Chapter Seventeen

As Dulcie slept, Griff rose from the mattress, strode to where a supply of liquor was available, and poured himself three fingers of French brandy from a crystal decanter. He fell into one of the wing chairs facing the fireplace and stretched his long legs out in front of him. Every now and then, he glanced over at the bed to check if Dulcie had roused from her lethargy.

Well, it’s done. Now, I can despise myself in peace.

He rolled the potent liquor around in his mouth, trying to remove the sour taste of what he had been forced to do to satisfy his bargain with the countess. The brandy burned a path of dishonor to his guts. His nerves still twitched slightly from the effects of the aphrodisiac as he endured the cuts to his once-proud male ego.

Thankfully, it appeared as if Dulcie was recuperating and sleeping in deep repose. Maybe she’ll forget what I did, he thought, the same way she denied remembering our earlier tryst. But this time, denying what happened wouldn’t be that easy. He had almost raped her—for her own good, of course, for he knew of no other way to counteract the potion they must have been given. She would have been hysterical in his bedchamber without relief.

It dawned on him that he must remove her from his room…and quickly.

Again, he looked toward the quiet sleeper, the delicious female he had devoured with lustful eyes and ravaging lips and hands and body. He hoped her dreams were peaceful. When he’d eased from the bed, he had covered her nakedness, pulling up the linen sheet and tucking it under her chin. She didn’t move, but he heard her sigh, deeply, contentedly. He had made love to her, but perhaps, she had merely endured. He’d learned from other promiscuous rakes that virgins experienced pain and bloodletting only when the maidenhead was broached the first time.

He tried not to hurt her physically. Now, he wondered if Dulcie’s emotional health might be in jeopardy.

Uh oh! The bed linens! There must be bloodstains. Could he come up with an excuse to stave off the servants’ gossip?

At that precise moment, the door to his bedchamber from the countess’s suite swung open without warning. Griff leapt out of the wing chair. Agina stood there, still dressed from her evening on the Town. Her gaze took in the bed with Dulcie still in it. “Ah,” she said, sounding very pleased. “Good boy.” She strolled toward him with a smile on her lips.

“I hope to Christ and bloody hell you’re pleased, Agina,” Griff snarled through clenched teeth. He kept his rant almost inaudible, enunciating his words precisely. He faced the countess with more than anger flashing out of his gray eyes. “Didn’t you trust me to do what we discussed? Did you have to drug us?”

“Drug you? I certainly did not, Spencer. Don’t be silly.” Her expression was bland, noncommittal. “However, one never knows when one’s plans may go awry. I’m glad yours did not—for both our sakes.” She whirled away from his angry glower and tiptoed toward the four-poster. Leaning over the bed, she gazed down at Dulcie, then asked, “How long has she slept?”

“Not long. But I meant to remove her from here, or…”

“Why? What difference does it make if she wakes up in your bed? She will certainly realize where she is and what happened after you tell her. You can also explain what she can expect afterward.”

The countess walked back to face Griff. “I, of course, shall make a terrible fuss over what occurred. Dreadful. Quite dreadful.” She smirked openly.

Pursing her lips, Agina reached out to fiddle with Griff’s wrinkled shirt, sliding fingers through the opening to caress his bare chest with the lascivious glide of a questing, jeweled hand. She looked up at him, coyly. “Most parents make a fuss, but in this case, I can’t be blamed, because I wasn’t here to protect her.”

Griff grabbed Agina’s wrist in a firm grip and ripped the creeping hand away from his skin, stepping back quickly from her unwanted caress.

Eyeing Griff’s less-than-happy demeanor, Agina laughed naughtily, with obvious satisfaction. “You must know, Griff, that I shall scold both of you, strongly, ranting long and loud about your deplorable behavior. Dulcina will hear what I expect of you, my honorable nephew, to do the right thing.” Agina raised her arched brows in answer to his taut, indignant expression.

Swiftly, Agina spun in a half circle toward the door to the master dressing rooms, her fancy gown swishing around her ankles. “Trent, bring me the ring,” she demanded in a low voice to the older woman who stood silent, lingering in the doorway. The countess turned back to Griff. “The ring belonged to Eloise Trayhern,” Agina explained. “The betrothal ring was given to Dulcina’s mother by the late earl. You are to place it on Dulcina’s finger when she wakens.”

Trent delivered the velvet pouch and laid it in the countess’s outstretched palm. “You may tell her to whom it belonged. You may say I saved it so her betrothed may place on her ring finger. Perhaps she may think fondly of me because of it.” The countess’s smiling lips broadened into another wicked chuckle.

Agina gripped one of Griff’s hands and opening his clenched fingers, plunked the pouch into his palm. She finished with a flourish, saying, “Congratulations on your forthcoming marriage to my stepdaughter, Spencer! And yes, goodnight, dear nephew.” Agina’s laughter cackled as she preceded her maid through the dressing rooms and into her bedchamber.

Griff heard the echo of the countess’s laughter in his ears for a long time afterward. He slumped into the leather chair, took a mouthful of liquor, and allowed it to burn his tongue and throat. A parade of ideas and schemes marched over the rugged paths of his worried mind. For a long time he gazed into the low flames in the grate. What to do? What could he do, to wiggle out of this damned coil he got himself into? Dulcie must surely despise him. He didn’t blame her at all. She should hate his guts. He snatched from her what no man had the right to take.

Griff’s head pounded, probably from the love potion they were given. Right now, he wished nothing better than to drown his troubles in brandy, but that would only make things worse. He needed to reconcile what happened before Dulcie woke. He planned to enlighten the girl about two things—what took place between them and what she knew about her inheritance.

Now if only he could devise a way of punishing the damn countess for manipulating both their lives.