This Marquess of Mine: (Romancing the Rogue Book 2)

Chapter Six

All of London seemed to have converged on Covent Garden, Griffin observed two nights later as he followed Emmy and Olivia up the steps and past the giant columns toward the Theatre Royal’s front doors.

His ears rang with the clatter of carriage wheels and heeled slippers on the stairs, the chatter of excited voices a low and constant hum. The evening’s performer, a new soprano from Italy, was being lauded all over Europe for her rare and extraordinary talent, and everyone in Town was here to judge for themselves.

Everyone except Griffin’s mother, as she’d grumpily pointed out from her bed only an hour ago. Then she’d made him promise to watch every moment of the performance and report back to her later tonight with a complete and detailed description of the evening while it was still fresh in his mind.

The memory of his mother’s stern scowl brought a smile to his lips.

Fortunately for him, he’d always rather enjoyed the performing arts, music and plays and the like. Yes, he would rather trade places with his mother, send her off to the opera instead and spend the evening at home with Artemis, but he was here now, and he supposed it could be worse. It could be him with the injured ankle.

“Goodness me, it is an absolute crush tonight,” Emmy said as the trio stepped through the front doors and into the spacious lobby teeming with patrons.

Serving girls bustled around the stuffy, opulent room, offering tea and coffee to the guests, though Griffin could think of nothing he’d like less right now than a hot beverage.

“I hope our box isn’t as warm as the lobby is,” Emmy said, fanning herself with a gloved hand. “It is smoldering in here.”

“I brought my fan with me, Em,” Olivia said, holding it aloft. “If you would like to borrow it—”

The remainder of her words fell away as an overeager young dandy pushed through the crowd, jostling her arm and knocking the fan to the floor.

“Oh, drat,” she muttered, pausing to sweep her gaze over the carpet at her feet.

“Allow me.” Griffin bent down and scooped up the fan then rose and held it out to her.

She took it from him, her gloved fingers grazing his, and the slide of velvet against his palm sent a jolt of yearning straight to his groin. He dropped his arm to his side and flexed his fingers, curling them into his still-tingling palm. Christ above.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said with a polite smile, though her gaze never met his.

She turned and began pushing forward through the crowd with Emmy at her side, and Griffin followed behind them, his gaze trained on the back of Olivia’s head.

‘My lord’?

His brows drew together. In all the years he’d known her, she’d never called him by anything but his given name, yet tonight she’d my-lorded him twice. It was odd.

Her behavior had been odd all evening, though. Oh, she was everything polite and proper, of course, but unusually taciturn, too—when she deigned to speak to him at all.

Evidently she was ignoring him.

He gave a mental shrug and continued weaving through the crowd, keeping an eye on his two charges as they slowly made their way through the packed entrance hall and up the carpeted stairs to the uppermost circle of boxes, where they were greeted with the sounds of the orchestra tuning their instruments.

They had just reached their private box when Emmy paused and touched Griffin’s sleeve. “You two wait for me here,” she said. “I’ve just spotted a friend I need to speak to.”

Griff nodded. “Fine, but don’t wander off. Mother will never forgive me if I lose her only daughter.”

“I won’t wander off,” Emmy said, rolling her eyes as only a sibling could. “I’ll be right over there, within sight at all times.” She used her chin to point out a skinny redhead in a pink frock standing some distance up the corridor with a graying gentleman and an older lady with red hair the same shade. The girl’s parents, presumably.

“We’ll wait for you,” Griffin said. “But don’t be long.”

His sister waved a dismissive hand and then she was off, wending her way through the crowd, greeting nearly everyone she passed.

Griffin faced forward and slipped his hands in his pockets, watching the seemingly endless stream of theater patrons go by. Olivia stood beside him doing the same.

The corridor was brightly lit and faintly scented by the gaslight sconces adorning the walls, and despite the chatter of patrons and the noise from the orchestra, the silence between them seemed to grow heavier by the moment.

Olivia was the picture of serenity in her pale blue gown, her gloved hands clasped at her front, a placid smile curving her lips. Her gaze looked every which way but his, and Griffin decided he’d had quite enough of her indifference.

Shifting on his feet, he turned to her with a raised brow and said casually, “Why are you calling me ‘my lord’ tonight?”

This earned him a swift glance of surprise before she faced forward again, her expression unchanged. “I beg your pardon?”

A smile curled her lips as she exchanged nods of greeting with a passing guest, a pudgy young man with a curling mustache and the most hideous checkered waistcoat Griffin had ever seen.

“You’ve always called me Griffin,” he said, his unfriendly stare dissuading the man from approaching. “Why is it ‘my lord’ tonight?”

The question was met with a long silence until, finally, she gave an indifferent shrug and said, “Calling you by your Christian name was acceptable when I was a child, but such familiarity is no longer appropriate. We are not family. And neither are we friends.”

Griffin had no ready reply. A small part of him wanted to argue with her, but there was no argument to be made. They were not family, although he’d known her since she was a child, and while they were more than mere acquaintances, he would never call them friends.

They were something to each other, though; he just didn’t know what. At the very least, their long-standing connection made them familiars, and he’d grown accustomed to her calling him by his Christian name.

Anything else felt odd. Wrong.

A frown marred his brow, and he parted his lips to speak, though he hadn’t a clue what he intended to say.

He was given no chance to find out.

“Lady Olivia!”

Griffin glanced up to see the Duke of Paxton headed their way. Annoyance stabbed at him.

The duke’s mother was with him, of course, clutching the sleeve of her son’s pea-green coat and looking as austere as ever in a long, gray gown, her cool smile in direct contrast to her son’s affectionate half-grin.

“Good evening, my lady,” Paxton said warmly as he bowed to Olivia. His gaze met Griff’s. “Lord Keswick. Good evening.”

Griffin inclined his head.

“Good evening, Your Graces,” Olivia said, dipping into a flawless curtsy before turning to the duchess. “How lovely to see you again, Your Grace. Your gown is positively divine.”

“Thank you, Lady Olivia,” the duchess replied with a cool nod of her head.

She did not return the compliment.

Olivia must have noticed it, too. She’d widened her smile, as if by doing so she could infuse some warmth into the older woman, but the duchess appeared unmoved. Her lips thinned as she peered down the generous length of her beaklike nose, and it seemed a cruel pairing; a nose that could devour, a mouth that could only nibble.

“Are you looking forward to the performance?” Paxton asked into the uncomfortable silence. “I hear Giulietta Bianchi is an extraordinary talent.”

“Oh, yes,” Olivia said brightly. “I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks. It is sure to be an evening to remember.”

The two continued their exchange of pleasantries and Griff, only half-listening, studied the man Olivia seemed so determined to claim.

He did not know the Duke of Paxton well. He’d only spoken with him a handful of times over the years, but he seemed a decent enough sort, if a bit eager to please. With his thick auburn hair and animated eyes, he reminded Griff of a perky Pomeranian.

Paxton’s devotion to his mother was well-known amongst the ton, and normally Griff would find this trait admirable, feeling as he did about his own mother. But there was something about the man’s relationship with the duchess that rubbed him the wrong way. He was too devoted to her, too attached, and seemed incapable of making a decision without her counsel.

Griff couldn’t help but wonder how much that would change after the duke married. If it changed at all.

Paxton made no secret of his feelings for Olivia; it was clear he wanted her. The adoration was there in his smile for all to see. The duchess, however, did not seem to share her son’s opinion, and Griff had to wonder why.

Olivia was sought-after by many and admired by all. It seemed odd that anyone should disapprove of her or find her lacking in any way. Besides him, of course. But then, he knew Olivia better than most, knew of her flaws and foibles. On the surface, she was a prize most men would covet and most mothers—even the mother of a duke—would be more than happy to welcome into the family.

So, what did Paxton’s mother have against her?

“...think we should start making our way to our box, don’t you?” the duchess was saying as she took her son by the elbow, a tight smile on her lips.

“Of course, Mother.” Paxton gave Olivia a parting bow, his smile anything but tight. “Goodbye for now, my lady. I hope you enjoy the performance.”

He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, lingering over the task a beat too long. Griffin’s hands clenched with the potent, irrational urge to knock the man on his dukely arse.

“And I you, Your Grace,” she replied prettily, returning his smile with one of her own.

Griff watched as the duke and his mother meandered up the corridor on their way to their private box.

“The Duke of Paxton certainly wears his heart on his sleeve,” he said, turning to Olivia. “I’ve never seen a more smitten man.”

Her hands flexed around her fan, and she wore a small smile, though it did not reach her eyes. “He cares for me,” she said lightly. “As I care for him.”

“Yet you are not betrothed.”

He left the obvious question unasked, and it hung heavy between them.

“Paxton is courting me as a gentleman should,” she said, busily straightening her long white . Her voice had cooled considerably, a warning to retreat.

Griff ignored it. “I’m glad,” he said smoothly. “I was worried the delay had something to do with his mother. She seems…less than enthused by the match.”

Olivia’s hands flexed again, his words striking another nerve. “As usual, you are mistaken.”

“Hm.” He tugged his pocket watch from his coat and checked the time before glancing down the corridor at his sister. She was still talking with her friend.

He tucked the timepiece away and slipped his hands in his pockets. “So…has he kissed you yet?”

Her gaze shot to his, her lips parted in outrage. “That is none of your business.”

Griffin smiled. “That’s a no, then.”

Her fist tightened around the fan, throttling it, and for a moment he wondered if she would hit him with it. “The duke is a gentleman,” she said. “Unlike some men of my acquaintance, his interests extend beyond mere copulation.”

He chuckled softly, amused by both her word choice and her naivety. “I can assure you, even the most gentlemanly of men are interested in copulation, Olivia. And if I were you, I’d be wondering why he hasn’t tried to kiss me yet.”

“Well, you are not me,” she said, her blue eyes flashing. “Paxton will kiss me when the time is right, and when he does, it will be magnificent.”

Griffin’s brows rose. Magnificent? It was hard to imagine the cheery, dimwitted duke doing anything magnificently, least of all pleasuring a woman.

Olivia’s eyes narrowed. “And what is that look meant to imply?”

He shrugged. “Magnificent is a touch optimistic, don’t you think? Your duke is a pleasant enough fellow, but teeming with passion, he is not.”

Her chin rose. “Nonsense. Everyone knows still waters run deep.”

“But even puddles can be still.”

“Well, no one would know that better than you, would they?” The arch of her brow was impressively sanctimonious. “After all, you’ve dipped your toe in more puddles than I can count.”

Griffin grinned, a slow, devilish flash of his teeth. “I’m an adventurous man, Olivia,” he drawled, “but even I’ve never thought to use my toe.”

Her cheeks bloomed with color, and she turned from him, in tandem with the slap of her fan against the palm of her gloved hand.

Griffin chuckled. Probably thinking about smacking him with it again.

An image flashed through his mind: Her, on his bed, on her knees, her curvy little body in nothing but stockings and stays, the wicked promise of the slow, sharp slap of her fan against her bare palm.

God. His mouth went dry, desire unfurling low in his gut, sweet and sharp. He forced his gaze to the floor and curled his hands into fists, squeezing until his nails bit.

What in blazes was taking Emmy so long?

He was seconds away from stalking down the corridor and herding his sister into their box when the orchestra began to play, signaling the start to the performance.

Thank God.

He waited for Emmy to make her way to the box and then followed the two ladies inside, purposefully ensuring Emmy was seated between him and Olivia. It was better this way. Safer.

He did not want to lust after Olivia Blakely.