June 1823
Alastair Cole offered his arm to his sister. “It’s time,” he whispered, nudging her gently with his elbow. “I made a promise, and I intend to see it through.”
Olivia took up his arm but held it as one desperate to be pulled from the drink, not into it. “There is something to be said for going back on one’s word. I don’t think I fully appreciated that until now.”
He chuckled softly, adjusted her grip on his arm, and bent his head to her ear. “You are simply making noises, Livvy. Your argument has neither passion nor reason. Chin up. Eyes front. Smile. There you go. You look lovely.” He kissed her cheek. “He’s waiting for you.”
Olivia nodded, swallowed, and made to fall in step beside her brother. There was a moment’s hesitation just as they would have started out. Faltering slightly, she disobeyed Alastair’s eyes-front order and gave him her full attention. “I’m glad you proved to be such a poor shot. Twice.”
He pretended to take umbrage. “I was drunk, remember.” He patted her hand. “But I am glad of it, too. Now, shall we?”
Olivia squeezed his arm slightly, her grasp no longer as fierce as it had been. “Very well.” She took a calming breath, then set her eyes in the direction she meant to go. “This is not so different from the first time.”
Beside her, she sensed Alastair’s confusion, but also his relief that she intended to go forward. She did not try to explain herself. The memory that came to her was one that she embraced alone, and it remained more dear because of it. The same emotions surfaced: uncertainty, excitement, wariness. She’d stood in the entrance hall of Breckenridge’s hell and accepted his challenge, in spite of everything she felt in that moment, to come to him.
No, it was not so very different now.
He was there once again, waiting for her, perhaps only marginally more confident that she would arrive to take her place beside him. Olivia suspected she was the only one who glimpsed relief in his eyes when she appeared framed in the alcove. She knew he didn’t doubt she loved him, only that she loved him enough to run the gauntlet that was the center aisle of St. Michael’s church.
It was not the march to the altar that was intimidating. It was the sea of faces on either side of it that gave her pause, and in this regard her imagination hardly stood up to the reality of the thing. She was aware of the gazes turned in her direction, of the assessments they made, of the encouragement that so many pairs of eyes offered.
His sisters were there, all three, husbands and children flanking them. Dr. Pettibone had a seat on the aisle. Lady Rivendale was among the attendees, and she looked on approvingly, supporting the rumor by her condescension that she’d been instrumental in bringing them all to this very place. Mr. Restell Gardner and his wife had come as well. They shared their pew with four gentlemen—four strangers who had once come forward to protect her. Guardian angels, really, whom Olivia would always think of as whiskey, gin, and two pints of ale. Mr. Gardner had brought them forward, had the story from them, and like everyone else, they were here now to wish her happy.
The faces gradually faded into Olivia’s peripheral vision as Griffin filled the whole of it. He stood just to the right of the minister, strikingly handsome in his double-breasted black frock coat with the claw-hammer tails. Mr. Mason had done right by him, turning him out with nary a wrinkle in his trousers and waistcoat and having the good sense to insist on a pristine white neckcloth tied in the intricate Oriental.
His eyes were all for her, and she did not shy away from his glance. Mrs. McCutcheon and her entourage of seamstresses and dressers had done right by her as well. Olivia imagined they would be moved to more teary emotion if they were witness to Griffin’s appreciation of their handiwork. That had been their response when they’d first stepped back to gauge the success of their efforts, and Griffin’s approbation could not help but bring about a similar response.
The gentle, draping folds of her white satin gown brushed together as she walked, then rustled like whispers all around her. A band of pale pink silk edged the bodice, and wide ribbon bands encrusted with seed pearls bordered the hem and cuffed the short sleeves. Her hair, her own hair, was arranged off her neck in a knot every bit as intricate as the Oriental with the added touches of seed pearls and delicate white rose buds.
When she first saw her reflection in the cheval glass she’d wondered at the weeping response of Mrs. McCutcheon and her helpers, but now, seeing herself reflected in Griffin’s dark eyes, she knew an urge to indulge in some teary emotion herself.
“Who gives this woman…”
Olivia heard the words, understood their import, and knew a certain peace in her heart that it was Alastair who stood by her. The irony that he should be the one to give her over to Breckenridge’s care was not lost on any of them, but there was no desperation in the act this time, no avoiding responsibility to have it taken up by another. Alastair spoke his part with clear deliberation, honoring them all with his words.
“I do.”
Olivia’s hand was placed in the one that Griffin held out to her, and she knew the very rightness of it as Alastair backed away and she came to stand at Griffin’s side. This man, this man who would be her husband, held her hand and all of her heart.
It was well past ten when they were finally alone. The guests, and almost all of them had accepted invitations to stay at Wright Hall for several days following the wedding, had retired to their respective rooms in the mostly renovated east wing. Griffin and Olivia had elected to stay in the part of the hall that was still largely a work in progress.
It was no particular sacrifice to take the lesser accommodations. Drafts were of no account on a night neither of them meant to enjoy long out of bed.
“That will be our supper,” Griffin said, responding to the knock at the door. He stepped back, eyebrow lifted when he saw Nat standing uneasily in the hallway. “Here’s a fellow I thought was all tucked in.” He opened the door wider, ushered Nat inside, and gave Olivia a quizzing glance over the child’s head.
Olivia had turned away from the dressing table when Griffin announced their supper had come. She waved Nat to her side and was as puzzled as Griffin when he fairly dragged his feet in coming to her. Clearly he had not arrived at their room in search of another bedtime story, a tactic he used from time to time when he wanted reassurance he could not quite articulate.
Olivia had undone her elaborately dressed hair and run her fingers through the waves. She pulled it to one side and began to plait it, aware that it was something Nat had observed her doing before and found fascinating. His eyes, though wide and fully alert, did not follow the deft movements of her fingers. “What is it, Nat? Has there been a dustup in the nursery?” She wondered at the wisdom of putting so many children in a suite, but Griffin’s sisters were certain the nannies were up to the task.
“No, miss. Everyone’s sleeping. I slipped away.” He revealed this last with neither pride nor guilt. It was simply a statement of fact.
“So you did. You have some reason for it, I collect.”
He nodded, said nothing.
Behind him, Griffin did not have to temper his smile while he spoke in grave and important accents. “I think her ladyship is wanting the favor of a reply.”
Olivia noted that Nat gave a little start and his eyes widened a bit more. “He’s teasing us both,” she said. “Me more than you. He knows perfectly well that I am unused to the idea that I am suddenly become ‘her ladyship.’ Now, tell me. What is toward?”
Nat blurted it out. “Thomas says that we’re married.”
Olvia was so taken aback by this intelligence that for a moment she couldn’t think who Thomas was. Griffin had it immediately and told her.
“Juliet’s son. My up-to-every-trick nephew.”
“Oh.” She nodded. “Of course. The one with the cowlick.” She stopped plaiting her hair and took up one of Nat’s small hands. “It is never wise to place too much confidence in someone with a cowlick. Think of it, Nat—he cannot properly manage the particulars of his own hair.” Griffin snorted, but she ignored him in favor of studying Nat’s sober countenance. “We are not married, but I cannot tell whether it is a relief or of some concern to you.”
He didn’t respond directly but looked at the ring on her hand, a square-cut emerald in a bed of twenty-one diamonds, the gold band retooled to fit her slender finger. “Thomas says that since I gave over the ring, it means we’re married.”
Griffin approached and put his hand on Nat’s shoulder. “Clearly, Thomas will have to answer for himself, but the facts are these: you held the ring for me and stood at my side. The vows that were exchanged were between Miss Cole and me, and bound us together as husband and wife.”
Nat considered this. A crease appeared between his eyebrows as they knit. He caught his bottom lip, worried it. The trembling only marginally eased and the narrow line of his scar was stretched by the tension in his countenance.
Olivia sensed it first. She had Nat’s hand, Griffin, his shoulder, and the child still had no idea how he was bound to them. She lifted her eyes to Griffin, saw he’d come to the same understanding. She nodded faintly, surrending the right to make the statement because it was for a father to say to his son.
“You stood for me, Nat, as Olivia’s brother stood for her. I wanted you there because you are my family, my blood. I could think of no one who would better serve as my second than my own son.”
“Your second? Truly?”
Griffin smiled, squeezed his shoulder. “Truly.”
“That’s all right, then.” He nodded once, accepting it. The smile that edged his mouth faded as he turned to regard Olivia. “You’re our family now.”
“I am.”
“But we’re not married.”
“No.”
“Shall you be my mother?”
“If you like.”
There was no hesitation. “I do.”
“Good. It is the same for me.” Before he could glimpse her tears, Olivia leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Go. Go with your father back to your room and see if you can’t slip inside the nursery as quietly as you left it.” She gave him a nudge into the shelter of Griffin’s embrace, then sat back and watched them exit the room together.
By the time Griffin returned, their late supper of chestnut soup and warm French bread was laid out on the small round table pulled close to the hearth. Olivia had changed into a fine lawn shift and a deep purple Chinese silk robe and matching slippers made for just this occasion. She was sitting with her back to the fire, reworking the plait in her hair.
He watched her a moment, just inside the doorway, but when he caught her eye, he simply shook his head. She sighed, not disagreeably, and began to unwind the braid. Griffin approached, caught her hand, and completed the task himself. He sifted the silky threads of her hair with his fingers, each strand made more like molten copper by the leaping, twisting flames behind them.
“Beautiful,” he whispered. He bent his head, found the curve of her neck and shoulder that she offered up, and kissed her. He touched his mouth to the corner of hers, then her cheek, and finally her temple before he straightened. Disengaging his fingers from her hair was done most reluctantly. He took up the chair opposite her. Her smile was soft, her eyes heavy-lidded. He would have abandoned his meal altogether if she had not broken off the heel of the bread loaf and offered it to him. Her hand grazed his; the touch was light but deliberate.
“He’s asleep?” she asked.
“Mmm. Soundly this time.”
“Good.” Olivia drizzled a bit of honey on her bread. “I took it for granted that he understood what he had become to us. I suppose some things need to be said. He was delighted to learn he was your second. You showed a deft touch to place such a meaning on it. Battles. Duels. He understands all about those.”
“He’s never had a father. I suppose there is a great deal for him to learn in that regard.”
“And you? What you said about Nat being your blood, have you come to know that it’s true?”
“What I’ve come to know is that it doesn’t matter. He’s my son if I want him to be. You opened my eyes to that. I do want him to be, Olivia.”
“That’s all right, then,” she said, just as Nat had. “You’ve a heart big enough for the both of us.”
Griffin gave her a most significant look. “And more besides.”
Olivia was having none of it. She pointed her spoon at him. “Your soup will grow cold. One suspects your ardor will not.”
He laughed. “One would be right.” He tapped her spoon with his own and encouraged her to eat as well. It had not escaped his notice that she’d eaten very little throughout the day. Every time he sought her out she was engaged in conversation with one, two, or all three of his sisters. He rescued her as often as possible, steering her toward Restell’s wife or even the clutch that surrounded Lady Rivendale, but it seemed that Jenny, Kate, and Juliet invariably managed to separate her from others, just as if they were culling a lamb from the fold. It was little wonder that Olivia had no real appetite for their wedding feast and made only a pretense of eating what was placed before her.
“My sisters did not press you overmuch, I hope,” he said.
“Press me? No. They were telling stories about you.”
He almost believed her, then he saw the corner of her mouth curl ever so slightly. “No, they weren’t. They were asking for every detail of our meeting, courtship, and engagement. Did I not predict they would?”
“I was not entirely comfortable lying to them.”
“It’s not your strong suit, I agree, but the truth will not serve.”
“Then I suppose it was well done by you to protect my identity all these many months.”
“Why, that is almost in the way of thanks, Miss Shepard.” He chuckled when she primly pursed her lips at him. “You realize there were very few guests who know the truth. Mr. Gardner, perhaps his wife. Lady Rivendale. Your brother. Your four gentlemen protectors. We know we can depend upon their discretion.”
She nodded. It was enough that she knew now Mr. Rawlings and Mr. Rollins were one and the same. She was not certain that she believed he died by his own hand, but it was the only story that could be had from his friends. Neither Restell Gardner nor Griffin pressed to discover a different truth, and in that way her protectors were also shielded.
“As for your father,” Griffin said, “he will never breathe a word of it.”
“That’s because he knows the ton sanctions this marriage.”
It was because Sir Hadrien knew his life would be worth nothing if he spoke in less than favorable accents to anyone about his daughter, but if Olivia believed what she’d said, Griffin decided he could leave it alone. “Lady Rivendale lent our ceremony considerable consequence.”
“It was kind of her to accept our invitation.” Olivia chewed on a piece of bread. “You did not allow for much notice or preparation.”
He shrugged. “I was afraid you would change your mind. You accepted my proposal under unusual conditions. It seemed best to go forward quickly.”
“Unusual conditions.” As she recalled, her father, Mrs. Christie, and Johnny Crocker had been loudly protesting their confinement while blaming one another for the cause of it. Innocence had probably never been claimed by such caterwauling. “Yes, that describes it nicely.”
“I thought so. Neville Burton has taken himself off to the continent.”
Olivia’s head snapped up. “He has?”
“Some encouragement was necessary, but apparently he believed he’d pressed his luck as far as he could when Alastair’s aim went wide.”
“The others?”
“Johnny Crocker booked passage on the Fair Ariana and is bound for Boston in two days’ time. His companion, as I am given to understand by Mr. Gardner, is Mrs. Christie. They deserve each other, but I fear for the fine people of Boston.”
“Do you owe Mr. Gardner another favor?”
He shook his head. “It was all done more in the way of a wedding gift.”
“I am imagining that you had a hand in it as well.”
“Merely as an educator. In geography, most specifically.” When Olivia frowned at his cryptic reply, he went on. “I pointed out how small our island is compared to the length and breadth of the continent and the Americas. I told them that if they were desirous of living on an island, transport to Van Diemen’s land could be easily arranged. Oddly enough, none of them chose the convict colony.”
“You teach a good lesson. I’ve heard you with Nat.”
“It seemed to speak to them.”
Firelight glanced off Olivia’s ring, setting the emerald center aglow, and capturing her attention. She raised her hand slightly, twisted it back and forth, and watched the diamonds wink at her. “Alastair told me it was fitting that I should have it.”
“So it is.” Griffin could have mentioned that Alastair hardly had any say in the matter, but he was feeling almost warm toward his brother-in-law of late and kept his tongue in his head. Having acquired both Olivia and the ring in one ceremony, well, he could afford to be generous. “I saw Lady Rivendale exclaiming over it.”
“She did. Several times. Your sisters also.” Olivia set her spoon down and pushed her empty bowl aside. “I refrained from telling them that your nature is to be so tightfisted that you presented me with my own family’s heirloom.”
“There is that, though I like to think it speaks more to romantic sentiment than the other.”
Smiling, she rubbed her index finger over the facets of the emerald. “It did bring us together.”
Griffin took up her hand, raised it to his lips. He kissed her knuckles, then turned her hand over and kissed the delicate underside of her wrist. She came to her feet easily when he stood and did not hesitate to step into his embrace. The fit was still there, the sheltering shoulder, the inviting arm, curve to angle, and she wondered why she had thought for even a moment that it might not be.
“It does not seem so long now,” she whispered. “But when we were parted, I thought I comprehended the length of forever.”
Griffin held her tight, stroked her back. He was of the same opinion. Five weeks, three days, had been forever, or just this side of it. The moment she accepted his proposal he knew everything about their arrangement would have to change. She’d argued with him, but in this he was intractable, and she moved back to her brother’s home, stepped reluctantly out into society, and with the Countess of Rivendale’s timely assistance and devilishly inspired planning, set herself directly in his path.
Their courtship supplied the most delicious on-dit as the London Season began, and when the ton realized a marriage was in the offing, the betting books opened for the date that their firstborn would appear. To the best of his knowledge, Olivia was unaware of the wagers or that certain wags were watching her belly. He did not know what she’d make of it and did not care to find out, at least until they exchanged their vows.
Sir Hadrien’s absence during their brief engagement was the source of some speculation, but as he was known to have little enough use for town, nothing came of it. Alastair filled in nicely for his father, and his mother was sufficiently glad of his safe release that she willingly returned to Coleridge Park with Sir Hadrien.
“I wonder if you know how often I was tempted to visit Jericho Mews in the dead of night,” he said.
“Perhaps as often as I was tempted to return to the hell.”
“You were missed there. Faro revenues are most seriously compromised.”
She pressed her smile against his cheek. “I am willing to return, you know.”
“Perish the thought.” He lifted her so suddenly that she gasped, though she recovered quickly enough to throw her arms about his neck. He carried her to the bed, dropped her inelegantly upon it, and while she was still laughing, he followed her down. “There is no going back, not even as Honey. I sent my mistress packing as I intend to be faithful to my wife.”
She caught his face in her hands. “I am very glad to hear it.”
He dipped his head when she nudged him closer, brushed his lips against hers. “There is another reason, though, that you can’t return.”
“Oh?”
“Someone has approached me about purchasing the hell. I am not going to sell it outright, but I will be acquiring a partner. He will have the running of the establishment day to day.”
Olivia released his face and pushed herself up by her elbows. “What?”
“It’s a good offer. I can collect a percentage of the house’s profits simply by continuing to lend my name to the enterprise. He will have a larger share, but that is only as it should be.”
“Do you trust him?”
“Yes. Yes, I do. And I have you to help me with the accounts and every confidence in your ability to know if something is off.”
Olivia regarded Griffin carefully. “Are you certain you want to do this?”
“I am. Our income will be less, but perfectly manageable, and by choosing to live at Wright Hall, we will be able to oversee the development of the lands and finish the renovation of the house. The purchase price of the partnership will bring enough of the ready so that the family debt will finally be paid in full. It is an excellent compromise, so much so that it does not seem a compromise at all.”
Olivia was still skeptical and took no pains to hide it. “It’s not Alastair, is it?”
“Alastair?”
“Your partner,” she said flatly. “You have not entered into an agreement with my brother, have you?”
Griffin’s hard laughter weakened his position, and he was forced to roll away, else collapse fully on top of her.
“I suppose that is answer enough to my question,” Olivia said. “Still, it is hardly complimentary of Alastair.”
Griffin caught his breath, reined in his smile. “True, though I was thinking that your question complimented neither your brother nor me. I admit to a certain growing respect for Alastair, but I am not so witless that I would accept an offer of partnership from him.”
Olivia turned, levered herself on an elbow, and walked her fingers up Griffin’s chest, tapping the buttons of his waistcoat as she went. “If it is not Alastair, and really, Griffin, I am glad for all our sakes that it is not, then who?”
“Mr. Warner.”
“Lady Rivendale’s friend?”
“The very same.”
“That surprises.”
“It does, doesn’t it? I am of the opinion that the countess has a vested interest. She is certain to have put the idea in his head.”
“Your trust is not misplaced then.”
“I don’t think so, no.”
Olivia’s fingers had reached the top of his waistcoat. She lightly traced the edge of the fabric. “The knot in your neckcloth is impressive.”
“The Oriental.”
“I know. Mr. Mason told me. Do you know that the least wrinkle or crease means it could not be named such? It is a most particular art, the tying of neckcloths.”
“At this moment, I am far and away more interested in the untying of them. Do you think you could manage it?”
Olivia tugged at fabric. “It’s very stiff.”
“You’re still speaking of the neckcloth, is that right?”
“Is the other in a knot?”
“All of me is in a knot.” He groaned softly when she pressed her hip against his groin. “Ah, yes, that is a good beginning.”
She chuckled, but kept her hip exactly where it was. Tugging on the linen fall she said, “Allow me to deal with this first, then I shall see about the other.”
Griffin gave himself over to her, and she to him. It suited them both, the sharing. There was no disguising the wanting, nor any need to. In a nod to their wedding night, there was an attempt at tenderness. He framed her face gently with his hands, kissed her mouth, her cheeks, the space just between her eyebrows. She buried her face in his neck, set a line of kisses along the cord, others at the underside of his jaw, and still more at the hollow below his ear. They exchanged endearments, whispered words that would have made them laugh, even roll their eyes in the full light of day, but here, now, seemed exactly right.
It didn’t last, couldn’t. Their long separation trumped what romantic notions they had conceived about their wedding night. Their kisses became more urgent, the caresses less gentle. Olivia’s fingers tunneled into his thick hair, clutched his head as she pressed a deep, hot, hungry kiss.
The blankets tangled as their legs did. Their clothes, so carelessly discarded, slipped off the foot of the bed and onto the floor—except for Griffin’s neckcloth, which wrapped itself sinuously around Olivia’s thigh as though it had a life of its own. She tugged at it, produced it so triumphantly that it tickled Griffin’s humor, then snapped it smartly against his hip when he dared laugh. He made short work of the piece after that, taking it from her before she set her aim at any other part of his anatomy, and flung it as far away from the bed as he could.
She watched it sail through the air, then turned on him, her smile so satisfied with this result that it was very nearly smug. She gave him everything, all of her, held nothing back. He answered in the same manner, as needy as she, equally generous, equally selfish.
Turning, twisting, he brought her to pleasure’s finely honed edge and balanced both of them on it until no choice was left to them but to go on. He watched her face, felt the tension building, and seated himself deeply inside her as she came. Then it was his turn, and her body cradled him as he followed her.
Their breathing slowed, calmed. Olivia’s yawn was wide enough to make her jaw crack. Griffin gave her a sideways glance, then drew her close and made a niche for her head against his shoulder. Neither of them said anything for a long time, content to let silence linger, even comforted by it.
What more, then, needed to be said?
It was Olivia who remembered. “How much have you wagered?”
“Hmm?”
“In the betting books. How much have you wagered?”
Sensing a trap was being laid, Griffin tread carefully. “You are speaking of a particular wager?”
“How can you not know of it? Alastair says it is all about.”
“All about what?”
“Town, of course. A consequence of so much haste in regard to our wedding. We may as well have been wed by special license. Having the banns read was hardly any delay at all. Speculation is rife.”
“Rife.” Still practicing caution, he said, “What is the speculation?”
“That I am already carrying your child.”
“I see.”
“There are wagers. Whole pages in the clubs devoted to the date that I will deliver. It is unseemly, Griffin.”
“I agree.”
“You really didn’t know?”
The trap yawned as widely as she had. His foot hovered over it. How to answer in a way that would keep him well out of it? “It seems I might have heard something.”
She tilted her head back to better take his measure. “I thought so.”
“I didn’t wager,” he said quickly.
“Why not?”
“Why not? I thought we agreed the speculation was unseemly.”
“It is, but there is also a great deal of money to be won. Enough to renovate the library here at Wright Hall, I shouldn’t be surprised.”
She was probably right, Griffin thought. Still, he couldn’t place a wager for the very same reasons he didn’t play cards in his own hell. “It is generally accepted that I should have some inkling of such a date. It would hardly be fair.”
Olivia turned over, levered herself up so that she could see his face as clearly as the firelight defined it. “I like that you have regard for certain conventions,” she said. “Fair play. Honoring your vows. Appreciation of your responsibilities. I love all of that about you. Depend on it, really. That is why I made the wager.”
“You?” He heard the trap snap, but his foot was well wide of its jaws. “You made a wager?”
“Lady Rivendale did. On my behalf. She was completely amenable.”
“She would be. She will think of it as a very good joke on the wags. What date did you give her?”
Olivia told him.
“But that’s nine months from now.”
“It is, yes.” She smiled, kissed the corner of his mouth, and settled herself comfortably against him, breast to chest. “Nine months exactly. You know what that means, don’t you?”
He did. His hands slipped to the small of her back, then lower to the curve of her bottom. “It means we shall have to apply ourselves to just that end.” He touched his lips to hers, whispered against her mouth, “My clever and resourceful wife. My dearest Olivia.”