A shiver crept over Emily’s skin. “But—”
“He is a duke’s brother, Emily. An aristocratic gentleman. We cannot ask him to remain in that tiny cottage, and we certainly can’t ask my coachman to stay in the house instead. That would be highly irregular.”
“I suppose so,” Emily hedged with a quick glance directed at the only man in the world who could make her grow hot with a single look.
His expression gave no indication of what he was thinking, which wasn’t very helpful at all. Especially when her own stomach was tying itself into knots at the idea of having him sleep so close to her.
“Then it is settled?” Georgina asked.
“Perhaps the coachman could remain at the inn,” Emily suggested.
“You know that would be both impractical and a neglect of the coachman’s responsibilities toward me as his employer. So unless Lord Griffin is opposed..?”
“I would happily agree to move out of the cottage and into the house so that you may keep your coachman nearby, Mrs. Howard.”
Emily turned her head just enough to catch Lord Griffin’s eye as she mouthed the word, “Traitor.”
He responded with a roguish smirk, which only increased her discomfort. Especially since she failed to see his motive for bowing to her mother’s suggestion without the slightest protest. It made no sense for him to do so. Not when he was supposed to be avoiding an attachment.
“I managed to purchase the tools I require to fix your clock,” Lord Griffin told her later when they returned to Clearview.
After taking lunch at the inn while they waited for the coachman to pack his things and ready the carriage, they’d enjoyed riding back to the house instead of walking.
“Thank you,” she said as she followed him into the dining room where all the clock parts were now spread out with what appeared to be organized precision. Emily blinked. “Oh dear.”
“You must not worry,” he told her quickly. “I know what I’m doing and will put everything back together in perfect order.”
Emily moved further into the room so she could better study the array of cogs, wheels, springs, and miniscule screws. “That is not my concern.” Heavens. Her voice was struggling to form words. The emotion she felt, brought on by gratitude, was almost too much to bear.
“Then what is troubling you?” The question was gently spoken. It also brought him closer to where she stood, spiking her awareness of him. Her entire body tingled in response to the rich scent of sandalwood clinging to his person.
His hand settled softly against her lower back in a manner no doubt meant to offer comfort. Instead, it made Emily catch her breath as heat erupted inside her. “I did not realize how much trouble this would be for you,” she said, the words scratching her parched throat while she struggled to stay upright. To not lean into his hand. To not ask for more.
His hand fell away, leaving a chill in its place. But he remained by her side, so close she could feel the air shifting between them as he moved. “Fixing this clock is not an inconvenience.” The low voice with which he spoke swept through her like butterflies riding on a breeze. “I am happy to do it. Especially since I know how much it would mean to you.”
“My grandmother always understood me. I loved her enormously and wished she’d been there for me to confide in as I grew older.” A sting brought moisture to Emily’s eyes, and she walked a few paces, adding distance to help hide her tears. “But she died right before my first season and this clock...”
“You need not explain.”
“I don’t think I can,” she told him, her voice a bit shakier than she had hoped.
“I know.” She swiped at her eyes and turned more fully toward him. Before she could ask what he meant, he dipped his hand into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a watch, attached by a golden chain. “This is my most prized possession. A gift from my brother, George, on my tenth birthday.” He dropped his gaze to the dial. “He gave Caleb a tool set and Devlin received a compass.” A low chuckle wrought by sadness escaped him. “George knew what our paths in life would be before we did.”
“I’m so sorry.” It was difficult seeing him like this, made vulnerable by grief.
“He should not have died as he did.”
Emily swallowed. She knew a fire had killed both George and his father while they’d been attempting to save the horses trapped in one of their stables. It was how Caleb had been made duke and the reason why Lord Griffin had returned to England.
“I was shocked when I learned of it,” he added.
Emily nodded, but remained silent, partly because she had trouble finding the right words and partly because she wanted to give Lord Griffin room to speak.
“We were never particularly close, but I always looked up to George.” The corner of Lord Griffin’s mouth twitched. “He was an exemplary marksman. He could hit a coin hung from a tree branch from a distance of fifty paces.”
“I would have loved to see that.”
Lord Griffin nodded. He returned his watch to his pocket and with it, the brief display of grief he’d allowed her to witness. “He would have liked you a great deal. Of that I have no doubt.”
There was something in his words, a deeper meaning that brought a strange sense of comfort to Emily’s soul. Before she had time to study it further, Lord Griffin distracted her by picking up something that looked like a spool of flatly pressed metal. “This is the part that needs fixing.”
Moving closer to where he stood, Emily leaned forward for a better look, her shoulder inadvertently brushing his arm in the process. A spark darted through her, the shock of it forcing a low gasp from between her lips.
If he noticed, he made no indication. Instead he turned the metal coil over in his hand. “See the unevenness here? I have to straighten that out before I can balance the mechanism properly.”
“I suspect that must have happened when Peter dropped it.” The boy had done so by accident. He’d been holding the clock, oblivious to Emily’s arrival in the room. When she’d spoken, Peter had jumped, and the clock had tumbled from his hands.
Even though it had been a mishap, it had still been upsetting. Especially when Emily had realized the clock no longer worked.
“He probably wanted to discover how it functioned.”
“That is what he told me.” It had not made Emily feel any better though. She sighed at the recollection. “I’m afraid I still lost my temper.”
“That is perfectly understandable.” Lord Griffin met her gaze with both sympathy and understanding. “This clock is an heirloom, irreplaceable because of your emotional attachment to it. Of course it would upset you to find it broken. But the good news is that it is not beyond repair.” He smiled then, the sort of smile that could make a woman forget she was not supposed to fall head over heels in love with him. “I am going to fix it for you, Miss Howard. Of that, you have my word.”
It was her turn to speak now, to thank him for his kindness, except she was still slightly dazed by his smile, his nearness, his scent, and his overwhelming charm. All of it came together, like a spell intended to muddle her head and make her feel stupid. She swallowed, retreated a step, away from the potent effect he was having on her.
When she reached the door she paused, not exactly looking at him but not looking away either. “I…um…” She made an effort to put her scrambled thoughts in order. “Yes. That would be nice.”
He gave her a quizzical look, his head slightly tilted as if he could not comprehend her response. Which was understandable since she could not comprehend it herself. She pressed her lips together, realizing she ought to say something more – something better and more appropriate. Except she could not think with him standing there staring at her, and she feared now that any effort she made to salvage her feeble attempt at conveying her gratitude would only be made worse by additional words.
So she stepped back further, her stomach now tight and her skin growing hot from the flush of discomfort spreading over her body. A nod was
all she could manage before she turned and fled, removing herself to her bedchamber for the next hour. It was safe there, the tidy room offering her an oasis of reprieve from the man who made her feel so much she could not relax in his presence. Around him, her nerves were on constant alert, her senses struggling to comprehend and catalogue each new experience. And as wonderful as that was, it was also trying.
Tossing herself on her bed, Emily felt the mattress dip and rise beneath her back as she stared up at the white plaster ceiling. How could she possibly have thought that a kiss in a garden at night would be simple? How could she have imagined that she could control such a personal experience and ensure complete detachment? How could she ever have believed that letting Lord Griffin do the honor would not cause emotional turmoil to plague her?
She took a deep breath and expelled it slowly while forcing herself to acknowledge one thing: she was so far out of her depth, she just might drown.
10
Griffin spent the next three days either painting the parlor or working on Emily’s clock. This allowed him the solitude he needed in order to sort out his feelings for her. It also gave her a chance to avoid him, as he believed she wished to do. He pondered this new development while running his paintbrush over a spot he’d missed earlier. Her skittishness around him had been gradually increasing in line with his own awareness of her.
Stepping back, he admired his work for a moment before continuing, his hand moving up and down in smooth, easy strokes, though his mind was on something else entirely. Namely on her. She was so damn lovely, especially when she looked shy and uncertain, which was happening now with increased frequency.
Again, for what had to be the millionth time, he played out the incident at the lake in his head. She’d fled, but not before she’d revealed her curiosity or her desire. Fear had won out that morning, causing her to flee, but her flushed cheeks, the fact that she’d stayed to watch him get out of the water until she’d risked seeing too much, piqued more than his interest. It made him want to do things he ought not to want to do with an innocent young woman.
Try as he might though, he could not quite control his indecent imaginings. Not any longer. Not when he felt their attraction was mutual. For she could tell him that he was just a means to an end, the man who happened to accommodate her wish to learn about kissing when no other option remained. But Griffin knew better. Deep inside he’d always known better. Ever since the first time he’d met her when he’d come here looking for Caleb several months earlier and she’d been the one who opened the door.
She’d been the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and the spark he’d felt, though he’d dismissed it at the time on account of more important business, had not been imagined. It had been real and fiery and urgent. And while he’d done his best to ignore it since then, aware that pursuing it further would only result in hurting her while acquiring Caleb’s displeasure, he’d started to wonder if things might be different if he wanted them to be.
What if he sold his business in Vienna and moved back to England? What if rather than hurt Miss Howard by leaving, he made an attempt at staying?
Was that even something she might want?
All he knew was that she’d once lost her chance at marriage and that she still seemed to resent this. He stared at the white wall a moment. Had she loved the man who’d courted her and been heartbroken over losing her chance with him? A surge of displeasure raced through him, quickening his pulse. He shook his head. No. She’d only mentioned her suitor in passing, as a missed opportunity of sorts, nothing more.
That reminder, the belief that her heart remained unattached, allowed him to breathe more easily. It also forced him to acknowledge the fact that he wanted to be the object not only of her desire but of her affection. He wanted to be the man who did more than teach her how to kiss. He wanted to be the man who reminded her every day of how wonderful and extraordinary and stunning she was, the man who chased away every doubt she’d ever had about herself, who showed her that she deserved to be loved for her courage and boldness.
The door swung open behind him, causing cool air to sweep over his shoulders. He turned and immediately spotted the object of his contemplations, her hazel eyes curious as they roamed around the room before settling on him. A wave of pleasure rolled through him as he spotted that now familiar curiosity and interest brightening her gaze.
The edge of her mouth twitched, dispelling the awkwardness that had been hanging between them for days now. “When you said you would paint the room, I thought you meant the walls.”
He frowned. “What?”
She pressed her lips together and nodded toward a spot behind Griffin. He glanced over his shoulder, his muscles tightening at the sight of the fireplace mantelpiece. “Damnation.” It was brilliantly white against an equally white wall and he, simpleton that he was, was cursing in front of a lady. “Forgive me. I…” He scrambled for a rag. The paint was still wet so perhaps… A few rough swipes informed him that it was already too late. In fact, he was just making it worse now by creating a streaky mess.
“Stop.”
He dropped the rag and stared helplessly at the piece of carved rosewood now hidden away and unsalvageable due to his own stupidity. “I’m so sorry.” He’d been thinking of her and not of the task, his hand moving mindlessly over the wood instead of the wall.
“It’s all right. At least you didn’t paint the silk cushions on the sofa.”
Turning slowly toward her, he could only stare at her, incredulous. “I have ruined your mantelpiece.”
“Did you do so deliberately?”
“No. Of course not. But that does not make it all right.”
She nodded. “Perhaps not, but getting upset over it will not help either.” She dropped her gaze to the floor. “It didn’t when Peter broke my clock. If anything, it will only result in unpleasant emotions that won’t resolve anything.”
“Miss Howard. I… You…” Words failed him. He’d been careless and she was accepting it without any reprimand.
“You should probably paint the rest of the fireplace too. It will look more deliberate then. But before you do, Mama suggested a picnic for luncheon because of the weather, and I thought I would ask you if you’d like to join us.”
He stared at her. “A picnic?”
“Where you eat outside on a blanket spread on the ground?”
An involuntary bit of laughter rose from his throat. “Yes. I know what it is.”
She laughed as well. “Good. For a moment there I was starting to wonder if the paint fumes had negatively affected your brain.”
“No. I do not believe so. The window is open.”
A smile tugged at her lips. “You have paint in your hair and on your cheek.”
He reached inside his pocket and retrieved a handkerchief which he promptly used to wipe at his cheek. “Better?”
She chuckled. “It’s on the other cheek.”
He made a second attempt at removing the stain. “How about now?’
Miss Howard shook her head and stepped toward him. “You’re making it worse.” She held out her hand and he gave her the handkerchief, his body on sudden alert as the expectation of her touch brought a strain to his muscles. He fought the urge to lean closer and instead remained where he was, perfectly still and immobile, save for the rise and fall of his chest.
The white linen grazed his skin, and although it created a barrier between them, he could feel the pressure of her fingertips moving against him. They did so efficiently, scrubbing at him with determination.
That same determination could be found in her eyes, now fixed upon the spot where she worked. She was still at arm’s length, not improperly close or even doing something that could be claimed as anything other than helpful. The parlor door was open behind her, denying them privacy.
But her scent… The sweet smell of lavender and fresh soap that suggested she’d recently bathed wafted over him. Along with something more homely.
“Ha
ve you been baking?” he asked when he caught a whiff of flour and milk.
A smile tugged at her lips. “I made scones.”
His mouth started to water. “I love scones.” Leaning slightly toward her, he breathed her in. The scent of her coaxed his senses until they were brought to an almost painful alertness. And then, as if she felt the touch of his gaze upon her, her eyes found his, and her effort to clean him slowed until it halted completely. She stood now, as still as he, her hand holding the handkerchief to his cheek.
Her throat worked as her awareness aligned with his. Lips parting ever so slightly, she blinked as if either surprised or completely undone in some way. The handkerchief shifted and Griffin realized that she was about to retreat as she always did when these moments arose between them. So he raised his own hand, pressing it to hers and holding it captive against his cheek.
“Don’t move,” he murmured. “Not yet.”
“But…” A tremor teased at the word even as her eyes widened.
Her breaths quickened and the blood running through Griffin’s veins thickened in response. “Close your eyes. Shut out the fear.”
“I don’t think I can.”
So there was fear then, just as he’d thought. “Close your eyes,” he repeated.
“Why?”
“Because you are letting distractions interfere with what you really want.” He raised his left hand to her cheek, gently scraping his thumb across the silky softness.
“And what would that be?”
“Close your eyes. Just for a moment. And perhaps you’ll find out.”
She did not look convinced, but her ever-present curiosity won the battle in her mind and she did as he asked, her eyelids sliding shut so her long black lashes lay prettily against her skin. Griffin took a moment to admire not only how lovely she was but the trust she’d just placed in his hands. It filled his heart with warmth, expanding it in size until it squeezed against his ribs.
More Than a Rogue Page 11
