CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ROSALINDSTAREDAT the cryptic invitation in her hand before her gaze moved to the towering white wheel in front of her. In all the years she’d lived in England, she had yet to ride the London Eye. It was one of the tallest Ferris wheels in the world and offered views of Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abby and Big Ben. One of the senior attorneys at Nettleton Thompson had even been proposed to at the top of the wheel.
Another glance at the simple yet elegant card that had appeared in the mail a few days ago yielded few clues. The wheel normally closed at six o’clock. But her ticket indicated she should arrive at eight in the evening.
Her mind, along with her foolish heart, had immediately thought of Griffith, then dismissed him just as quickly. She’d heard nothing from him since they’d parted in France nearly five weeks ago. After her last day at Nettleton Thompson, she’d gone home to Maine for a much-needed visit that had seemed to end almost as soon as it started. As she’d waited for her flight back to London, she’d given in to temptation and typed Griffith’s name into her online search bar. An article had mentioned an upcoming press conference announcing Griffith assuming his father’s role as CEO of Lykaois Shipping.
She’d been happy for him. But she’d also mourned that he had returned to England and made no attempt to see her.
Just like he said he would.
She breathed in deeply as she craned her neck back to look at the top of the Eye. Over thirty capsules with floor-to-ceiling windows were anchored to the wheel. At its height, the monument soared to well over four hundred feet. Her father and oldest brother, Jordan, had made plans to visit in the fall, and she planned to bring them here. Jordan would enjoy the ride while her father marveled over the engineering of the massive wheel.
A sentimental smile crossed her face as she approached the ticket booth. Her time in Maine had been not only a wonderful reprieve from the chaos of the previous weeks, but it had been a much-needed solace for her battered soul. She’d made more than one trip to the cemetery to lay flowers on her mother’s grave. She’d also been surprised and relieved when her father had responded to news of her resignation and future plans with excitement and encouragement.
Part of her regretted the time she had spent chasing after something that had been tied to whom she thought she should be. Yet she couldn’t regret the experience she’d gained, the people she’d met or how it had prepared her for the next step of operating her own firm. There would be long hours, yes, especially in the first year. But they would be spent doing what she loved. And as she grew, added to her staff and found success on her own terms, she would carve out time for the things she loved instead of just observing the good from afar.
Branches formed a leafy canopy overhead as she approached the main entrance. The queue lines were empty, the wheel immobile.
Frowning, she glanced down at the invitation again. It had come from the director of the Victoria and Albert Museum in Knightsbridge and suggested that she had been invited to a private ride on the Eye to discuss an upcoming exhibition. Believing it a prank, she’d called the museum directly. The director’s secretary had assured her the invitation was genuine. The director, the young woman had shared, had heard that Rosalind was starting her own firm, and was actively recruiting up-and-coming London business owners to be a part of a new exhibition.
Be a part ofwas usually code for sponsorship. And while she’d saved up plenty of money working for Nettleton Thompson and living in her tiny flat, the rent on the office space she’d decided on wasn’t going to be cheap. Nestled between the neighborhood of Camden’s vibrant market and social streets and its quieter residential area, it would be the perfect place to meet with the kind of clients she enjoyed working with.
Still, when the director of a world-famous museum sent her a private invitation, how could she say no?
Another glance at the ticket confirmed the date and time were correct. She’d suddenly realized that there was no one else there. Had she been the only one invited? Surely not. She looked around.
“Hello?”
“Good evening!”
A woman emerged at the top of the ramp leading up to the platform where guests boarded their capsule.
“Miss Sutton?”
“Yes.”
“My apologies. I was getting your capsule ready. My name is Sara and I’ll be your host this evening.”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
“And you, ma’am. The rest of your party is ready.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, I thought the invitation said eight o’clock.”
“It did,” Sara said with a reassuring smile. “The other guest arrived early.”
Rosalind frowned. The museum secretary had made it sound like there would be a group of people, not just the director and her.
“Only one?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sara’s eyes fairly sparkled. “This way.”
Rosalind followed her onto the platform as she wracked her brain. She couldn’t recall meeting the director before, or doing anything that would have drawn his attention.
“Here we are.”
She looked inside the empty capsule. “There’s no one else here.”
“They’ll be just a moment, ma’am.”
Stifling a sigh, Rosalind walked inside and moved to the far side of the capsule. The water of the River Thames rippled as boats cruised by, from a long double-decker boat crowded with tourists to smaller sailboats that glided along the surface. The setting sun’s rays turned the puffy clouds dotting the blue sky from white to shades of rosy pink and glowing orange.
Some of her uncertainty disappeared as she looked up once more. No matter what this meeting was actually about, at least the view from the top would be spectacular.
The wheel began to move, so slowly at first she almost didn’t notice it. Surprised, she turned just as a man walked into the capsule.
Her heart began to pound in her chest, so fiercely she grasped one of the rails to steady herself.
“Griffith?”
“Hello, Rosalind.”
Sara appeared in the doorway behind him, her face wreathed in an enormous smile. “Enjoy your ride!”
She shut and locked the door behind him, leaving Rosalind alone with the man she loved.
Griffith’s eyes devoured the sight before him. Rosalind stood on the other side of the capsule, her chin lifted slightly, her eyes sharp and fixed on him. She’d regrettably pulled her hair into a loose chignon at the base of her neck. A few stubborn curls had managed to escape. The dress she’d worn, a simple sleeveless dress in forest green with a flared skirt and tantalizing V-neck, gave her a sense of class while mercilessly teasing him with a view of her long legs.
How had he gone over a month without seeing her? Without hearing her voice?
“Unless you took over as the director of the Victoria and Albert Museum, you owe me an explanation.”
He bit back a smile at her tart tone. God, he’d missed her. She’d been one of the few people in his life to hold him accountable, to not let him get away with excuses.
He loved her for that.
“I may have made an arrangement with the director.”
“May have?”
“Did,” he admitted. “I did make an arrangement with the director. But,” he added as she opened her mouth to interject, “it does involve a new exhibition. He just omitted that he would not be present at this first meeting.”
She rubbed at her temples, as if staving off the beginnings of a headache.
“You could have just asked to see me, Griffith.”
“Yes. But then I couldn’t have surprised you.”
She glanced over her shoulder as the capsule began its ascent. A small smile played over her lips.
“It is beautiful.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
When she turned back to face him, he had set the silver bucket he’d kept behind his back on the oval-shaped bench in the center of the capsule. The sound of her laughter, light and surprised, filled him as nothing else had since he’d left France.
“Champagne?”
“Yes. To celebrate the opening of the Victoria and Albert’s new exhibition next spring.”
He popped the cork and poured two glasses of bubbling golden liquid.
“What exhibition?”
He handed Rosalind her glass, savored her sudden inhale as their fingers brushed. Blood pumped through his veins at the sight of the blush that crept into her cheeks.
At the very least, she was still attracted to him. Perhaps he hadn’t waited too long.
“Recovery.”
Her brows drew together as one corner of her mouth kicked up into a confused smile.
“Recovery?”
“Artwork made by recovering alcoholics.”
She paused with the glass halfway to her lips.
“What?”
“It’s a form of therapy. I didn’t know it existed until...” He paused, tried to gather his thoughts as his heart started to pound. “Until I took someone’s advice and started digging deeper into causes my parents cared about. Causes I could put more of myself into.”
He turned away from her then. Even now, after everything that had happened the past two weeks, he still felt angry. Not as acute, but certainly persistent.
“One of the art schools my mother supported was trying to start up a therapy program for a clinic that treated alcoholics.” His laugh was short, rough. “At first it felt like a cruel joke considering the accident. I wanted to walk away.”
The soft rustle of fabric sounded behind him. He sucked in a breath a moment before she laid her hand on his back.
“But you didn’t.”
“No. I wanted to.”
“My mother told me that doing the right thing when we didn’t want to made it even more important.”
“I would have liked to have met her.”
“She would have liked you, too, Griffith.”
He turned, caught her hand in his and brought it to his lips. He savored the flutter of her eyelashes as she looked down, the deepening of her blush.
“I’m working on believing that.”
The smile she gave him nearly broke his heart. Sweet, kind, supportive. Fear kicked in, blazed bright for a moment.
And then he crushed it. Fear didn’t have a place in this moment.
He kept his grip on her hand, led her to the bench and sat down. Their thighs brushed. His fingers tightened around hers as need built inside him. Not just a need for her body, but for her and everything that made up the incredible woman he’d fallen in love with.
“I listened to what the director of the program had to say. Why it was important. I agreed to a tour of the clinic.”
Tears glimmered in her eyes. “Oh, Griffith.”
“It was hard, Rosalind.” He faced her, squared his shoulders as he surrendered control and shared his deepest fears. “It was even harder meeting the people who had made mistakes just like the man responsible for my father’s death. To not redirect the anger I’d harbored toward myself onto them. But,” he said quietly, “the clinic is trying to help them. So is the art school. And as someone reminded me, I could use some of my money to help make the world a better place.”
“Griffith...” She reached up, laid her hand on his face as a tear slid down her cheek, followed by another as she dipped her head. “I can’t... Saying I’m proud of you doesn’t seem enough.”
“It’s enough. More than enough.” He took her champagne glass from her and set them both down before grabbing her hands in his. “I love you.”
Her eyes rounded as her lips parted.
“What?”
“I love you, Rosalind Sutton.” He cupped her face, ran his thumb over the line of her cheek as he watched her. “I started to fall in love with you the moment I heard you bossing Lazlo around in his office.”
She huffed. “I was not—”
He silenced her with a kiss. For one heart-stopping moment, she froze.
And then she bloomed in his arms, throwing her arms around his neck with abandon as she kissed him back. He groaned her name, thrilled to the sound of her answering moan. He pulled her onto his lap. Pressed her closer. Slid one hand into her glorious curls.
She pulled back, her arms still looped around his neck, her smile so bright and luminous it rivaled the sunset behind her.
“I love you, too.”
His throat tightened. He leaned forward, rested his cheek against hers and breathed in her scent.
“I almost let you go. Almost let us go.”
Her fingers moved across his back in soothing circles.
“What made you come back?”
“I accepted my past for what it was and borrowed a page from your book by looking at how I could turn some of those traits into something good for the future.” She started to say something, but he lay a gentle finger on her lips. “I’m afraid I’m going to fail myself. I’m not used to trying. To putting myself out there. Most of all,” he admitted with a harsh exhale, “I worry that I’ll fail you. That the man you think I can be won’t stand the test of time.”
“Oh, Griffith.” She rested her forehead against his. “You’ll make mistakes. I will, too. I made my own. I quit Nettleton Thompson because you helped me realize that I was trying to be someone I wasn’t. You showed me how to live. How to take joy from the simple things. How to make myself a priority instead of only living for others.”
His arms tightened around her. “You deserve a life you love, Rosalind. Although I do appreciate your optimistic outlook.” He leaned down, brushed a kiss across her temple. “You saw the potential in me when I couldn’t.”
“I do like looking at the sunny side of things and thinking hard work can solve anything.” She let out a slow breath. “But it can’t always be that way. You ground me.”
“Just as long as I don’t stop you from dreaming.”
“No.” Her smile took his breath away. “You encouraged me to take my own risk. To go after what I truly wanted and what I’m good at. For all my talk about looking at the sunny things in life, I wasn’t letting myself live.”
“I’m glad. And I’m proud.” Surprisingly, his next admission was the hardest one to make. “The exhibition...”
“Oh!” She laughed, snuggled into his embrace. “I completely forgot. Tell me everything.”
“When I dropped by last week, they gave me a tour of the studio. Right now, it’s just a spare room, but come spring they’ll have a new addition to the clinic.” He smiled slightly. “There was an older woman in the back corner of the room when I visited. She wasn’t done, but her canvas was partially covered by a field of flowers. Square ones, diamond-shaped, rectangles and all sorts of colors that shouldn’t work. But they did. She told me how she started drinking after her husband passed away. How she was painting the field where he proposed and how the art helped her process her husband’s death. Helped her stop drinking. It got me thinking. Maybe other people would like to see their artwork, too, hear their stories. That maybe I could do more to help. Recovery will open with featured artwork from members of the clinic’s art therapy program. Admission fees will fund treatment. Artists can be anonymous, but most are sharing their names. They have the option of keeping their work when it’s over, or having it auctioned off at a gala to celebrate the end of the exhibition.”
“Griffith...” Her tremulous smile made his blood sing.
“It’s a step. Maybe one day I’ll be able to forgive the man who hit my car. Forgive myself for all the years I wasted not dealing with my mother’s death.”
“You don’t have to do it alone.”
He slipped an arm under her legs and the other behind her back as he lifted her up, held her tight for a moment and then set her on the bench next to him. Before she could move, he slid off the bench and got down on one knee.
Her eyes widened. “Griffith...”
“You make me want to be a better man, Rosalind. You make me want to be the best I can be. And while I’m terrified I will let you down, I want to try. I want to go to bed with you every night and wake up to you every morning. I want to hear your thoughts, live with you in our chateau by the sea with five or six kids running around.”
“Six?” she asked with a laugh. “How about three?”
“Four.” He kissed her again, simply because he could, and then reached into his jacket pocket. When he flipped the lid open on the white velvet box, she gasped.
“This was my mother’s.” The yellow pear-shaped diamond winked up at them, set on a gleaming silver band and surrounded by smaller jewels. “Rosalind, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
The words had barely left his lips when she flung her arms around him.
“Yes! Yes, Griffith!”
Laughing, he pulled back long enough to slide the ring onto her finger before sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to the far side of the capsule. The sun hovered just above the horizon. The timeless landmarks of London, from the sprawling walls of the Houses of Parliament to the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, lay below them.
He set her on her feet and pulled her snugly into his side.
“We missed almost the entire ride to the top.”
Rosalind held out her hand, the ring glinting in the evening light.
“I’m not disappointed.”
He cut her laugh off with another kiss.
“How soon will you marry me?”
“As soon as you want me to.”
“I can bribe a justice as soon as we reach the bottom,” he said. Then, seeing her pointed look, laughed and said, “All right, a week?”
“How about long enough for me to plan my dream wedding?”
“You don’t already have it planned?” he teased.
She smiled up at him. “Bits and pieces. But I was missing the most important part. Until you.”