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“I didn’t want you to mind your purchases.” Griffin expelled a hard breath, stepping back from her. “Don’t you see, Megs? That was my burden to bear. I was supposed to take care of you and Mater and Caro.”
“And Thomas?” she asked softly, incredulously.
“He hasn’t a head for money. Neither did Pater. There wasn’t anyone else.”
“Griffin,” she said softly, laying her hand on his arm. “There was me. Maybe not when I was younger, but I’ve been past twenty for five years now. I had the right to provide mental support for you at the very least. I had the right to know.”
Griffin grimaced and looked away. Megs expected him to refute her right—the Griffin of three years ago, prior to marrying Hero, would’ve—but when he glanced back at her, his eyes had softened.
“Oh, Megs,” he said. “You know I can’t deny you anything.” She arched her eyebrows pointedly, and he threw up his hands. “Fine. Yes. Yes, I should’ve told you, should’ve let you shoulder a bit of my burden.”
“Thank you,” she said, not without a hint of complacency. “I have one more question.”
He looked a little hunted but nodded his head bravely enough.
“Is the family still in financial straits?” she asked. “Are you in financial straits?”
“No,” he said immediately, with what sounded like relief. “I’m still in filthy business, of course, but it’s respectable enough now. I’ve got sheep grazing on the family lands and a workshop here in London spinning the wool.” He shrugged. “It’s small now, but we’re making a good profit and I’ll be expanding soon. Not”—he added wryly—“that I’d ever say that aloud in society.”
Having money was good, naturally. Actually making money was deeply frowned upon by society. Presumably a gentleman would rather starve than let his hands get dirty with commerce.
Megs was very grateful that Griffin had never cared particularly for society’s rules.
She threaded her arm through his elbow. “I’m glad to hear it. But, Griffin?”
“Hmm?” He was strolling with her back toward the sitting room where the baritone was still singing.
“Promise me that if ever you run into straits again—financial or otherwise—you’ll tell me.”
“Oh, all right, Megs,” he replied, rolling his eyes a bit.
She smiled to herself. He might balk, but it was important to her that Griffin was honest with her. A family should be honest. And they should share things—both good and bad.
She was reflecting on the subject and wondering how exactly she could push Godric in that direction with his own family when they entered the sitting room and she stopped short in surprise.
It seemed the Duke of Wakefield had a magnificent singing voice.
MEGS LAY IN her bed that night, surrounded by the cold darkness of her room, and tried not to anticipate Godric’s arrival.
Tried not to long for him.
She lectured herself on the reasons why she was doing this, but the arguments had become muddled in her own mind and all she could hear was the drag of her breaths in and out of her body. She focused on the dinner at Griffin and Hero’s house, the face of sweet William, the accord she’d found with Griffin, the astonishing sight of the rigid Duke of Wakefield singing like a stern archangel, but each image wavered and slipped through her mind’s grasp. She even tried remembering the taste of the syllabub at dinner, the smooth texture of cream, the tart wine, but the phantom sweet dissolved in her mouth, and all she could taste on her tongue was Godric’s mouth.
There in the darkness she might’ve moaned.
He came at last, moving like the ghost he was. She didn’t even know he’d entered her room until she felt the dip of her bed, the warmth radiating off his body.
She trembled before he ever touched her.
Then his hands were gliding over her shoulders, sweeping down her chemise-covered sides, sliding up the slopes of her breasts while his head and shoulders hovered over her like a hawk shielding its prey.
Her breath caught. There was something dangerous about him. Perhaps there always had been and he’d simply damped it the night before. This was only their second joining and she nearly panicked at the thought. There would be many nights more. Nights when she lay in the dark and waited for him. Nights when she desperately tried to order her mind. Nights when she tried not to feel.
As she was trying not to feel now—trying and failing.
His hands moved, swift and sure, cupping her breasts, and she had no trouble at all remembering their pale, elegant length. Imagining what they would look like against her flesh.
She bit her lip, and his thumbs coasted over her nipples, catching, for they were already erect and pointed. Goose pimples shivered across her skin at his touch. When he brushed across her nipples again and then pinched both at once, it was all she could do not to arch into those beautiful hands.
