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

Chapter Fourteen

Griffin leaned forward in his chair and propped his elbows on the well-polished mahogany table tucked in one corner of the room, an untouched glass of brandy his only companion.

It was early, not yet noon, and the club was nearly empty, a fact which pleased him well. He was in no mood for company today. He’d come only for the comfort and quiet, both of which could be found in spades here. The gentlemen’s club was designed with comfort in mind with its low lighting, dark wood furnishings and ample seating to choose from, all upholstered in the finest of leather.

Even with these comforts, though, he could not seem to quiet his mind. Or his conscience.

With a frustrated groan, he fell back against his chair and scrubbed a hand down his face, regret slicing through him, a sharp blade to his gut.

For God’s sake, he’d brought Olivia-bloody-Blakely to climax against his bloody drawing room door last night.

And now he couldn’t get her out of his bloody mind.

Her flushed cheeks, her lush mouth ripened from his kisses, the way her lips had parted on a gasp as she found her release against his hand. He’d found his own release later, stroking himself to completion as he imagined those plump red lips around his cock.

With a curse, he reached for his glass and drank deeply, barely tasting it, though it was a superior blend. He set the glass on the table and cradled the cool crystal between his palms.

It was inevitable, he supposed, what had happened last night. For two years he’d tried to stay away from Olivia, keeping her at arm’s length any way he could, but he always knew he was no match for her. He’d wanted her long before last night, and today he wanted her still.

Hell, he wanted her more.

And it wasn’t because of the intimacies they’d shared—though, of course, that was reason enough.

It was because of her, because of everything he’d learned about her these past few days. Things he never knew before, things he’d never bothered to find out for himself.

His chest tightened as he thought of everything she’d told him last night, her admission that her father blamed her for her mother’s death. He still had trouble believing that Earl Blakely—a gentleman—could treat his own daughter, his flesh and blood, so cruelly.

And, still, Olivia strove to please him, to make him proud of her, as if he deserved such attention.

It made sense now, her single-minded pursuit of the Duke of Paxton, a man who was inferior to her in nearly every way imaginable. She wanted him because he was a duke, because a duke was the best, second only to royalty, and she wanted to marry the best for her father’s sake. Because she thought marrying the best would make him proud of her.

And, whether she realized it or not, she had hoped Paxton would give her the love and affection she’d always sought. Instead, the blackguard had thrown her over for another woman, a woman of his mother’s choosing.

Bloody idiot.

Raised voices sounded from the door and Griff’s head came up as—speak of the devil—the Duke of Paxton walked in, looking ridiculous in a mulberry suit with yellow cravat, and two other dandified gentlemen he did not know.

Griff’s hands clenched around his glass, but it was the only outward reaction he would allow. Idly, he sipped his brandy, his gaze trained on the table as if deep in thought, though he watched the duke from the corner of his eye.

He considered what he should do, if anything. The man’s actions had done nothing to improve Griff’s opinion of him, but he wasn’t Olivia’s keeper, or even a blood relation, and he wasn’t certain it was his place to come to her defense. Or even if his defense would be welcome.

In the end, Paxton made the decision for him.

“Ah, Keswick. Just the man I was hoping to see. May I join you?” Paxton hovered behind an empty chair at Griffin’s table, his mouth turned up in a stupid smile.

“By all means.” Griff motioned to the chair with his glass and watched the man as he settled stiffly into his seat.

Crossing one leg over the other, Paxton fussed with his cravat then his coat sleeves, and a full minute had passed until finally Griffin could take no more of it.

“So,” he said, mahogany creaking as he sat back in his chair. “I understand congratulations are in order.”

Paxton stiffened then slowly lowered his forearms to the padded leather armrests and gave a weak smile. “Yes, well…nothing has been finalized as yet, but thank you all the same.”

Griffin arched a brow. “Don’t you want to marry the young lady?”

An image of the duke’s almost-betrothed flashed in his mind, a petite girl with light brown hair and pale, pale skin. She was a pretty thing, but she was no Olivia.

The duke shifted in his seat, a flash of discomfort lighting his eyes. “She is the daughter of my mother’s dearest friend.”

“Ah.” Griffin nodded. “Your mothers are pushing for the match, eh?”

Paxton blew out a breath. “They’re ravenous for it.”

“And you hate to disappoint them.”

The duke shrugged. “You have a mother. You know what it’s like.”

Griff almost smiled at that, the man’s assumption that all relationships between mothers and sons must be like his. Griffin loved his mother, but he would never allow her to dictate whom he married. Not that his mother would try, or even wish to.

“I saw you dancing with Lady Olivia last night,” Paxton said, making a great effort to keep his tone casual. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you dance with anyone besides your mother and sister.”

Griffin lifted one shoulder. “I made an exception,” he said. “Lady Olivia is worth it.”

He allowed a little smile to curve his lips, as if just the thought of her made him happy and noted with satisfaction when Paxton’s mouth pinched in consternation.

“I see.”

Griff arched a brow. “You disagree?”

“What? No!” The duke’s eyes had gone wide. “No, of course not. Lady Olivia is a wonderful girl. It’s only that I wondered—” He cleared his throat, his gaze on the table. “That is…do you intend to court her?”

Griff took his time with his answer, letting the silence stretch into uncomfortable territory as he slowly circled the rim of his glass with his forefinger. Only the crackle and pop of the fire burning in the nearby hearth filled the quiet.

“I might,” he finally replied, infusing his tone with thoughtfulness. “I am in no rush to marry, but now that Olivia has been...set free, so to speak...” He trailed off, forcing the duke’s imagination to fill in the rest. He felt not one iota of sympathy for the man beside him squirming in his chair.

“Right. Right.” Paxton nodded, visibly agitated as his throat worked. “Well, I will leave you to your solitude now, Keswick. I’d best be off. Business to attend to, you know. Good day.”

He shot to his feet, so abruptly he nearly knocked his chair to the floor, and then he was off, dashing for the door as if the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels.

A moment later, the two fops he’d come in with went after him, clearly confused. Griff chuckled to himself. The duke was so agitated he’d forgotten about his friends.

Let him suffer, he thought, inhaling deeply the faint scents of cheroot smoke and cologne. It was no less than he deserved after what he’d done to Olivia. And what he’d done to himself.

The idiot obviously wanted her, but as far as Griff was concerned, any man who so willingly sacrificed his own wants over the desires of his mother deserved to be unhappy.