Chapter Fifteen #5
“I suppose we have neglected our duties long enough,” Olivia whispered, searching his face.
She leaned forward, caught his chin with her lips, then the corner of his mouth.
The tilt of her head invited him to linger a moment longer over the stem of her neck.
She sighed. “I’ll have to put the wig on again, paint my face. ”
“Mmm.” He caught her earlobe, worried it.
He felt her shiver ever so slightly. “God, but you tempt me.” This time when he drew away he put himself outside of her reach by moving to the wing chair.
He was only in it a moment before he realized the fit was not quite right.
Lifting one hip, he reached beneath him and pulled out Olivia’s wig.
The string of seed pearls that had been artfully arranged in the auburn curls was twisted and drooping.
He poked at the pearls, saw he was only making matters worse, and gently tossed the wig to Olivia.
Griffin slid into a casual incline in the chair and watched Olivia work. He observed her deft and nimble fingers while his mind wandered to certain details that had been left out of her account.
“Did you ask Sir Hadrien how he came to be here?”
She shook her head. “I imagine Alastair told him that he’d returned the ring to you. That would have brought him here straightaway.”
“Have you had any correspondence from your brother?”
“No, but if he’s been at Coleridge Park, then he hasn’t yet received my letters.”
Griffin considered that, wondering if the explanation was as simple as that. “Then Sir Hadrien’s concern was all for the ring, is that right?”
Olivia glanced up, frowning. “I hope I did not lead you to believe it was ever anything else. He was grateful for the attention paid to keeping the family name well out of it. I told him he had you to thank, so perhaps he will.” She bent to her task again.
“Sir Hadrien had some idea that he would accept me in place of the ring, but I disabused him of that notion. He thought I might suit someone named Reginald Sewell, Lord Pearce.”
“Pearce? Is he still alive?”
“So it would seem. Apparently he would not expect me to bear his children, so that is something.”
Griffin’s left eyebrow rose in a dramatic arch. “Indeed.”
Olivia finished with the wig, then held it out in front of her for a final inspection. “You would not consider exchanging me for the ring, would you?”
“I hope that is not a serious question.” But then he saw that it was, in spite of her attempt to say it lightly and put it before him as though it had only just this moment occurred to her. “Do you still trust me so little, Olivia?”
She’d hurt him, she realized, and rushed to explain herself. “No, that’s not it at all, or rather I did not mean you should put that construction upon it. I am not so confident that I don’t require reassurance now and again.”
“You know,” he said after a moment, “that marriage might improve your confidence.”
“I thought we were done with Lord Pearce.”
“Amusing.”
“You have someone else in mind?”
“I will have to give it some thought.” He saw she was in anticipation of yet another proposal and deliberately withheld it. There should be some small way of getting his own back after she’d turned down every one of his offers. “Your standards are perhaps too exacting for mere mortals.”
She twisted her hair into a knot and slipped on the wig. “I have a particular fondness for mere mortals, so you are wrong there.”
He stood and held out his hand to her. “I’ll remain hopeful, then, that someone more suitable than Pearce will come to mind.”
Olivia took his hand, rose, then allowed him to tug at the wig so it fit her head snugly. “Go on,” she said when he’d finished. “I am still in need of a few minutes to apply my mask. Tell Mr. Mason that I will be at my station directly.”
They walked out together, but before they parted in the hallway, Olivia stayed Griffin by placing one hand on his shoulder and turning in to him. The kiss she offered was hot and wet and deep, and served up to remind him that he teased her at his own peril.
Nat put his hand in Olivia’s as soon as they stepped off the curb to cross Moorhead Street.
They dodged a lumbering tinker’s wagon, a single rider on a great cinnamon gelding, and a hack that would not give way to any of the pedestrian traffic.
Mason led the way, urging them to hurry, then made a point of looking them all over when they reached the opposite side of the street.
“All of a piece, it seems,” he said. “There’s a good thing. My guts for garters otherwise.”
“Guts for garters,” Nat repeated gravely. “Too bloody right, Mr. Mason.”
Olivia tried to be disapproving of both of her companions, but it required too much effort. “Let us continue, gentlemen, shall we? Nat is growing inches even as we stand here. The tailor will have to put twice the length in his knickers to account for it.”
They started off again, this time with Olivia and Nat leading the way.
They took the shortcut through the park, stopping from time to time to appreciate the budding trees and the occasional blooming jonquil.
Nat was an agreeable companion, curious about everything he observed but politely restrained in the number of questions he put before them.
Why do ladies plant gardens in their bonnets? How do they wind the clock in the tower? How many ships fit side by side across the Thames? What did the hack driver mean when he yelled “bugger off”?
Olivia fielded some questions, tagged Mason to answer others, and in the case of “bugger off,” ignored Nat completely.
Nat was cooperative while he was measured and fitted—more cooperative, Olivia recalled, than she had been when Griffin had arranged for her to be poked and pinned by Mrs. McCutcheon.
When they were finished at the tailor’s, Olivia suggested they visit the bookseller’s.
After that they went to a notions shop, the milliner’s, and stumbled upon a place that sold all manner of pewter ware, including what seemed to be his majesty’s entire army.
Nat was pleased to leave with his first cavalry soldiers.
Mason offered to flag a hack for them, but Olivia wanted to be certain that she would not encounter Sir Hadrien at the hell and decided that walking, even weighed down with an armload of parcels, was just the thing to extend their time away.
They paused at the perimeter of the park to observe some children putting kites into the air. Their nannies sat on a bench, watching them, occasionally offering some encouragement, but seemingly more interested in exchanging gossip.
“It reminds me of the painting in your former room, Nat. You know the one I mean?”
He nodded. “I liked it very much, Miss Cole.”
“Perhaps we should move it. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.” She tipped her head back as one of the kites soared skyward. “Have you ever flown a kite?” she asked. “Look at the blue one. Oh, it’s going to make a dive.”
“I never have, have you?”
“Never.”
Nat turned to put the same question to Mason, but the words stayed locked in his throat as a fair-haired gentleman appeared suddenly behind the valet and knocked him hard to the ground.
Nat dropped his parcels and flew at the stranger, but he was swatted aside like a pesky insect.
He stumbled, fell, and rolled on his back.
He called a warning just as Olivia was struck between the shoulder blades by the villain’s walking stick.
The blow made her lurch forward and her packages tumbled out of her arms. She pivoted awkwardly, trying to find her balance, but before she could manage the thing she was lifted and slung over the man’s shoulder.
Nat yelled, “Bugger off!” and started to rise to his feet.
He took a kick in the side, fell back, and saw the same strike used to keep Mason down.
Someone screamed, and Nat supposed it was a good thing except that no one really came to their aid.
All but one of the children had abandoned their kites, and the nannies were urging everyone to huddle close.
Nat scrambled to his feet and took a step forward in pursuit of Olivia and her assailant. This time it was Mason who held him back. The valet gripped Nat’s ankle like a vise.
“You can’t, son, else I’ll lose you as well.”
Nat sunk back to his knees as Olivia was thrust into a waiting carriage. The villain followed, the door banged shut, and the carriage rolled forward swiftly, as though it had never been fully at rest.
Mason saw the same. “He was lying in wait for us,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. His right shoulder was dislocated and his arm hung painfully at his side. He cradled it and directed Nat to pick up what he could manage and guard the rest while he hailed a hack.
A fat tear slipped free of Nat’s lower lashes and followed the path of his scar. He bent to pick up Olivia’s hat box. “It’ll be guts for garters.”
Mason nodded. “Too bloody right, it will.”