A Dangerous Love (18 page)

Rosalind felt helpless in the face of such youthful misapprehension. Their father could be stern and misguided sometimes, but he did love his children in his own way. “I’m sure he doesn’t blame you, dearest. None of us do, not even Papa.”

Juliet jerked away, more tears coursing down her face. “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

“But I do! I only think that—”

“That I’m a silly girl who imagines things. Well, I’m not imagining this, no matter what you say to spare my feelings. I’ll prove to all of you I can do my part for the family, the way you have by taking care of Swan Park. That’s why I
shall
marry Mr. Knighton even if I don’t…love him!” And with that impassioned speech, she whirled and ran off down the west-wing stairs.

“Juliet!” Rosalind called out, running to the top of the stairs to look down, but her fleet-of-foot little sister was already halfway down. There was no point to remonstrating further with her when she was in her present mood, anyway.

Rosalind shook her head balefully as she returned to the gallery. Blast it all. Juliet’s determination to “save” the family was rooted more deeply than she’d realized. She and Helena had probably coddled the girl too much, made her feel as if she could do nothing to help. Now they would pay for it dearly.

She collapsed into a nearby chair, her mind in turmoil. Oh, however were they to unravel this coil? Juliet wouldn’t be satisfied until Swan Park was saved, and clearly she took that to mean she must marry Mr. Knighton. Unless Rosalind could think of
how to stop it before it was too late. To her knowledge, Mr. Knighton hadn’t yet offered for any of them—Papa would have crowed over it—but this limbo couldn’t continue forever. Mr. Knighton had a business in London, after all.

A delay was what she needed, something to give her time to think of a plan that would suit all of them. Papa had sprung this on them so quickly, she’d hardly had time to consider their choices.

The trouble was, she had no control over the situation, no way to predict when the engagement would occur, how long it would last, or what would be done. The only way to gain control would be to agree to marry the bloody man herself.

Rosalind’s heart began to pound. Yes, that would work! If she agreed to marry Mr. Knighton herself, she could play the skittish fiancée: insist on time to plan the wedding, do all manner of things to make him change his mind about marrying any of them…

She scowled. There was only one problem with that plan: He would never marry her. He wanted a woman like Juliet—the perfect, socially acceptable wife.

With a sigh, she stood. Perhaps she could find some way to tempt him in her direction. She’d have to think on it, for this was by far her best plan to date. She yawned. First, however, she’d take a nap. She always thought better after she’d slept. Or maybe some solution would come to her in a dream.

Only when she was halfway down the gallery did she remember she’d promised to send John away before Griff left his room again. Blast.

According to the clock, he’d only been in there half an hour, so she had plenty of time. He generally
spent over two hours working in his bedchamber in the afternoon. Still, she wanted it done. Then she could nap, and consider her plan further.

She strolled back to the west-wing stairs and climbed to the second floor. John lounged in the hall outside Griff’s bedchamber as always, but rose quickly from his chair when she approached.

“Mr. Brennan has been in his room for some time, my lady,” he reported.

She listened at the door, but could hear nothing. She sighed. “You may go. And you may return to your usual duties from now on.”

He nodded, too well trained to question the whims of the lady of the house. She started to leave, too, then stopped, assailed by curiosity as always. What did Griff do in there every day? She seldom saw him and Mr. Knighton discussing business, so how did he come to have so much work all the time?

She plastered her ear to the door for a minute. An ominous silence was all she heard. Of course, writing letters and such didn’t make any noise. But one would think there’d be the occasional scrape of a chair or something. And he couldn’t spend the entire time writing letters, could he? His hand would cramp.

Her eyes narrowed. Come to think of it, he didn’t post any great quantity of letters. Hmmm. How very odd. What
did
he do in there?

With sudden resolve, she rapped on the door. No answer. She rapped again, this time with more impatience. Still silent.

Suspicion tightened her brow into a black frown. Had he gotten past her footman? There was only one way to find out. She tried the door, but it was locked. Blast.

Now determined to ferret out his secret, she
withdrew her ring of keys, then tried several until she found the one that unlocked the door. She started to turn the knob, but hesitated. It would be awful if he were sleeping or something, and she burst in upon him.

Then again, she could always claim she’d only come to tell him the footman had been dismissed or some such nonsense, couldn’t she? Feeling secure in that rationale, she opened the door and entered.

The room was empty—completely and utterly empty. She stood with her hands on her hips and cursed. No doubt John had popped down to the kitchen or something earlier, and Griff had left while he was gone.

As she scanned the room, she noticed that Griff’s coat was thrown across a chair and his waistcoat and cravat hung from the handle of the clothespress. Could he have changed clothes before he left? But why? And why only those pieces of clothing? No, it seemed more likely that wherever he was, he was in his shirtsleeves. Yet that was uncharacteristic of the well-dressed Mr. Brennan.

Then something else caught her eye. The bureau had been moved away from the wall. She moved nearer. There were cracks in the paneling behind it…And it hit her with sudden force how Griff had left his room.

Through the servants’ door, the
sealed
servants’ door. Curse him! Leave it to Griff to discover the door none of them ever used.

She opened the door, glanced down the stairwell, and saw the assorted furnishings blocking the stairs. She’d been told that the upper stairs were unsafe, which was why no one used them. Clearly that had been an exaggeration, for Griff obviously did.

Well, she thought grimly, he must be very proud of himself. All this time he’d been sneaking out
whenever he wanted, for as long as he wanted, and she hadn’t even realized it. And he’d made such a big to-do about their wager, too!

The more she thought about it, the more infuriated she became. So he wanted to move about the house at will, did he, sneaking into other people’s rooms, searching for God knows what? The man was a rat. She wished she knew exactly what he was up to, for knowing his plans might help her determine her own.

Frustrated, she turned to his writing table. Several papers were scattered on it. Did any of them belong to her family? Approaching the table, she stared down at the confusion, then realized most of it dealt with the business of Knighton Trading.

A slow grin crossed her lips. If Griff insisted upon nosing about her house where he didn’t belong, perhaps she should do the same. Who knows? She might even be lucky enough to stumble across something that would reveal his employer’s true intentions. Then she could go to Papa with her suspicions, and he’d have to listen.

She glanced over at the closed door to the servants’ stairs and hesitated. She wouldn’t want him to find her here alone, not after what he’d threatened.

Still, it had only been a short while since she’d seen him last, and he always stayed away at least two or three hours. Surely she had time to do some snooping of her own and be gone before he returned. Feeling deliciously devious, she settled herself into his chair and picked up a sheaf of papers. She’d stay only a few minutes, that’s all. Just long enough to find out what he was up to.

Chapter 11

The bliss e’en of a moment still is bliss
.

Joanna Baillie, Scottish playwright
, The Beacon

G
riff trudged up the servants’ stairs, weary to the bone and hungry besides. It must be near time for dinner. He usually didn’t search for so long, but if Rosalind had held to her word her footman would be gone, so who’d notice? She could hardly sit outside his door waiting. And if she did, it would serve the vixen right to wait a long time.

As usual, he’d found nothing. There were plenty of documents—he’d even stumbled across the family Bible with its list of marriages, births, and deaths—but his parents’ marriage had not been recorded at all. And he’d found no sign of his parents’ marriage certificate.

Damnation. The earl must have a safe secreted away somewhere, probably in his room. That was where Griff really needed to look—but the old bas
tard never left his bed. And Daniel had given Griff only three more days.

Daniel, that self-righteous scoundrel. They’d never been at odds before, not like this. With his sleeve, Griff wiped the sweat from his grimy brow, streaking soot across the lawn fabric. He stared at it in the staircase’s dim candlelight. Long ago, he wouldn’t have soiled his shirt so heedlessly, for every shirt cost him more than he could afford. Now he could soil them at will, even throw them away if he liked.

Since when is a title or an estate so important to you? You have all the money you need, and Knighton Trading is doing well
.

His hand balled into a fist. Daniel would never understand. It wasn’t about money. It was about making Knighton Trading strong and powerful, worthy of respect. In his small-minded way, Daniel failed to consider the larger good—the people Griff employed, the trade that would be stimulated. How dare the man imply that Griff had only vengeance in mind, that he merely sought to further some petty ambition? Daniel was wrong, and he’d surely see it in time.

Griff reached the piled-up footstools, broken chairs, and bric-a-brac and climbed warily over them. On his first trip down the stairs, when his leg had fallen through a step, he’d discovered exactly why the servants never used this route. Now he was more careful where he trod.

At least he no longer needed to do this too often, not with Rosalind calling off her footman. He only hoped it didn’t mean a renewal of her appearances at his side—that was one war he was rapidly losing.

All his tactics to put her off succeeded only in arousing him. When they were together, it was a veritable feast of sensual innuendo. The first course—her searing questions. The second—his spicy
answers. The third—her delicate blushes. Then it all repeated again in endless stimulating variations until it finished with him wanting her for dessert.

What had started as a method to drive her away had become a dangerous erotic game, one that could only end with her in his bed.

He shook off the thought. That was impossible, of course. Seducing a virgin was unacceptable. He had no intention of marrying her, and she certainly had no desire to marry him. So why did he persist in thinking of it?

Because the woman was an “original” in every sense of that overused appellation. Wealth didn’t impress her; flattery didn’t sway her. She ordered everybody in the household about, yet her servants spoke fondly of her, and her footmen sang her praises endlessly. She had an annoying tendency to call a spoon a spade, yet her wildest plans often succeeded despite her haphazard manner of executing them. He’d even grown to like her outrageous preference for brilliant-hued gowns. Intense colors suited her.

What most kept his desire simmering, however, was remembering how she’d kissed—throwing herself into it, excitement barely tempered by innocence, passion cloaked in wonder. How could such sheer enthusiasm fail to rouse a man’s basest instincts?

Damnation, after this afternoon’s dance of billiard seduction, he didn’t know if he’d survive another day without throwing her over his shoulder like a slavering beast and carrying her off to his lair.

He reached his room and entered quickly, telling himself he was merely eager to exchange the dank musty stairwell for the brightly lit bedchamber. But the truth was he couldn’t wait to prepare for his next skirmish with Rosalind.

He’d already shut the door behind him when he spotted her. The object of his ridiculous obsession
sat in a chair with her head slumped on his writing table. He halted in shock, wondering if the intensity of his need might have conjured her up. But no, if he’d dreamed her into his bedchamber, she would already be naked. Instead, she wore the bold emerald gown he’d imagined ripping off with his teeth during their game of billiards.

Frustrated lust rapidly twisted into fury as he realized the woman had actually sneaked into his room. She’d unlocked the door and entered without his permission or knowledge. By God, was nothing sacred to the warrior queen?

He caught sight of the sheaf of papers spilling from her slack fingers, and his blood thundered in his ears. What had he left lying about? Was there anything to reveal his deception? Stalking to the table, he peered over her still form at the papers fanning out from her hand.

They were nothing of consequence, just bills of lading. No doubt their tediousness had put her to sleep. But had she done this before—come in here while he was gone, perhaps even during the day while he’d been with her footman?

It didn’t matter—it would
not
happen again. It was one thing for her to tease and taunt him; quite another for her to intrude on his privacy. He refused to tolerate such behavior. He lifted his hand to her shoulder to shake her, then spotted the chunk of quartz he’d been using to weight down papers.

With grim purpose, he picked it up and hefted it. Yes, that would do nicely. Moving to one end of the table, he leaned over and dropped the rock as near her head as he could without hitting her. It struck the oak with a loud thunk.

She shot up, her eyes glazed with confusion, her cheek red and bearing finger-shaped creases.

The instant she spotted him, he bent forward to
plant his fists on the writing table, and growl, “What the hell do you think you’re doing in here?”