Was Griff being nice and trying to put her at her ease or was he pretending to be nice because he felt beholden to be so? Or were the emotions he was finally allowing her to see real and did he care a little? More than a little? ‘When a man has been married as long as I have, he knows these things.’
She nodded and to her intense relief, he hauled himself off her bed and padded barefoot out of her door. Alone, she slumped back on to the pillows, which smelled too much like him for comfort, and as she hugged one, she splayed her hand on the patch of mattress which still carried his warmth. Then guiltily snatched it back as the door opened again. ‘Mrs Gibbons is on the case and says she’ll have it up to us in a trice.’
Us!
Before she could query that statement, or argue against it, he settled himself back on the bed beside her, throwing a pillow against the headboard to lean against, stretching his long legs and crossing his feet comfortably at the ankles. ‘How do you fancy a trip out today?’
‘With you?’ Because that sounded delightful.
‘Of course, with me. It’s another lovely day and with autumn soon upon us, we should take advantage of the weather and the fact that it is blessedly Sunday and you have the entire day off. We could pack a picnic and take the curricle somewhere green and pleasant. I can’t promise anything as pretty as the Dales but Richmond Park is always lovely.’
‘I haven’t been there in ages.’
He grinned just as Mrs Gibbons tapped the door. As she came in, her gaze took in the dishevelled state of the bed and the pair of them still upon it and smiled knowingly. ‘Dry toast and peppermint tea as requested.’
Griff jumped up, relieved her of the tray and pretended to sniff it with pleasure. ‘The breakfast of champions.’
‘Will that be all, sir?’
‘Actually, no...’ He placed the tray beside Charity in the space he had vacated and then solicitously handed her her tea. ‘While my wife feasts, I need to talk to you about a picnic because we are off on an adventure.’
* * *
‘You’ve certainly picked the perfect day for it.’ Mrs Gibbons put the final pin in Charity’s hair and beamed at her reflection in the mirror. ‘Don’t you look as pretty as a picture?’
‘Thank you.’ Her housekeeper didn’t have Lily’s deft touch, but she did a reasonable job. ‘It’s much better than I could have done.’ Griff had insisted she hire a lady’s maid, but the new girl didn’t start for another week.
‘I put plenty of hairpins in it seeing as you are off in the curricle. We don’t want the wind turning it into a bird’s nest the moment you set off.’ Then she raised her eyebrows. ‘Not that the master will notice, of course. Besotted men rarely notice their lady’s flaws.’ If only. ‘He was as giddy as a schoolboy this morning when he left.’
‘He’s gone?’ This was news to Charity. ‘Where?’
‘He said he had to pick up something from his parents’ house around the corner so I doubt he’ll be long. And he’s eager to steal you away by yourself...’ After a pointed glance at the still messy bed, Mrs Gibbons raised her eyebrows again. ‘Clearly he cannot get enough of you.’
It felt wrong to humiliate him by admitting that they had never used either of the beds in this house for the sort of activities the housekeeper assumed they were indulging in. ‘Sundays are my only full day off. That is probably why he seems so keen.’
‘Oh, it’s not just that. It’s everything. The way he looks at you when he thinks nobody is watching. The way he eagerly awaits your return when you are at the theatre. The minutes never go fast enough for him and he inevitably leaves to fetch you much sooner than he needs to because he simply cannot wait. His pride when you are on his arm. The way he attends to you when you are feeling ill and refuses to allow me to assist. The vast amount of money he has spent on the instruments for your new music room alone tells me—’
‘What new music room?’
Mrs Gibbons instantly froze and blinked at her. ‘You mean he hasn’t told you?’ When Charity shook her head, touched beyond measure, the older woman covered her mouth with her hand, her expression distraught. ‘He never said it was a surprise but now I’ve ruined it!’
‘I shan’t tell him if you don’t.’ She couldn’t hide her grin or her delight. Griff had bought her instruments. How lovely was that? But poor Mrs Gibbons was still mortified.
‘Why did he not tell me it was a secret?’ She wrung her hands and looked ready to burst into tears. ‘Unless he assumed that I would never betray his confidence and that makes me feel even worse.’
Charity took her hands. ‘He should have told you not to say anything, but likely didn’t because he is a creature of habit who never tells anyone anything—and hasn’t considered that the household dynamics have recently shifted and you now have both a master and mistress.’
‘Still...’
‘I am an actress, Mrs Gibbons, and if I say so myself, a rather good one and you have my word that he will never know you let slip his secret. I shall be as surprised and overawed when he tells me as I am now.’
‘But I feel awful.’
‘Then don’t. The household dynamics have shifted and we girls must always stick together. I should like very much that you trust me as implicitly as I already trust you.’
The older woman finally smiled. ‘Mr Philpot has often bragged to me of your acting skills. Why only the other night he lamented about your Figaro mucking up his lines again in the first act and your quick thinking and comic timing having to save him. Tuesday, wasn’t it? It must be frustrating having to save his bacon again and again.’
Charity nodded, using every bit of that talent to cover this new and even more shocking surprise. That Griff had watched her from the audience this week and not mentioned it, and by the sounds of it had done so more than once if he was able to pinpoint the hapless Figaro’s many errors so precisely. ‘My Figaro likes a tipple, Mrs Gibbons.’
‘Frequent and often too by the sounds of it. I know Mr Philpot was staggered they engaged him for this second run when he made so many similar mistakes in the first—but then, as he always says, the audience aren’t there to see Figaro, they are there to see you. Having seen you as Susanna, I do not doubt that for a second.’
‘I didn’t know you had seen me perform, Mrs Gibbons?’
‘Oh, I have seen you twice, Mrs Philpot. Your husband bought me and my daughter tickets for my birthday when it first opened at New Year’s and then I got to go again in April when he had an urgent business meeting and couldn’t use his ticket that night.’
Griff had gone to see her in April? Before their fateful trip to the north? She couldn’t recall that.
The housekeeper handed her the bonnet which went with her cornflower-blue muslin, then primped with her curls some more after she put it on. ‘But I have to confess while you still sounded magnificent, the view that second time wasn’t as good. My own fault. I am too vain to wear my spectacles in public so from all the way up in the gods you were a bit of a blur.’
Oblivious of the significance of the bombshell she had just imparted, Mrs Gibbons began to put away the hairbrush and pins in the dressing table drawer. ‘But Mr Philpot seems to prefer the gods for some reason and as it’s his hard-earned money that purchases all those tickets in his desk drawer, it is not my place to question his choices.’ Charity made a mental note to take a peek in that desk drawer at the earliest possible convenience. ‘For he is generous to a fault all other times and spares no expense on those he loves.’ She beamed again, somewhat sheepishly. ‘Which you will doubtless see for yourself when all the instruments arrive.’
What a thoughtful and confusing man she had married. Who disapproved of her one minute and then sat high in the gods to covertly watch her the next. ‘Which room has he picked for my music room?’
‘Do you want me ruining all of the surprises?’ At Charity’s wicked gri
n she relented. ‘The one opposite his study and facing the garden. Aside from the view and my suspicion that he desperately wanted you close by, he needed somewhere with a high ceiling for the pianoforte he has ordered. It is coming all the way from Vienna apparently, and is so tall it’s been named after some strange exotic animal. One he claims can eat the leaves from the very top of the trees on the plains of Africa no less.’
‘A giraffe perchance?’
‘That’s it! A giraffe piano. I thought at the time it was a funny name.’
That meant Griff hadn’t just bought her a pianoforte, he had bought her the very best—a Seuffert Giraffenflügel which even her mother, who had literally everything musical ever invented, did not yet have because it was so expensive.
‘But after he had done hours of research and consulted with a flamboyant little Italian chap who came to visit one evening, Mr Philpot decreed you could have no other.’
‘Was the flamboyant little Italian chap called Signor Fauci by any chance?’ He really had gone to a touching amount of trouble and not said a single word about it. How typically tight-lipped of Griff.
‘He was. Do you know him?’
‘Signor Fauci is my singing teacher.’
The older woman instantly scoffed. ‘You don’t need a singing teacher.’
‘You are the second person to say that in as many weeks.’ And while she was on the subject of things said more than once in such a short space of time. ‘Mrs Gibbons, can I ask you exactly how Griff looks at me when he thinks nobody is watching?’
The housekeeper’s face softened. ‘Like a man hopelessly in love.’
It was her turn to scoff, even though her heart leapt at the thought. ‘You are mistaken, Mrs Gibbons. You forget, we had to marry.’
‘Perhaps...but I suspect it would have happened even without a baby anyway, don’t you? For I also see the way you look at him too.’
Before Charity had time to formulate a denial, they heard his boots on the stairs, casting those insightful words into stone and giving her some serious food for thought. Was it really possible that some of her overwhelming feelings for Griff were reciprocated? She certainly hoped so.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Ta-da!’ Griff opened the picnic basket with an exaggerated flourish and enjoyed Charity’s expression as she warily peeked at the contents then burst out laughing.
‘Boiled potatoes and dry toast?’
‘A bland banquet that not even our demon child could take issue with.’
‘But what about the cake? The Prince of Darkness hates cake.’
‘It’s ginger. An ingredient which I am reliably informed is used extensively by mariners to ward off seasickness. They swear by it and never leave port without it, so I figured it was worth a try.’
She broke a corner off with her fingers and sniffed it before popping it into her mouth. Then sighed in pleasure at the taste. ‘If it means I can eat cake again, then I am prepared to try anything—but know that I shall blame you entirely if it doesn’t and I live to regret it.’
Before she could break off a second piece, he whipped the cake away. ‘Dessert traditionally comes after dinner and you need to keep your strength up. Therefore, it’s proper food first and then cake.’ He took out the plates and while she continued to laugh, made a great show of serving her up a single potato, a slice of similarly boiled chicken and one triangle of toast. ‘Your first course, madame—and I think you’ll agree, what an insipid feast for the eyes it is! Bon appétit.’
‘You’re a tyrant, Gruff Griff the Fun-Spoiler. Have I ever told you that?’ She feigned irritation but he swore he saw some affection in her eyes as she stared at the sorry meal and then took an unenthusiastic bite out of the potato. ‘Do you think I will ever be able to eat anything that isn’t white or beige ever again, Griff? I so miss fruit and sauces. And cheese and pudding. And chocolate.’ With a huff she popped the second half of the potato into her mouth.
‘Dr Macdonald said you should feel better by the sixteenth week.’
‘Then I only have...hmm...’ She chewed thoughtfully, brows furrowed. ‘You are the mathematician so you can do the calculations because I need a light at the end of the tunnel to look forward to.’ Then she grinned. ‘We made our demon child on the night of the fourth of June or some time in the small hours of the fifth...’ The casual but unexpected reminder of that night instantly conjured images of them writhing on the sheets for hours. ‘And today is the twenty-eighth of August, so that is...’
Griff tried to banish the erotic sights, sounds and vivid memories of Charity in the throes of passion that fateful night to focus on the simple mathematical problem. ‘Well there are thirty days in June...minus five leaves twenty-five. Plus the thirty-one for July and the twenty-eight so far in August. That’s um...eighty...um...’ Why wouldn’t his brain work? Probably because the sun was picking out the flecks of shimmering gold in her hair. Her pretty blue dress was emphasising the deep azure in her eyes. The warm breeze had even picked up her perfume and wafted the heady scent of jasmine ruthlessly beneath his nose to distract him further. The same fragrance he had smelled when his lips had explored her neck while his body had been buried deep inside hers. As his throat dried with spontaneous lust at that, he forced out a cough in case his answer came out strangled. ‘Eighty-four days.’
‘And what is that in weeks?’ She clicked her fingers just like she had that fateful night before she had kissed him, and he had lost his head. ‘Come on, Griff! I thought you were supposed to be a genius. What is eighty-four divided by seven?’
‘Eleven? No...’ His addled brain struggled further with the simple bit of division. ‘Twelve. It’s definitely twelve weeks to the day.’ The day all his wildest fantasies had come true.
‘Has it really been three months?’ Charity was talking about the length of her pregnancy but all Griff could now think about in his inappropriate and fevered state was what an age it had been since he had last had her. How many nights he had lain awake craving her. How torturous it was to be married to her, to be able to gaze upon her every single day across the breakfast table or know she was in her bed only a few scant feet from his and not be able to touch her in the way he yearned to. The way he had always yearned to. Even this morning, as he had awoken with her cradled in his arms, he had had to leave the bedchamber immediately in case she saw the overwhelming evidence of his rampant desire standing proud in his straining breeches. ‘Only another month of torture to go then.’
Torture was exactly what it was.
Could he go another month without her after this morning? Another week? Another blasted hour?
‘I bought you a present.’ He blurted out the words and then scrambled to his feet to fetch it, needing some space to calm himself down. ‘Wait there.’
He dashed back to the curricle and took his time unpacking the dusty box he had hastily retrieved from his parents’ attic, using it to remind himself that his wooing of his wife was a steady hike and not a sprint. Slow and steady would win the race, not a ham-fisted, ill-timed and premature declaration caused by a surfeit of pent-up lust!
He willed his body to deflate and his pulse to return to normal, then took a deep breath before he emerged from behind his conveyance. ‘Close your eyes and hold out your hands!’
She did as he asked, her lovely smile bewitching him all over again as he placed his forgotten toy in her outstretched fingers. She opened them then gasped, her lips parted as she gently traced the faded silk with the merest tip of one finger.
‘It’s your kite...’ Her eyes lifted, questioning as she offered him a perplexed smile. ‘The one you took to Brighton.’
‘The very one...the kite I petulantly refused to let you fly despite the twenty pretty shells you brought me when you were six and I was a magnificent specimen of ten.’ He stared at his feet as they shuffled on the grass, second-guessing himself for his i
mpulsive gesture which had seemed like such a good idea this morning but now only served to make him feel daft. And what the blazes had possessed him to repeat the words magnificent specimen? What a blithering idiot he truly was.
He kicked an imaginary stone, feeling ten again and hopelessly tongue-tied. ‘After your confession yesterday that you had never touched another kite since, I figured it was long past time for me to make amends for my childish behaviour seventeen years ago too. It was in my parents’ attic, doing nothing and I thought you might want to give it an airing.’
‘Aren’t you afraid I might break it?’ She ran her finger reverently down the thin wooden spine. ‘It looks rather fragile.’
‘I don’t care if you break it. I never should have. It’s an old kite—not a priceless artefact.’ He held out his hand. ‘Come on. The conditions are perfect.’
‘I have no clue how to fly a kite, Griff.’
‘Then I’ll teach you.’
He hauled her up and tugged her well away from the trees and on to some raised ground to demonstrate the basics. ‘Turn your back to the wind and hold the kite thus.’ As he held it out, the long, ribboned tail cracked and flapped in anticipation. ‘When it catches the wind, let it go and very slowly let out the string, always keeping the line tight.’ As it lifted into the air, he gently tugged on the string at intervals to encourage the kite to soar higher, enjoying her childish smile of wonder at the sight.
After a few minutes, he reeled it back and handed it to her. ‘Your turn.’
The tip of her tongue poked out as she concentrated, mimicking his movements, but no sooner had she got it airborne, than it plummeted to the ground. ‘Grrr... I still cannot do it.’
‘Yes, you can. If at first you don’t succeed...’
She glared at him with narrowed eyes but held the kite out again. This time, as it caught the wind, Griff came to stand behind her, wrapping his hands around hers. ‘Don’t tug it too hard or let the string go too slack. You have to tease it...give it some freedom...that’s it...then give it a nudge to remind it that you are in charge.’
How Not to Chaperon a Lady--A sexy, funny Regency romance Page 21
