight. He knew she held back tears and couldn’t stop himself from walking to her and pulling her into his arms.

She did not struggle, thank God, but pushed her face into his shoulder. Her body shook as she gave over to crying. He clutched her against him and ignored the people walking past, slowing down to have a gander. The sky wasn’t dark enough yet to hide their embrace. A wagon loaded with barrels trundled past, and the driver whistled and shouted, “Whoa, lookie at the sideshow.” Griffin didn’t glance up or loosen his grip on her. If he let go of her she might try to run away. He wasn’t going to let her.

She spoke in a breathy whisper, and he bent his head to hear. “Pardon? I didn’t catch that.”

“I said, take away the business. No money. No contracts.”

“And then what?”

She drew a deep breath that shuddered all down his front where she pressed close. “Yes. Then I’ll say yes, to you. What you want. Friendship. The bed. All of it. Oh, it would be worth it.”

He held her tighter, the pain of love expanding inside him.

“And if there was a baby?” he whispered.

“I’d love it as much as I love you.” She pushed him away and fished blindly through her pockets for a handkerchief. A scrap of paper floated down, and Griffin bent to pick up a scribbled recipe. He tucked it into his waistcoat pocket, next to a white glove.

The night he’d picked up that glove from his floor he should have recognized that he was lost, transformed from a sensible man into a thoroughly maudlin, sentimental fool. The first time he discovered the joy of real passion. Making love.

“No,” he said.

She finished dabbing at her eyes and then shoved the handkerchief into her pocket.

“What do you mean by that? I know you want me in your bed, Griffin Calverson. You’ve made that abundantly clear. What exactly is the matter with keeping the contracts and the money out of it? You did not seriously think that if you paid me a certain amount each quarter that I would keep my mouth shut and never criticize you? That I’d—I’d turn into . . .”

“One of my ‘toad-eating sycophants,’ ” he reminded her.

“Yes, one of them.”

She rubbed her hands over her face, turning her already pink nose and eyes even redder. She looked adorable.

She took in a deep breath, as if preparing herself for an ordeal. “Do you know what else I think, Griffin Calverson?”

He tried not to show his glee that her formal, polite manner had dissolved and she was going to keep on telling him exactly what she thought of him. About time she reminded him he was a heartless wretch. Nothing he didn’t deserve. And he knew it meant he’d nearly won. “No. Tell me, Araminta,” he whispered. “Please, please tell me.”

“I think it’s your horrible parents’ fault that you think there’s no such thing as love.”

He blinked at her, confused. “Eh? What?”

Her large eyes, steady and solemn, gazed into his. “Yes. Especially your mother, if only because she left you without a word. Timona described how your father as much as said your mother took off because she didn’t want children anymore. Yes, and Timona said you were always getting into scrapes. I can only imagine what a strong-willed, smart child could do with that. My oh my.”

She stumbled for a second. But Griffin didn’t interrupt. He might have been frozen and watching her from inside a shell of ice. He had expected anger. Not this.

She hesitated at each word, perhaps thinking them through as she spoke.

“A child must feel he was wicked, and he’d feel invincible. And truly evil. His own mother couldn’t stand him. And—and invincible because he had the power to drive off a grown woman.

“It wouldn’t be the happy baby girl, Timona, who drove off Mama. No indeed, it would be the stubborn, bad-tempered boy, Griffin. And once his heart was broken, he was set for life. He didn’t need to worry about love again. He did need to protect the little girl he left without a mother, though, didn’t he?

“That’s why you always were so fierce about your sister, or so I’ve imagined. But, oh, that’s a quality I admire in you, Griffin—the way you cared for Timona.”

She stopped and drew another deep, shuddering breath. In a quavering voice she continued, “Of course, you might disagree with my theory. Do you have another reason? Why would a sane person believe there is no such thing as good, healthy love? Perhaps the poor child thought he’d grow up and turn into something like that mother and did not want to take the risk. . . .”

He, too, had to suck in a lungful of reviving air. With a few careless words she had unearthed an old, half-comprehended fear. The unshrouded knowledge lay in a corner of his mind now, rather than wrapped up tight. Nothing more than an injured child’s fear.

This was the woman he’d wanted to keep from poking and prodding into his life? He had been a fool. And the sting of knowing how ridiculous he’d been hardly bothered him. He’d better get used to being shoved off balance and feeling absurd. He planned to be in for a lifetime of it.

Might as well learn to push back.

“Araminta, when was the last time I said that?”

“Eh?”

“The last time I said that rot about how I didn’t believe in love?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I’ve never said those words to you, have I?”

Her brow beetled, and she didn’t answer.

“God knows it’s the maxim of my family. I think Timona was the first of a long line of miserable fools to marry for love.”

“But Timona said that you . . . For so long she believed it. Because of you.”