Notorious Pleasures (Maiden Lane #2)(65)

“Hero,” he said low, and her name sounded like a prayer on his lips.

He bent over her, there in the dark garden, and she felt the brush of his lips over hers. They were whisper-soft, like the kiss of a knight for a maiden he held in high esteem. Did he think of her that way, even now that she’d proven herself unvirtuous? She drew back and tried to search his face, but it was in shadow. He might as well have been a stranger.

She made to step back, but he caught her hand, holding her against himself. “Will you marry me?”

She shook her head, tilting her face to look at the stars, still and empty and so very far away. “How can I?”

“How can you not?” he retorted, his voice deep. “I’ve pierced your maidenhead.”

She closed her eyes.

“Hero.” His hands rose to grip her shoulders hard. “You must marry me.”

“Do you love me?” she asked.

His head jerked back. “What?”

“Do you love me, Lord Griffin?”

“I… have feelings for you.”

She felt her heart tear a little. “Feelings are not the same as love.”

“You don’t love Thomas.”

She shook her head. “No, that wasn’t our pact together.”

“Then for God’s sake, why demand it of me?” he growled low and urgent. “If I’m good enough to bed, surely I’m good enough to wed.”

She merely shook her head again. Panic was rising in her chest, a suffocating sense that she could never undo her wrong, that she’d never recover the place that she’d always had in society and her family.

“Do you love me?” he demanded.

“No!” The denial burst from her lips without thought or preparation. The mere notion of falling in love with this man made fear surge in her breast.

“Then why come to me? Why let me make love to you?”

“I don’t know.” She inhaled to steady her voice. “I… I came this morning to see if you were all right, to talk to you about the home, about your gin making. I had no notion of doing what we did.”

But was that the truth? a small voice asked deep inside her. Her heart had been beating hard when she’d knocked on his door. She’d been excited, her hands trembling in anticipation. Maybe without knowing it herself, she had gone there to submit to him. To find out, once and for all, if she was more than the facade of a duke’s daughter.

He shook his head, clearly confused. “At least answer my question: Why not marry me?”

She shook her head frantically. “I… I can’t think. You don’t understand the magnitude of this decision. If I marry you, my life will never be the same again. Maximus will hate me. He may repudiate me, keep me from the family.”

“For God’s sake.” For a moment she could tell he was struggling to keep his voice low. Then he said urgently, “I may be a rake, but my reputation isn’t that sordid. I doubt your brother will be happy with our match, but to cast you out—”

“He hates gin making,” she whispered back fiercely. “You are a gin distiller. How long before he finds that out? You have no idea of the depths of his hatred for gin and gin makers. What he will do to you—and me—when he does find out.”

He shoved her away suddenly, as if he didn’t trust his hands on her. “Have you even thought of the alternative? If you go through with this marriage with Thomas, we’ll be knotted together for the rest of our lives with this between us.”

“I know,” she cried. “Dear God, don’t you think I’ve known that from the moment I rose from your bed this morning?”

He backed from her vehemence as if stunned, and in that moment she did what she’d never done in her entire life.

She turned and ran.

Chapter Twelve

Queen Ravenhair eyed the stallion, the warrior, and the bullock for some time, but in the end she merely nodded and thanked her suitors for their answers. She dined in state with the princes, but though they had much to talk—and argue—about, the queen was nearly silent throughout the meal. She was relieved when at last she retired to her rooms. Once there, Queen Ravenhair hurried to the balcony.

There, already waiting, was the little brown bird. And about his neck was an acorn on a string….

—from Queen Ravenhair

Griffin stalked back into the ballroom, trying to look civilized, as if he wasn’t actually hunting Hero down. Which was a lie, of course, because he was most definitely hunting her.

He paused just inside the French doors, glancing casually about, and caught a glimpse of red curls to his right. He smiled at a passing matron, who looked alarmed, and began strolling in that direction.

He’d always loved women. Ever since that first sweet tavern owner’s daughter—Belle or Betty or perhaps Bessie. She’d had wide blue eyes and tits with freckles on them, and she’d shown him infinite pleasure at the age of nearly sixteen. He’d never had any particular problem attracting women, both low and quite high. They seemed to be drawn by his smile and his ease. One of his lovers had called him charming, and maybe he was. All he knew was that he took care of them for the short period they were with him, and when they inevitably left, either with a laugh or a quiet tear, he smiled and kissed them and sent them on their way. He didn’t moon over them, he didn’t lie awake thinking about them, and he never, ever, ever went chasing after them like some pie-faced simpleton.