Notorious Pleasures

Page 32

“It’s of no matter,” she replied. “I’m sure there was someone he wanted to talk to.”
The gentlemen made noises of vague assent, and then Maximus drew Mandeville into a discussion of a bill he wanted passed in parliament.
Hero listened long enough to make sure the bill had nothing to do with gin, and then she fixed a pleasant, interested expression on her face and let her mind wander. She opened her fan and behind its painted scene scanned the ballroom. Griffin wore blue and gold tonight, and for a moment she thought she saw his broad shoulders leading a lady in the minuet. Then the man turned and she saw it wasn’t him. She had to warn him somehow, but she must not be seen in his company. Perhaps she could send word to his house tomorrow.
Maximus bowed and made some parting comment, but Hero was hardly aware, so caught up was she in searching for Griffin.
“I must beg your pardon for both my brother and I,” Mandeville said.
“Hmm?” She glanced up to find him regarding her seriously.
“I am just as much at fault for neglecting you as my brother,” Mandeville said. “I fear I have not played the attentive fiancé very well these last several days.”
“Oh, my lord,” she said with a pang. “I am perfectly happy with your attention.”
He frowned. “You’re kind as you always are, my lady, but I’ve been remiss.” He hesitated a moment, then said, “I admire the duke very much. He is, I think, one of the great leaders of our nation. It may seem that I forget at times that it is you I have pledged to wed, not he.”
She felt her lips tremble on a smile at the thought of Mandeville and her brother at an altar wedding each other, but she suppressed it. She knew it would hurt Mandeville’s feelings if she found his words amusing. He meant them from his heart.
She laid her palm on his sleeve. “He admires you as well, my lord, and I assure you, I am not jealous of the time you spend with my brother. I know you both have grave matters of the nation to decide. Indeed, I am glad that our government is in such capable hands.”
Mandeville gave her one of his rare, unpracticed smiles, his face becoming boyishly handsome, and she was reminded why she’d consented to become this man’s wife in the first place.
He bowed. “Come, my dear. Let us discover what awaits us in the dining room.”
And she accompanied him, her heart more confused than ever.
GRIFFIN HAD HAD perhaps more than his fair share of intimate encounters at balls and other social events. Ladies who were excited by the hazards and the possibility of being discovered. For others it was simply easier to meet at a ball than to risk the danger of him climbing in her window at night.
Such sophisticated seductions were urgent at the time but easily forgotten afterward. The various fumblings in anonymous dark rooms became, after a parade of similar encounters, merely ordinary. Once Griffin stepped out of whatever dark room he’d chosen for the evening, he rarely thought about the lady involved.
But as she’d proven already on numerous occasions, Hero was different.
The moment he stepped back in the ballroom, his entire attention was on her. Was she having second thoughts? Perhaps realizing this moment how very sordid a rendezvous in the midst of a crowded social event was? Damn it, he should never have followed her down that hall. Hero wasn’t like the cynical matrons he usually seduced. She was idealistic, proud, sure of her own infallibility. And he had been the one to prove how very human she was.
The thought did not shine a flattering light on him. Worse, this maidenish nervousness was enough to make a rake think hard about reform. He snorted, startling a plump matron nearby. Perhaps it was time to settle down and spend his evenings with a warm cup of milk by the fire.
His musings were still dark when he caught sight of Megs, lovely in a yellow frock with black and red embroidery, but looking a bit like a wilted buttercup.
“Oh, Griffin,” she sighed when she saw him.
He raised his eyebrows. “Oh, Megs.”
She plucked limply at her skirts. “Do you think I’m the sort of lady a gentleman would like to kiss?”
“Not if I’m about, I hope,” Griffin growled.
She rolled her eyes. “I cannot remain a virgin forever, Griffin. I’d hope to someday have children without it being a divine miracle. That is”—her brief show of spirit suddenly flew away again—“if any man ever shows enough passion to take me to wife.”
Griffin straightened, his eyes narrowing. “What has that ass Bollinger done?”
“It’s rather more what he hasn’t done,” Megs moaned. “He’s refused to take me into the garden.”
“And a good thing, too,” Griffin said with vast disapproval. Good God, anything could happen in a garden at a ball—and he should know.
“No, really, Griffin,” Megs said soberly. “I know you have all those big-brother feelings to overcome, but try for a moment. How can I contemplate marriage to a man who looks appalled at the mere notion of kissing me?”
“How do you know he was even thinking of kissing you?” Griffin pointed out. “Perhaps he was worried about the cold, or good God, Megs, your reputation. He may—”
“Because I asked him,” she interrupted.
“To…?”
“Kiss me,” she confirmed. “And he looked like I’d asked him to lick an octopus. A live octopus.”
Griffin wondered if he could punch a man for not kissing his sister.
“Oh,” he said, which was an entirely inadequate response.
But oddly Megs seemed content with it. “Yes. You see the problem? If he’s not even tempted, if he’s even disgusted by the thought, well, what hope can there be for a satisfactory union?”
“I don’t know.” Griffin shook his head, trying for something better. “You know people of our rank don’t marry for love, Meggie. That’s just the way it is.”
The thought depressed him unaccountably.
“Don’t you think I know that?” she said. “I’m well aware that I’m expected to make a good marriage in which, if I’m lucky, my husband won’t have half a dozen mistresses and give me the pox.”
“Megs,” Griffin protested, truly shocked. When had his little sister become so jaded?
She waved away his male outrage. “But I can at least find some kind of… of friendship, don’t you think? A common understanding, a desire to do more in the bedchamber than produce an heir?”
“Of course,” he soothed. He knew he should be remonstrating her over her shocking language, but he just hadn’t the stamina for such hypocrisy at the moment. “We’ll find you a good husband, Megs.”
She sighed. “It is possible, isn’t it? Caro jogs along comfortably enough with Huff. And Thomas seems content with Lady Hero.”
Griffin stiffened at Hero’s name, but Megs didn’t seem to notice.
She wrinkled their nose. “He isn’t exactly demonstrative with her, but she’s a pleasant sort. I quite like her, really, and she understands that he must be pompous sometimes.”
Griffin unwillingly snorted a laugh.
“It’s just that…” Megs tilted her head back, staring at the shimmering chandeliers overhead for a moment. “Well, if Lady Hero suddenly died—tragically, you know, like in a terrible horse-riding accident or from a lightning strike—I think Thomas would be sad, but he wouldn’t be prostrate.” She looked at him a little wistfully. “He wouldn’t want to die himself. I just think it would be nice to be married to a man who would truly mourn my loss if I died. Does that make sense?”
“Yes,” he said as he caught sight of Hero across the room, ethereal and lovely and entirely out of his reach. If she died, he suddenly knew that he wouldn’t much care if he lived or died. “Yes, it makes all the sense in the world.”
Chapter Thirteen
The queen smiled in delight when she saw the acorn about the little brown bird’s neck. An acorn grows into an oak, the strongest tree in the forest, and the forests of her kingdom were filled with mighty oaks. Truly, then, the acorn was the strongest thing in her kingdom.
Queen Ravenhair carefully plucked the acorn from the little bird’s neck. She cupped the bird in her palms and whispered her secrets to him before letting him fly. Then she leaned over her balcony, searching the castle grounds, but all was silent and dark. Only a single light flickered in the stables….
—from Queen Ravenhair
“We lost another ’un,” Nick said as Griffin entered the warehouse early that morning.
Griffin sighed and unpacked the pistols he’d brought with him onto a wooden barrel. The men were working, but there wasn’t the usual laughter and loud talk. The still was eerily quiet.
“Run away or caught by the Vicar’s men?” he asked.
Nick shrugged. “Don’t know. ’E just disappeared.”
Griffin nodded and sat to begin loading the pistols. He’d bought them used, but he’d made sure they all worked well enough.
“An’ word is, the informers picked up three more gin sellers today,” Nick said.
Griffin looked up. “You’re just a font of good news.”
Nick grinned nastily. “Between th’ Vicar and the informers, I’m feelin’ a bit like a doxy wi’ two sailors—one takin’ ’er from in front and the other goin’ at it from behind.”
Griffin winced at the graphic image. “Thank you for that thought.”
“It’s just the way I sees it, m’lord,” Nick said cheerfully. “Now if we could just get the informers and th’ Vicar to pay us for the favor, why, we’d be rollin’ in gold.”
Griffin laughed reluctantly. “That’s not likely to happen any time soon.”
“Naw, it isn’t.” Nick scratched his chin contemplatively for a moment. “ ’Ow’s that lady what you brought ’ere the other day?”
“I asked her to marry me.”
“Why, felicitations, m’lord!”
“And she turned me down.”
Nick shrugged. “The ladies need time to think some matters over like.”
Griffin grimaced and set down the pistol he’d just loaded. “It’s more than giving her time to think. She doesn’t see me as fit husband material. And then there’s the small matter of her still being engaged to my brother.”
“Any woman ’oo’d pick your brother over you is soft in th’ ’ead, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, m’lord.”
Griffin smiled wryly.
“ ’Ave you given any more thought as to what you might do if we lose the still?” Nick asked.
Griffin shrugged, staring at the pistols.
“Me granddad was a shepherd,” Nick said, gazing into the blackened rafters of the warehouse. “Grew up around sheep. Dumbest creatures in the world, mind you, so me da said, but easy and the livin’s not bad.”
Griffin contemplated that odd information for a moment and why it might’ve been offered. “You want to tend sheep?”
“Naw.” Nick sounded offended. “But wool, there’s money to be made in that.”
“How so?”
“Yer get some sheep up north, see? You’ve said before that the land’s bad for crops. What’s no good for grain is often fine enough for animals to graze.”
“That’s true enough,” Griffin said slowly. He was surprised that Nick seemed to have put some thought into the matter.
Nick’s raspy voice was eager. “You send the wool t’ London, an’ it’s spun and woven. I still know some weavers, used to be friends of me da. Might start a shop. I could oversee th’ operation here.”