Notorious Pleasures (30 page)

Hero looked at Griffin and felt her heart begin to crumble. “Does it matter so much, three little words?”

“You know it does.”

But she shook her head. “I can’t. You want me to give up my family, all that I know, and you won’t even give up your awful still. Can’t you see that what you’re asking is impossible?”

She expected anger and harsh words. Instead, he merely closed his eyes as if too weary to keep them open. “I need but a little time with the still. After I take down the Vicar. After—”

“How long, Griffin?” Her voice rasped in her throat. “Days? Weeks? Years? I cannot wait that long. Maximus and your brother will not let me.”

He opened his eyes, and his gaze was hard now. “So it comes down to this: You will choose marriage to my brother over marriage to me?”

“Yes.”

“How can you do this to me? To us?”

She bit her lip, trying to find the words. “I’ve spent my life obeying the rules set before me by society and my brother. Maximus has decided that Thomas is the better man for me.”

“You accuse me of not giving up my still for you,” he said quietly. “But I think you are the greater coward. You will not give up your brother’s approval for me.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” she answered. “I cannot go against Maximus now. I cannot. He has the power to ban me from my family. Besides, he’s made the right choice. Thomas is reliable. He’s
safe
.”

“And I’m not?”

“No.” The word dropped between them like a leaden weight. Hero felt tears fill her eyes, though she wasn’t sure for what she mourned.

The bed shook and suddenly Griffin was atop her, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his breath hot and angry against her cheek. “He might be safe, but do you love him, Hero?”

“No,” she sobbed.

“Does he make you blush with anger and then with want?” He kicked apart her legs, settling hot and heavy between them. “Does he know how sensitive your nipples are? That you can come just by me sucking them?”

“God, no.”

“Does he watch you like I do? Does he know that your eyes turn to diamonds when you’re aroused?” He nipped along her neck, his kisses insistent and hard. “Does he know that you like to read in Greek but loathe drawing? Does he wait with bated breath for you to arch your left eyebrow so prissily—and then grow hard when you do?” He thumbed both her nipples at once, bringing a surge of heat between her thighs. “Tell me, Hero, goddamn it to bloody hell,
tell
me: Does he make you feel like I do?”

“No!” Her answer was a despairing wail.

His thumbs were between them, spreading her folds as if he had every right, as if she was
his
, now and forever, until the end of time, amen. And then he was in her. Hard and hot, moving so exquisitely she began to cry.

She wrapped her legs tightly around his narrow hips, her arms about his shoulders, holding on to him with her entire body as he rode her.

His big penis slid in and out of her slick folds. She was already sensitive from their previous lovemaking. She was gasping, hardly able to keep up, his pace rough and fast. It was too much; she couldn’t hold herself together anymore. She wanted to push him away. To flee this room and him and his too-strong lovemaking. He wasn’t giving her time to yield to him, to hide or assimilate his angry urgency. He was simply pushing her to experience what they shared—what they made—here and now.

He bent and caught her mouth, kissing her possessively even as his cock worked in and out of her. She moaned, opening her mouth, accepting the invasion of his tongue, tasting her own tears on his lips.

“Hero,” he murmured. “Hero. Hero. Hero.”

He punctuated each utterance of her name with a hard thrust of his hips as if to brand her as his. Sweat was dripping from his body, his breath was coming in hard gasps, and the bed was quaking.

She shook her head against the pillow—in denial of him or their lovemaking or of her own urges, she was no longer sure. But he pursued her, catching her head between his hands, holding her and making her look at him as he thrust himself into her body.

“Do you love me, Hero?” His pale green eyes were full of torment. “Do you love me like I love you?”

And she cracked apart on his words, a stream of liquid heat pouring forth from her center. She trembled beneath him, trying to tear her gaze from his as her passion exploded within her. As rivers of sweet pleasure spread through her thighs and belly. As her heart fractured and re-formed.

But he wouldn’t let her look away. He held her gaze as his own eyes half closed and the muscles of his face, neck, and chest tightened. She watched helplessly as he convulsed above her, his big, strong shoulders gleaming with sweat.

He thrust into her once, twice, three times more and held himself there, tight against her, their bodies locked, as he orgasmed. His eyes pled silently with hers, defiant and proud.

Her vision blurred.

He slumped onto her, his chest heaving.

Hero closed her eyes, running her hands over his slick shoulders. She wanted to imprint this memory on her mind: the musk of their lovemaking, the weight of him on her, the sound of his harsh breaths in her ear. Someday, perhaps soon, she would want to draw upon this memory, to cherish and hold it in her heart.

He suddenly rolled off her, and her hands clutched after him, but he wasn’t leaving her bed. Not yet at least.

He gathered her close, nestling her bottom into his groin, surrounding her back with his wide shoulders. He brushed the hair from her nape and kissed her there.

“Sleep,” he said.

And so she did.

“Oh, Mary Darling,” Silence sighed.

She’d forgotten to don an apron before sitting down to a late breakfast with the toddler. Now there were two smears of grease across her black bodice. She stared down at herself, feeling helpless and blank. She ought to rise and wash herself off—or at least find an apron—but she didn’t seem to have the energy.

“Give the child to me, sister.” Winter hung his round black hat by the door as he entered the kitchen, then placed a plain wooden box on the table. He plucked Mary Darling from her arms and flung the child in the air, catching her easily as she squealed and giggled.

Why must men fling babies about? Even Winter, the most staid of her brothers, was prone to the disease. “I’m always afraid you’ll drop her when you do that.”

“But I never do,” he replied.

“What are you doing home in the middle of the morning?”

“Half the boys were absent, sick from some type of fever, and the other half could not concentrate.” Winter shrugged. “I sent the remaining boys home. Where is everyone?”

“The children have already eaten. Nell has taken them for a morning walk.”

Winter glanced over the baby’s shoulder, eyebrows raised. “
All
of the children?”

“The ones big enough to walk anyway,” Silence said, feeling guilty. “I should have gone with her.”

“No, no,” Winter said hastily. He tucked the baby against his side and took down a plate from the cupboard. “We all must take a respite from work now and again.”

“You don’t.”

“I haven’t lost a dear one recently,” he replied softly.

She pressed her lips together for a moment, then rose and took the plate from her brother. Silence crossed to the hearth and filled the plate with porridge from a pot hanging there. She brought the plate back to the table and set it in front of him.

“Let me take Mary. She’ll have the porridge all over your coat in no time.”

“Thank you,” Winter said. He spooned up a mouthful of the thick porridge and murmured in contentment as he ate it. “That’s very good.”

“Nell made it,” Silence said drily. Her own cooking left much to be desired.

“Ah.” Winter swallowed and gestured to the wooden box. “I found that on the front step.”

“Did you?” Silence felt a spark of curiosity and looked at the box with more animation than she’d had in days. “Do you think it’s Mary Darling’s admirer?”

Winter smiled gently. “I could venture a guess, but it seems more logical to simply open it and find out.”

Silence stuck out her tongue at her brother. She turned the box over in her fingers. It was no bigger than the size of her palm. As she examined the box, she realized that although it was very plain, without marking or paint, the box was finely worked. It shone with beeswax. She frowned uneasily. The box was much dearer than Mary’s other gifts.

Mary Darling grabbed for the box, held so temptingly in front of her.

“Not yet, sweetie,” Silence said. “We need to see what’s inside first.”

She laid the box on the table, opened the lid, and gasped.

“What is it?” Winter half rose to look.

Silence turned the box so that he could see the strand of pearls coiled inside.

He was quiet a moment; then he lifted the necklace with his long, elegant fingers. He held the pearls up, watching as they gleamed in the light. “This is a very expensive present for a child.”

“It’s not for Mary Darling,” Silence whispered. She held up the scrap of paper that had lain under the pearls. Two words were written upon it.

Silence Hollingbrook.

The thing in her hand was her diamond earring. Hero traced the bobble with one fingertip. The diamond earring Griffin had picked up after she’d thrown it at him so long ago now. She looked at it, and tears filled her eyes as she understood the message.

He wasn’t coming back.

He raised his head at the familiar voice. Mater stood on his step, wrapped in a velvet cape.

He stopped and said stupidly, “What are doing here? Has something happened?”

“Has something happened?” she repeated incredulously. “Yes, something
happened—
you beat Thomas, say you’ve seduced his fiancée, and then you both virtually disappear! I want to know what is going on and how you’ll resolve this horrible difference between you two. It’s worse now than before you came back to London. What has happened to our family?”

He stared at her, this strong little woman, and saw her shoulders sag. She’d withstood Pater’s death, withstood debt and scandal, and now she was near defeat because of him. His mouth tasted of ashes.

Add his mother’s disillusionment to his sins.

He glanced around and realized they were in a public place. One of his neighbors was peering at them avidly from behind her curtains.

Griffin took Mater’s arm. “Come inside, dearest.”

She looked up at him uncertainly, and in the morning sunshine, the lines about her eyes were clear. “Griffin?”

“Come inside,” he repeated.

He led her into his library and realized his mistake immediately when he glanced to the spot beside the settee where he’d made love to Hero. He swore under his breath, but where else was he to put her? Half the rooms were in sheets because he didn’t bother using them.

“What is it?” she asked, touching his arm worriedly.

“It’s nothing,” he said, and strode to the door to bellow for a servant. A full minute elapsed before a blowsy maid scurried into view. “Bring some hot tea and cakes.”

She curtsied. “ ’Aven’t any cakes, m’lord.”

Griffin grimaced. “Bread, then, or whatever else Cook can find.”

He closed the door and turned back to the room, running his hands over his head. He wasn’t wearing a wig, hadn’t shaved in days, and his house and staff were wretched. Well, the last hardly mattered anymore. Once he’d dealt with the Vicar, he’d let the lease lapse and remove himself and Deedle to the north. Deedle hated it there, but Griffin would be damned if he’d stay in the same city as Thomas and Hero.

“Griffin?” Mater said softly.

Damn it. Mater had never cared to rusticate. He’d be leaving her behind as well. Unless she decided to take up residence in a city nearer the Mandeville estate. But that still wasn’t London.

Nothing was the same as London.

“Griffin!” His mother crossed the room and took his hands. “You must tell me what you’re thinking.”

He smiled wearily. “It’s not so very dramatic as all that, Mater. I’m making plans to leave London.”

“But why?”

He closed his eyes. “I can’t live here with Thomas and
her
.”

“Lady Hero, you mean.” She half laughed, and he opened his eyes to see her staring at him in exasperation. “Are we not to speak her name now?”

“That would be rather hard for Thomas,” he said wryly.

She blinked. “He’s not…”

He nodded. “They will be married Sunday.”

He dropped her hands and crossed to pour himself a healthy glassful of brandy.

“But I thought…”

“That I’d marry her?” he asked, his back still turned to her. “Apparently not.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “Does it matter? Anyway, Thomas will have his revenge for my seduction of Anne.”

“Don’t be silly.” She made a dismissive sound. “I never believed you’d seduced Anne.”

He turned, vaguely surprised—and rather grateful. “No? Everyone else did.”

“I’m your mother, Griffin.” She placed her hands on her hips and looked at him with exasperation. “Do give me some credit.”

“Oh, Mater, I love you so.” He smiled wryly and drank some brandy, wincing slightly as it burned his gullet.

“No one believes that old gossip anymore.”

“Thomas does.”

She stared. “What?”

He nodded and drank some more brandy. The second sip was smoother. Perhaps he’d become a sot.

“But that can’t be!”

“Said so himself,” he assured her. “Got it from Anne’s own lips as she lay dying.”

“That girl always was a ninny, God rest her soul,” Mater muttered. “Did you tell him point-blank that you didn’t do it?”

“Yes, and he point-blank did not believe me, perhaps because of my recent actions with Lady Hero.”

“That’s an entirely different matter,” Mater said.

“Is it?” he asked. “To Thomas I doubt it is.”

“Anne was his wife. Lady Hero is only affianced to him. Besides…” She trailed off, biting her lip.

Griffin narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously. “Besides what?”

She waved an irritable hand. “It’s not my secret to divulge.”

“Mater.”

“Don’t growl at me.” She locked gazes with him for a moment, then looked away. “He can be so foolish sometimes.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s none of your business, Griffin.”

“If it involves Hero, it is. I love her.”

Her face softened immediately. “Oh, do you?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” he said. “Now tell me.”

“It’s just that Thomas took up with a rather risqué lady last season, a Mrs. Tate. He tried to hide it from me, of course, but I saw nonetheless. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her when he’d see her at a ball or some other such place.”

“Thomas has a mistress? Damn it, I knew it! He was following her at Harte’s Folly.”

“Rather more than a mistress I think, although perhaps he doesn’t know it himself,” she said somewhat obscurely.

Griffin’s anger was building. How dare Thomas marry Hero already encumbered by a mistress? “Has he broken it off?”

“That’s just it,” Mater replied. “I thought he had when he proposed to Lady Hero, but now I think he’s seeing Mrs. Tate again.”

“To punish Hero,” Griffin growled.

“No, I don’t think so. I think he’s formed a tendre for the woman.” Mater shook her head sadly. “I love Thomas dearly—he is my firstborn son—but he can be so
very
boneheaded. He should let Lady Hero go.”

“Ah.” Griffin tossed back the rest of the brandy. “But I’m afraid that doesn’t matter to me in any case.”

“What do you mean?”

“She doesn’t love me.” He tried to smile and failed. “She won’t marry me.”

“Humph.” Mater frowned ferociously. “She might say she doesn’t want to marry you, but I don’t for a moment believe she doesn’t love you. A woman like Lady Hero does not let a man into her bed out of the bonds of wedlock unless she’s fallen head over heels for him.”

He looked down at his glass, unable to meet her gaze. He suddenly found it hard to speak. “She’s hiding it well if she does love me.”

“If only we had more time,” his mother burst out. “I’m sure she’d come to her senses if Thomas would just
wait
to marry her.”

“It’s Wakefield who is pushing the marriage.” Griffin shook his head. “And in any case, I truly don’t think she’ll be changing her mind. I have business to finish here, and then I’ll be leaving for Lancashire.”

“But you can’t leave!” Mater cried. “Don’t you see? If you just give her time—”

“I can’t stay and watch her marry Thomas!” he hissed, the pain surfacing despite his efforts to keep it submerged. He glanced at her and then away again at the pity in her eyes. “I simply can’t.”

“Griffin—”

“No.” He cut the air with the blade of his hand. “Just listen. I’ll finish my business, and then I’m moving north permanently. I’ll either transfer my business north somehow or have my agents act for me in London. I’m not coming back.”

She watched him silently, but tears swam in her eyes. He could see them clearly.

It was more than he could bear.

“She doesn’t love me. I have to accept that fact and go on.” He picked up the decanter and a glass and strode to the door. He paused there, his back to her.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

And then he fled to his rooms. If he was lucky, he’d be insensibly drunk in an hour.