Chapter Thirteen
Olivia could not recall that Griffin had ever slept before she did.
The novelty of being awake after he’d found sleep gave rise to curiosity.
Indulging herself, she raised her head on her elbow and studied his face.
In the dim candlelight, the shadows beneath his eyes disappeared.
Lines of fatigue lost their definition. He looked infinitely less weary than he had standing before her so short a time ago.
The scar that bisected his cheek had the effect of raising one corner of his mouth, his beautiful mouth, just enough to lend the impression of a wry, yet somehow contented smile.
She wondered at his dreams, if he had any.
He looked as if he embraced one now, something pleasant and darkly humorous.
The thought of it raised her own smile, and she touched his cheek with the back of her knuckles and drew them down ever so lightly toward his jaw.
He murmured something unintelligible; it was enough to make her withdraw her hand.
Carefully, she lifted the covers and slipped out of bed, glancing over her shoulder most of the time to see that he was not wakened. She drew on her robe and slippers, took the stub of the candle from the nightstand, and quietly exited.
Her curiosity extended well beyond Griffin’s sleeping countenance. She turned in the direction of her former room, stood outside the door for several long minutes simply listening, then let herself in.
The child lay in the very center of the bed. He slept on his side, one thin arm lying outside the blankets, the other thrust under his pillow so his head was raised at an angle.
Olivia drew closer, raised the candle so its light fell over the dark, tousled hair and narrow face.
She had questioned Griffin’s decision to bring the boy to the hell; now she understood it.
Features that were so careworn, so drawn even in sleep, had no place on the face of a child, and the child had no place anywhere but with the man who would be his father.
Did he look like his mother? Olivia wondered. Or could Griffin only see those features that set the child apart from the man?
Nathaniel Christopher Wright-Jones. The name was bigger than he was.
He was slight of build, with bony joints, sharp cheekbones, and a small, pointed chin.
In contrast, the hand she could see seemed too large an appendage for the frail delicacy of his wrist and arm.
She imagined him moving about with the charming awkwardness of a pup, trying to negotiate walking and running with hands and feet that he hadn’t grown into.
His lashes were long and dark, but just beneath them Olivia saw the same violet shadows that she’d seen beneath Griffin’s. She lowered the candle, but these shadows were too deep and remained like bruises on his pale skin.
Motherless boy.
Olivia did not assume that what she saw on the child’s face was evidence that he grieved. It was as likely evidence that he’d borne a weight much too heavy for his thin shoulders and for far too long. Perhaps it was evidence of both.
His legs twitched beneath the blankets, and he flopped abruptly onto his back.
Olivia sucked in a breath as the left side of his face was made visible to her.
The thin white scar bisecting his cheek was the twin to Griffin’s own and no accident or coincidence could account for it.
Olivia did not attempt to restrain herself.
She leaned over the bed and extended her hand, traced the scar with the very tip of her finger, a touch so light that not even the baby-fine hairs on his face were disturbed.
She let herself out of the room as quietly as she’d entered. This time when she paused on the other side of the door it was to press the sleeve of her nightgown against her eyes and wait for the hot, salty tears to subside.
Olivia pushed herself upright in bed when the Gazette thumped against the window for the second time.
Griffin continued to sleep like the dead beside her.
Sighing, she rose, found a few coins at the bottom of her reticule, and jingled them in her palm as she went to the window.
She unhooked the latch and pushed the window open, then leaned out and waved to the tribe of young ruffians below.
It took three tries, but the smallest among them gave her the pitch that she was finally able to catch. She slipped the paper under her arm, tossed the coins, and waited long enough to make certain the little fellow snagged something for his effort.
“Impressive.”
Olivia pulled the window closed and turned. Griffin was sitting up, leaning against the headboard, and rubbing his bristled jawline with his knuckles. He cocked an eyebrow at her and offered her a sleepy half smile that made her heart trip over itself. She threw the newspaper hard at his head.
Griffin ducked, but late, so the corner caught him on the shoulder. “Bloody hell, Olivia.” He unfolded the paper over the nightstand so that the pebbles the boys sometimes put in the creases to give it a bit of weight didn’t drop, roll, and scatter to the floor. “What was that in aid of?”
“How did you come by your scar?”
He blinked, frowning. It was dawning comprehension that flattened out his mouth and narrowed his eyes.
He stopped knuckling his jaw. “Elaine laid open my cheek with her riding crop. We had been married three months, no more, and I’d just confronted her with my suspicion that she’d taken one of the footmen to our bed.
” He fingered the scar. “This was her response.” His hand fell away and curled into a light fist at his side. “You’ve seen him, I take it.”
Nodding, her complexion going a little pale at what he’d described, Olivia dropped to the window bench and clutched the edge of it on either side of her. “Last night. After you’d fallen asleep. I went to his room because I was curious. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I wanted benefit of your fresh opinion on it, uninfluenced by my own.”
“How does he explain the scar?”
“He doesn’t. He says very little. Gardner told me he spoke to no one save his mother on the journey from Bath and every inquiry was to her welfare and comfort.
While she was being cared for here, in the same room he now occupies, I might add, he rarely left her side.
A room was prepared for him above, but he would have none of it.
He went there obediently when I insisted, but by morning he’d found his way back to her bed. ”
“She died here?”
“No. She wanted to return to Wright Hall, and as she and I both knew her stay there would be brief, I allowed it. There can be no doubt the last journey hastened her passing. I believe she was depending upon it. I cannot say whether the child blames me for allowing her to have her way. Sometimes I imagine it is accusation that I see in his eyes; sometimes what I see is nothing at all. The latter is far more concerning.”
Olivia became aware of how tightly she was holding on to the bench. She eased open her fingers and let the blood flow again. “How did Lady Breckenridge explain the scar?”
“As the child’s failure to defend himself properly during a fencing lesson.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Precisely.”
Olivia shook her head, pinched the bridge of her nose as she thought. “He could not lift a sword, let alone wield it.”
“That was my thought also.”
Her hand dropped to her lap. “She did it to him, Griffin. Deliberately. She scarred her son. It was what I thought when I saw it, and nothing you’ve told me alters that opinion. I doubt there is anything that can be said that will cause me to believe otherwise.”
“It is the same for me.” He pushed a pillow behind his back.
“After the services for Elaine, there were matters requiring my attention that of necessity meant I had to leave Wright Hall. I placed the boy in my sister Juliet’s care as her son is of an age with him, and she had a nanny and tutor already in her household.
When I returned for him she reported that he was obedient and mannerly to a fault, and largely silent.
Thomas, Juliet’s son, had no success in drawing him out, and my nephew is credited to be up to every trick. ”
“So you brought him here,” she said. “I should not have questioned your judgment.”
“Of course you should. His presence here cannot help but affect you.”
“Except for my own experience with childhood, I know nothing about children.”
“You know almost nothing about being a child,” he said quietly. “And neither, I think, does he.”
Olivia felt a sudden ache behind her eyes. She looked down quickly, blinking. The tears she held at bay settled in her throat. Swallowing hard, she took a steadying breath and waited for the pressure in her chest to ease.
“Olivia? Are you well?”
She glanced up, smiled ever so slightly. “It is only that your comprehension touches me. For myself, but for Nathaniel as well. You will call him that, won’t you? Nathaniel. Not the child. The boy. Her son. It will be better, I think. For him, certainly, but for you also.”
“Nat,” he said. “I shall call him Nat, I expect. Nathaniel is too big for him.”
Her smile deepened marginally. “It is, isn’t it?” Another thought occurred to her that she knew she needed to give voice to. “He’s not ill, is he? He’s so slight. I wondered…”
“Dr. Pettibone’s examined him. There appears to be no lung ailment. Elaine was slightly built, so perhaps that accounts for it. He does not eat a great deal, but I anticipate that will change in time.” He raised his hand toward Olivia, beckoned her to come to him. “Have you rung for breakfast?”
Crossing the room, she shook her head. “I only just awakened myself. Shall I ring now?” She paused a step outside of his reach when she read the intent in his eyes. His appetite was for something other than the usual breakfast fare. Her eyebrow kicked up. “You cannot mean to ravish me again.”
“Actually, I do.”