A Dangerous Love (16 page)

Her footman’s reports had been unrevealing, and going near Griff herself had become increasingly difficult. Whenever she attempted it, even in the company of others, he whispered the most outrageous things to her when no one else could hear. Allusions to plums abounded—the man had no imagination at all. Nor did it help that Juliet, completely misunderstanding Griff’s words on the terrace that day, now made a point of having plums at
every meal. Plums that he ate only to torment her.

This morning she’d insisted on riding out with him and Mr. Knighton when John was required elsewhere. Griff had repaid her amply for it, especially once he’d discovered she didn’t ride sidesaddle. Every comment about riding had seemed to mean something naughtier. And he’d shown her just how well he could control a horse, for as they’d ridden he’d brushed his leg against hers several times with such precision that the horses never touched or shied.

But the worst had been when he’d helped her dismount. He’d held her waist much longer than necessary and remarked in a low voice that the sight of her astride was guaranteed to “fill his pockets.” It had taken her a second to recognize the allusion. To her shame, more than her cheeks had grown heated when she did so. As if sensing the warmth pooling low in her belly, he’d laughed heartily. The insolent scoundrel!

Now she sat near the billiard table at the east end of the long first-floor gallery that stretched between the two wings. Griff played against Juliet while Mr. Knighton lounged in a chair and cheered Juliet on. Rosalind had almost left them to it, reluctant to attract any more of Griff’s sly maneuvers, until she’d realized that he would thus achieve his purpose to drive her away. Her pride wouldn’t let him have even the smallest success in
that
aim.

The table was ancient, bought by Papa before she was even born. He and Mama used to play billiards—she remembered that, a sweet hazy image from when she was a little girl. Papa had laughed and teased Mama while Helena begged to be allowed to play, too, and protested that she was nearly nine, surely old enough to play billiards.

After Mama’s death, Papa had stopped using it.
Rosalind could only suppose it brought back painful memories. But the three girls had all played billiards. What else was one to do in the long winter months when even books grew tedious, and there was no company to speak of? Unfortunately, after Helena’s illness she’d claimed she could no longer play, but Juliet and Rosalind still played often. Juliet hadn’t really mastered the game, but Rosalind was quite good, though she’d had no chance this afternoon to show her skill.

Unfortunately, watching Griff play was a torment—his smooth handling of the cue, the flex of his muscles as he bent over the table to shoot, his low laugh of triumph when he won. It spurred her imagination too dreadfully. Instead of gripping a cue stick, he was gripping her waist, and instead of bending over the table to shoot, he was bending over her body to kiss and fondle it. And his low laugh of triumph became a groan of need as he lowered himself…

Dear God, she thought, blushing violently. Why couldn’t she prevent these scandalous fancies playing repeatedly in her head? But she knew why. All his contradictions of background and speech and behavior fascinated her. One moment he seemed a gentleman, the next a rogue. Being unable to figure him out vexed her exceedingly.

Well, at least he wasn’t sneaking about the house anymore. Perhaps she’d imagined it all in the first place. The night they’d met, might he really have been searching for cigars? And the next day, might his pride have been pricked when she’d insisted on staying with him, thus prompting him to try all those tactics to be rid of her?

It was possible, but it seemed unlikely. Still, why hadn’t he balked more at her restrictions? Although he did disappear into his bedchamber every after
noon to work, John stayed right outside his door. Another footman took the night watch. She would suspect the men of falling asleep at their post, except that she’d checked on them a few times, even late at night, and found them always vigilant.

Probably this was Griff’s plan to lull her into complacency so she’d relax her guard and he could return to his snooping. Well, she didn’t intend to relax her guard until the day he left Swan Park.

But as the afternoon dragged on, Rosalind felt herself dozing off. She’d had trouble sleeping last night, imagining sounds inside the walls when none of the servants would be about. She was just considering going to her bedchamber for a quick nap when a ball entered a pocket with a sudden thunk, and Juliet let out an uncharacteristic whoop.

“I win! I win!” Juliet crowed, brandishing her cue in the air with childish joy. “I’ve beaten you at last, Mr. Brennan, admit it! And after only three games, too!”

“You have indeed.” Griff’s tone was indulgent, kind. It suddenly occurred to Rosalind that he’d played rather worse this game for no apparent reason. When he turned away from Juliet and a look passed between him and Mr. Knighton, she realized that he’d allowed Juliet to win.

The realization wound around her heart with insidious warmth, like the lion’s tail of the griffin he was named after. His action had cracked Juliet’s painful shyness as Mr. Knighton had been unable to do, and Rosalind found herself grudgingly grateful to him for it. Over the past three days, Juliet had been anxious all the time—either silent entirely or answering only when spoken to. She was more comfortable with Griff than with Mr. Knighton, but the reason for that was obvious: Juliet did not worry about having to marry
him
.

Rosalind sighed. Unfortunately, from what she could see, Juliet’s anxiety hadn’t swayed the girl from her course. Indeed, she was already glancing uneasily at Mr. Knighton to see if her unladylike behavior had offended him.

Suddenly Griff loomed up in front of Rosalind, blocking her vision as he held out a cue stick to her. “Now that your sister has trounced me, Lady Rosalind, I thought you might like the chance to do the same.”

The blatant challenge in his gaze dared her to accept the invitation. Very well—it was high time she reminded him of her ability to best him.

With a smile, she rose and took the stick from him. “I can hardly think of anything that would give me more pleasure than trouncing you, Mr. Brennan.”

“That’s my ‘Lady Disdain.’” His eyes gleamed as he quoted from
Much Ado About Nothing
. “‘She speaks poniards, and every word stabs.’”

“I do my best.” She brushed past him and went to the end of the table, removing her gloves as she went. “But my poniards must need sharpening, since you keep coming back for more, and I’ve yet to see you bleeding.”

He set the cue ball and the red in position on the table. “I’m glad you limit yourself to words and don’t know how to fence. Judging from how well you wield a sword, I might find myself unmanned.” He waved his hand to the table, indicating that she should go first.

She grinned. “A tempting prospect indeed. But I’ll settle for trouncing you at billiards. How many points shall we set the game at?”

“Fifty seems a nice even number.”

“Fifty it is.” With a smile, she took a series of shots that potted the red, potted her cue ball off the
red twice, and then potted the red again. She would have sunk it a fifth time if the table hadn’t been so uneven, causing the ball to stop an inch short of the pocket.

Mr. Knighton gave a low whistle and rose from his seat to survey the table. “Christ, m’lady, where’d you learn to shoot billiards like that?”

She stepped back from the table. “One of our footmen taught me.” She turned to Griff, who lounged against the near wall with his arms crossed and his gaze shuttered. “That’s four points, I believe. Your turn, sir.”

He ambled to the table, placed his cue ball, and then shot a spot-stroke. “Your footmen have a wide variety of duties.” He took the red out and positioned it again, then shot an impressive cannon combined with a winning hazard. “They teach billiards and act as personal assistants to wandering guests. I wonder how they find the time to be footmen.”

She winced when he potted the red neatly. “As you’ll soon discover, all our servants are quite versatile. So if it weren’t the footmen performing those services, it would be someone else—the butler, the coachman—”

“The lady of the manor?” he quipped as he paused in setting up a shot.

She raised an eyebrow. “If need be.”

The red had dropped into the pocket nearest her, so she fished it out for him. When she leaned across the table to hand it to him, however, his eyes weren’t on her hand, but lower. Only then did she realize her shawl had come unknotted and she was displaying far too much bosom. With an unspoken oath, she started to draw back, but his hand closed quickly over hers to stay her, and for a second she couldn’t move.

She shot a pleading glance at her cousin, but he and Juliet had wandered down the gallery to look at the portraits of the Swanlea ancestors. They were deep in discussion with their backs to the table. Neither of them noticed Griff’s hold on her.

His smooth, warm hand was so large it enveloped hers, but not so large as to imply a brutishness of character. His fingers stroked hers, reminding her of how those same deft fingers had walked their way up her ribs while she and he had stood on the sun-drenched hill.

Sweet need unfurled again in her belly. No, she thought angrily, she wouldn’t let him do this to her! He only did it to provoke her.

Yet when she tried to withdraw her hand, he held it captive a moment longer. “As much as I might enjoy having the lady of the manor act as my assistant,” he whispered, “I don’t want to take her from her other, more pressing duties.”

“Then you and your employer should return to London where you belong,” she said archly.

“Why? Do we annoy you?” His corrupt gaze drifted to her half-exposed bosoms. “Or are you afraid that we’ll uncover…your secrets?”

Despite her fervent wish to prevent it, her face flamed. He grinned, then took the ball and released her hand. Wishing she could stuff the ball in his shameless mouth to silence him once and for all, she sprang back and quickly knotted her shawl in place. Billiards clearly provided too many opportunities for unseemly contortions of the female body. The least she could do was cover up those parts Griff insisted on ogling.

She glanced at him when she was finished, only to find him smirking at her. Let him smirk. It was better than his ogling. Or making wicked remarks—the ones she found so disturbingly titillating.

He followed his previous stroke with three spot-strokes in rapid succession, recapturing her interest in the game. She had to admit Griff’s skill impressed her. She’d guessed correctly before—he’d surely allowed Juliet to win. But when Rosalind got the chance to shoot again, she’d show him that not all of the Swanlea spinsters were fumble-fingers with a cue stick.

Her chance came a few shots later, just as she suppressed a sleepy yawn. He came around to her side of the table and assessed his next shot with great seriousness. From her vantage point, she could tell he was aiming for a white hazard, but their table wasn’t the best, and he missed it, thanks to a tricky carom off two cushions. By that time, he was seven points ahead.

He stood back while she set up her own shot most carefully, for he’d left her cue ball in a devilish position. After a few moments of her bending over to sight down the stick, eye the pocket, then sight down the stick again, he murmured behind her, “If you’re doing this purposely to tempt me, you’re succeeding.”

She glanced back at him quizzically only to find him eyeing her backside and the raised skirts that revealed a goodly length of her stockings. She glared at him. “If you don’t like being tempted, Mr. Brennan, you should keep your eyes on the game where they belong.” Without moving an inch, she returned her attention to the table, though it was difficult now not to imagine his interested gaze on her derriere.

He chuckled. “Who says I don’t like being tempted?”

Gritting her teeth, she shot. And missed, of course. That’s what she got for letting the bloody man drive her to distraction.

When she straightened angrily, she turned to find him so close his gray trousers brushed her skirts. “Excuse me, Mr. Brennan,” she bit out, but he didn’t move away.

He darted a quick look over to where Mr. Knighton and Juliet were still at the other end of the gallery. Juliet was explaining the history of each earl, and to his credit Mr. Knighton was patiently enduring the explanations. Unfortunately, he was also paying no attention to his man of affairs.

Who now leaned even closer, mischief dancing in his eyes. “We should place a little wager on this game.”

“What sort of wager?” She tried to step back, but the table prevented it. He was too close for rational thought, too close for anything but remembering what had happened the last time he’d stood near her. Her pulse began to race.

“If I win,” he murmured, “you call off your dog.”

She suppressed a groan. She should have known he would eventually come back to that subject. Tilting up her chin, she asked, “And if I win?”

“You won’t win.” When she looked at him askance, he smiled and added, “Very well. If you do, I’ll…” he thought a moment, “I’ll arrange for you to audition for Richard Sheridan.”

Her eyes went wide. “
The
Richard Sheridan? The owner of Drury Lane Theatre? The man who wrote
School for Scandal
?”

The blasted man grinned, knowing he’d baited his hook well. “The very one.”

He looked far too sure of himself. She eyed him skeptically. “You know him well enough to arrange an audition?”

“Let’s just say that Sheridan and I share an affection for fine French brandy, which we indulge occasionally.”

“How would a man of affairs come to know a famous character like Sheridan?”

That seemed to catch him off guard. Then he shrugged. “My employer is a patron of the theater, and has a small investment in Drury Lane.” He nodded toward Mr. Knighton. “If you don’t believe me, ask him.”

She glanced down the gallery at her cousin, who was still absorbed in her sister’s prattling. Mr. Knighton invest in Drury Lane? Impossible! At dinner last night the ox had been entirely unaware of who John Dryden or Christopher Marlowe or even Homer was, despite his Eton education. Indeed, she’d begun to doubt he possessed such an education at all. It was highly unlikely that he loved the theater.