Chapter 18

Two days of careful activity brought the pain in Griffith’s arm down to a dull ache. As long as he didn’t jerk it, he could manage most things without appearing the slightest bit injured. He tightened his fist experimentally and was pleased when there was no sharpness to the pain that radiated down to his wrist. That meant he was better than yesterday, and the pot after pot of willow bark tea was doing its job. He was soon going to have to send the groundskeeper out for more at the rate he was drinking the vile liquid. Still, it was better than the numbness brought about by taking laudanum.

Although a bit of numbness in his ears might be appreciated with all the feminine chatter he’d been forced to put up with. Unlike most house parties where a man could escape the skirt-wearing portion of the guests for part of the day, his mother had scheduled events from breakfast to dinner and on until bedtime. He’d managed to make his excuses twice more, but with his injury there was very little he could do, physically speaking. He couldn’t ride, couldn’t help with the farm work or the animals. He was already lying to his mother about the arm. He wasn’t about to add to it by lying to her about what he was doing with his time as well.

And that was the only reason why he was now standing in the doorway to the drawing room, where a game of charades had been scheduled at the ridiculous hour of ten in the morning. He cast a glance over the assembled group, but a specific head of red-gold hair was noticeably absent. It had been absent quite a bit since the lawn bowling. Whereas his excuses had been shot down by his mother’s marksman-like guilt trips, Isabella’s had obviously been readily accepted.

Of course, she was a guest and he was the host, but if the point of this week was for him to fall in love, he needed the woman he was most interested in to be around for him to do so.

He approached Miss St. Claire, the next best alternative to spending time with Isabella. He was fairly certain the cousin was on his side, because she would happily answer any question he asked about Isabella without skewering him with an accusatory look or asking him why he wanted to know.

“Miss St. Claire.” He bowed in greeting and sat in the armchair next to her. “Are you finding your rooms to your liking?”

“Yes.” One side of her mouth kicked up. “They are most comfortable. But the lighting is terrible if one wants to read in the mornings.”

As Miss St. Claire had spent all of the past mornings engaging in whatever activity his mother had arranged, her statement must have been a reference to Isabella. This was the first she’d offered as to where her cousin was when she wasn’t with the group.

Griffith cleared his throat and tried to look relaxed. “And have you discovered the best location to read that may have proper lighting?”

“The small drawing room on the second floor. Near the nursery. It’s eastward facing and has an excellent window seat.”

Griffith dropped back in his seat, stunned. When was the last time he’d even been up to the second floor? Not since he and his siblings had grown old enough to have rooms on the first, probably. No wonder she felt safe retreating up there. She’d be able to disappear for hours with no chance of running into anyone else.

He had to find a way out of this room.

Mother clapped her hands in the center of the drawing room. “Her Grace, the Duchess of Marshington, had the most wonderful idea last night.”

A glance in Miranda’s direction found her looking quite pleased with herself. As Miranda had made no qualms about telling Griffith whom he should bestow his attentions on, her smug grin gave him a bit of hope.

“We’ve decided to delay charades until after dinner this evening. This morning we’re going to do a treasure hunt!”

A low murmur drifted across the room, and heads began to swivel until all the eyes of the unmarried ladies were settled on him. He immediately hooked his arm through Miss St. Claire’s, prompting her to giggle behind her hand. It wasn’t the annoying sort of giggle designed to garner attention but the sort born of genuine humor.

It had been gratifying to learn over the past few days that his instincts about Miss St. Claire had been correct. Once he’d gotten to know her, without the distraction of an attempted romance between them, he’d found her to be a charming and engaging young lady. That her heart was already given and his was inclined toward another made it easy for them to be friends, something he sorely needed in this dreadful house party.

“We will pair off, two couples per group. I’ve a list for each of you. We’ll meet back here in an hour to see who has been the most successful.”

Griffith sprang to his feet, hauling Miss St. Claire out of her chair and across the room to Miranda’s side. “You are joining us.”

She grinned. “But I thought I might relax somewhere. Perhaps put my feet up like one of those decadent Egyptian women in paintings.”

Griffith lifted an eyebrow and stared her down.

“Oh, very well. Ryland and I will join you.”

Griffith turned to find more than one disappointed face turned in his direction at Miranda’s announcement. If his mother was trying to alienate him from some of the most sought-after ladies of the Season she was doing a very good job. By the end of this week they’d be ready to hoist him into the stocks outside Newgate.

Ryland held up a piece of paper. “I’ve got our list. I do think it’s a bit unfair having two people who grew up in this house on one team.”

“Since when has it ever bothered you to have an advantage?” Griffith took the paper and looked it over.

The other man shrugged. “Never. It just seemed like the sort of thing that should be noted.”

“Acknowledged.” He handed the list to Miss St. Claire. “I believe we should start on the second floor.”

“But there’s nothing on the second floor.” Miranda scrunched her face up as she looked at the list over Miss St. Claire’s shoulder. “I believe Mother would like to keep most everyone here on the ground floor.”

Ryland looked from Griffith to Miss St. Claire and back again. “I have a feeling something very important might be on the second floor.”

“We won’t know until we check, will we?” Griffith turned to find his mother frowning at him. He simply smiled and patted a hand on Miss St. Claire’s arm trapped snugly against his side.

One side of Mother’s mouth picked up. “As an added incentive,” she called over the bustling crowd, “one lady from the winning group will be granted her choice of partners for the first dance of tomorrow night’s ball.” She speared her son with a glare. “Any partner.”

Griffith pressed his mouth into a grim line.

His mother was going to make him dance.

Miranda was already breathing hard by the time they reached the first floor. She dropped a shoulder against the wall and pressed one hand to her middle. “Give me the list. You go up and see what you can find on the second floor. Ryland and I will gather what we can from this one.”

As the first floor was mainly bedrooms, most of the guests were avoiding it. Few items on the list were things that someone would have packed, and no one was going to be rude enough to search another guest’s bedroom. Miranda had access to the family rooms, though, where at least three or four of the ten items listed might be found.

It was a sound strategy and one that had kept anyone from questioning why the group had headed for the stairs instead of the ground-floor rooms like everyone else.

Griffith wasn’t about to wait for her to offer twice.

He headed for the stairs at the end of the passage, the quick patter of slippers telling him he’d forgotten to adjust his pace for Miss St. Claire’s shorter stride. At the stairs he had to grip the railing until his knuckles turned white.

“Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”

Griffith heard the laughter in her words but didn’t blame her. When he’d thought through whom he should marry, ticking off qualities like he would an estate improvement, he’d been able to move sedately, with patience. Now the urge to hurry rushed under his skin. He paused at the top of the stairs, breath rushing and heart pounding. Was this what his brother and friends had felt? The roiling emotion that caused them to make such blundering, foolish decisions?

Griffith leaned a hand on the wall and forced his brain to catch up with his instincts. He was chasing after a woman who had deliberately hid. She was avoiding him while they were in a place where more private conversations could be held than anywhere else in the Season. And she was reading in a forgotten drawing room intended for use by the upstairs servants while the children were taking a nap or doing lessons.

Obviously her emotions were not inclined in the same direction as his were.

Why hadn’t he seen that before? He didn’t remember everything of their countryside walk after his injury, but he clearly remembered telling her things he shouldn’t have about how he felt about her. And he didn’t remember her reciprocating. If her actions were anything to go by, she didn’t.

“What are you doing?”

Griffith had forgotten about Miss St. Claire coming up the stairs behind him. “Reconsidering.”

Her brows pulled together, bringing even more attention to her nose. “Whyever would you do that? She’s just around the corner.”

“Obviously she doesn’t want to be found or she wouldn’t be up here.” He kept his voice lowered, knowing that if Isabella heard them she’d either run or come investigate, and he would once again be at a disadvantage in her presence.

“You know nothing about what she wants.” Miss St. Claire rolled her eyes.

“Miss St. Claire, I—”

“Frederica. If we’re going to sneak around your house together, I think it’s safe for you to call me by my given name.”

“Er, thank you, I suppose. . . .”

“And I shall call you Riverton.”

He sighed, thankful that she wasn’t hoping for the same intimacy he’d recklessly given to Isabella. “Frederica, I have no wish to chase your cousin if she desires to be alone.”

“Hmmph. She doesn’t know what she desires. Come along.”

Frederica grabbed his hand and hauled him around the corner into a small drawing room he had vague memories of sitting in with his nanny while she read stories to them. Isabella was curled in the window seat, a book open on her lap as she traced designs on the windowpane with her finger.

Her head snapped around as Frederica cleared her throat. Red flooded her cheeks as she met Griffith’s eyes.

“You haven’t joined us,” Griffith said. “There was quite a rousing game of piquet after lunch yesterday. Emotions ran so high, cards were almost bent.”

The corners of her mouth lifted slightly. “I’m sorry I missed it.”

Griffith stepped forward. “Why did you? I see you at dinner but never before or after. Your book is obviously not that interesting.”

Isabella ran her finger along the edge of the pages. “No. It isn’t. I’m not even sure which one I brought up here with me.”

Foolish or not, the urgency under his skin propelled him to do something, so he sat on the window seat beside her curled-up legs, the toes of her slippers pressed against his leg as he reached over and wrapped his hand around hers. The long lines of her ungloved fingers felt cool against his palm, and he wrapped his grip more firmly around her hand. “Why are you avoiding me?”

“My life is complicated,” she whispered.

“I’m a duke. I’m rather good with complicated.”

They stared at each other for a moment. She didn’t look nearly as comforted as he’d hoped she would.

“I don’t know if I love you.” The words came out in a rush, her eyes widening as if she hadn’t even known what she was going to say. As soon as they’d cleared her lips, though, a measure of calm came over her. The slight trembling he’d felt in her fingers ceased, even as a suspicious wet gleam formed along the bottom edge of her eyes.

“I don’t know if I love you,” she repeated. “I don’t know if I can. I have problems. You could solve them, I know, but what then? What if we’re both trapped in a marriage we discover we don’t want with no way out? What if you learn my secrets and don’t like them? If I stay on the path I’m on, I’ll be able to walk away when it’s over. I’ll have my life ahead of me. But if you . . . If I let you . . . I’ll be trapped. We’ll be trapped.”

And this was what it would have felt like if that thatching needle had caught him in the chest instead of the arm. His brother had been right. His friends had been right. Love didn’t play by any logical rules. It was an ever-changing maze. A monster that chewed you up and spit you out and made you fight for your happiness or die trying.

She took a trembling breath, and a single tear spilled out to slide down her perfect, smooth cheek. “I don’t want to hurt you. Please go.”

The gentleman in him was standing even as part of him screamed in his head not to leave until he’d changed her mind. But it was becoming clear that he was fighting a foe he didn’t understand, didn’t even know about. And love was just going to have to join forces with his brain if he wanted to figure it out.

He stepped away, letting her fingers trail slowly through his. He looked up and saw Frederica still standing in the doorway, hands cupped to her face and eyes rimmed with red. There was certainly more here than he knew.

Halfway across the floor he turned and looked at Isabella. She’d curled her legs in tighter and tucked her face into her knees. There was no way she could convince him she felt nothing. A small sob escaped her curled form, and Frederica’s quiet cry answered it. Emotion was as thick in this room as the dust that had been allowed to settle while the house was prepared for company. Griffith didn’t do emotion and never had, and this was why. It was uncontrollable and messy.

He rubbed a hand against his aching chest. Emotion was also very real and powerful. More so than he ever realized.

But Griffith was a problem solver. That was something he’d been since he was little, stomping around the fields with his father in boots that were a touch too big because they were the smallest the cobbler had that matched his father’s, and he’d been unwilling to wait for the man to make more.

He tore his gaze from Isabella. Simply looking at her muddled his thoughts, but watching her cry quietly churned them like trodden mud. He looked at the window, the floor, the ceiling, searching his brain for a promise he could make to her, to let her know that just because he was leaving this room he wasn’t giving up on her.

A collection of small white figurines on the table by the door caught his eye. He picked up a porcelain couple—arms linked in the steps of some sort of dance—and held it in his palm, a dozen thoughts whipping through his mind as he watched the light glint on the clean, white surface. He grabbed on to the most important notion at the moment and held tightly to it.

“I want to dance with you.”

Isabella’s head snapped up, and Frederica gasped.

“Everywhere you go, every ball and soiree, I will be there, and I will ask you. I want you to be the next person I dance with.”

Frederica sniffled. “But the ball. Your mother promised the winning lady her choice.”

He looked at the figurine in his hand once more and then at Frederica. “I suppose we need to win, then.”

Thirty minutes later he strolled into the drawing room with Frederica on his arm and Miranda and Ryland trailing behind them. Miranda placed their bag of items on the table. Mother dutifully sorted through them, then looked up with a triumphant smile on her face. “I’m afraid Lady Alethea’s was the first group to return, and they also had nine of the items.”

Griffith tilted his head and smiled back at his mother while he reached into his pocket and pulled out the dancing figurine he’d picked up in the second-floor drawing room. A figurine that had sat with its sisters on a table in the front hall his entire life.

He set it gently among the circle of items on the table before returning to stand to his full height.

“Miranda will open the ball with Ryland.”

He bowed, trying not to feel guilty over his mother’s grim expression, then turned and walked from the room.