To Wed A Viscount (28 page)

Elizabeth cast a worried look in Griffin's direction. “I am sure you must have misheard, dear.”

“Oh, no, that's what she said,” Georgie replied earnestly.

The viscount's mouth curved in a small grin. At least he knew Faith was still angry with him. A far better state of affairs than total apathy or disinterest. Perhaps now was the right time to make a move. “I believe Aunt Elizabeth is correct. 'Tis time for me to journey to Mayfair Manor to speak with Faith.”

“Will you bring her back, Papa? Please?”

Georgie's hopeful expression tempered Griffin's confidence. How humbling to realize his son's well-being involved far more than providing adequate housing, clothing, and food. The child needed a mother.

“I shall do everything possible to persuade her to come of her own accord,” Griffin declared. “And if that does not work, I suppose I will have to throw her over my shoulder and carry her out by force.”

He had spoken the last words jokingly, attempting to coax a smile from Georgie, and the boy did indeed giggle. However, when dealing with his stubborn, headstrong wife, Griffin was astute enough to realize that physical force might be the only way to gain his objective.

Griffin arrived at Mayfield Manor by the light of the rising moon. He reined his horse in front of the portico, taking a brief moment to admire the simple, clean architectural lines fronting the stone entrance. Swinging down from the saddle he waited until a young footman emerged from the house.

“Good evening, sir,” the young man said. “Can I be of some assistance?”

Griffin turned and realized with a start that the servant had no idea who he was. It was a rather humbling, somewhat disquieting experience. Deciding not to identify himself, the viscount tossed the fellow his reins.

“Be careful when you handle my horse,” he instructed. “It usually takes him a few minutes to settle down after a hard gallop.”

“Yes, sir.” The young man obediently took a step back from the dancing hooves. Then he cautiously led the snorting animal off toward the stables in the rear of the manor.

Griffin waited until the servant was gone before climbing the steps leading to the front door. The last thing he wanted was an audience. It was galling enough to have to admit to himself that he had come to see his errant wife in hopes of convincing her to return home.

The maid who answered the door stared very hard at the card Griffin presented her. For a moment he thought she might be unable to read it, but the way she scampered off after telling him to please wait a moment let him know that at least she knew exactly who he was.

He cooled his heels in the entrance foyer for several long minutes, studying the painted ceiling. It was a whimsical scene of various mythical Roman gods majestically displayed against a deep blue sky. It was not difficult to identify many of them, though he found his eyes continually drawn to Venus, Cupid, and Psyche.

Griffin was beginning to think he had been forgotten when he heard muffled voices coming from the other side of the foyer. An older, stout woman emerged from behind a heavy wooden door and rushed toward him.

He recognized her as Mrs. Craig, the housekeeper, a servant who would not give him any information about Faith's whereabouts when he had followed his wife to London those many months ago.

Donning a pleasant smile, Griffin braced himself for the inevitable clash.

“Good evening, my lord.” She dipped him a quick curtsy. “I regret to inform you that her ladyship is not at home.”

“Not at home?” He allowed the skepticism to creep into his voice. “Are you certain?”

“Oh, yes. Quite certain.” The housekeeper blushed.

“I'm sorry that you have come all this way, and at this time of night, for nothing.”

Griffin balled his hands into tight fists. “So she refuses to see me?” He stared at the deepening blush on the housekeeper's face. “Is she here?”

“Pardon?”

“Is my wife here, in the house, or has she gone out for the evening?”

He did not yell or scream or threaten when he spoke, though in truth he wanted to do all three. He merely asked the question. But the housekeeper took a noticeable step back from him. Her eyes lowered guiltily and she began wringing her dimpled hands.

It was all the answer he needed. “Will you show me to the drawing room, please? I believe I would like to wait in there. And do inform Lady Dewhurst that is where I shall be, long into the night if necessary.”

There was a brief pause. The housekeeper heaved a shudder. She looked to the cowering maid who stood behind her, but the young girl merely shrugged.

“This way, my lord.”

The housekeeper silently led the way. As they walked through the house Griffin surveyed the well cared-for furnishings, took notice of the thick Persian carpets, the valuable paintings, and expensive antiques.

For a moment he felt a brief unease. In many ways Mayfair Manor was grander than Hawthorne Castle. It was certainly better maintained. And possessed that elusive quality he so missed now that Faith was gone. Mayfair Manor felt like a true home.

The drawing room was a very formal affair, done in shades of gold. Yet it was tasteful without being opulent. He removed the coat Mrs. Craig had not offered to take from him and carelessly tossed it over a chair. Then he explored the room with interest for several moments.

The walls were covered in gold-flecked paper that matched exactly the shades on the upholstered pieces of furniture. There was an ornate marble mantel upon which a variety of porcelain figures and a dainty gold and porcelain clock rested.

Mrs. Craig had grudgingly lit a few of the candles before leaving, and they cast a merry, twinkling glow about the room. Griffin settled himself upon the gold brocade sofa, crossed his right ankle atop his left knee, and absently drummed on his leg.

He idly wondered how long Faith would keep him waiting and then realized it didn't matter. He had managed to talk his way through the front door and was now comfortably ensconced in her drawing room. It would take no less than an army of burly servants to physically remove him.

Yet despite his vow to be patient, after a full half hour of waiting Griffin was starting to grow restless. He knew all too well the timbre of his wife's stubborn streak. If she had a mind to, she would leave him there all night.

The viscount was trying to decide how much longer he would wait before beginning a room-to-room search of the manor when the drawing-room door opened.

He lifted his chin and gazed at the woman in the doorway. Faith. His heart melted at the sight of her. She was wearing a simple gown of pale ivory he had never seen before. It was high waisted and gathered beneath her breasts with a long blue ribbon. Both the style and shade of the gown highlighted the natural paleness of her skin.

Her hair was swept up off her neck, the soft brown curls piled on the crown of her head, cascading gently down her back. Her throat was bare, her neck long, graceful, and regal.

Her face looked lean and a bit tired. There were traces of darkness beneath her eyes. Not quite circles, but evidence of restless nights.

Griffin thought she looked more beautiful than he had ever seen her. His body tightened painfully, reminding him of how many recent nights he had spent alone in bed.

“Good evening.” He rose to his feet, hoping he looked more confident than he felt.

She gave him a steely glare instead of returning the greeting. Griffin felt his palms begin to sweat.

“Mrs. Craig informs me that you insisted on being shown into the drawing room, even after she informed you that I was not at home. Why?”

“I wanted, nay, I needed to see you.”

She looked down at her fingers. “I thought we agreed that I needed time alone. Away from you.”

“I have given you that time.”

“It has only been a week.”

“It feels like a lifetime.”

“Oh, please.” She brought her hand to her hip and cast him a cynical glare. “There is certainly no need for all of
that.”

He blinked. Ever since he had stormed out of Hawthorne Castle after promising his son he would bring Faith home, Griffin had been thinking about what he would say to her and how she would react to his tender words of need. He had imagined her face going soft with emotion, her eyes brightening with delight, her arms flinging joyfully around his neck as she pressed herself closer to receive his kisses.

Never in his wildest imaginings had he expected such coldness, such indifference. Well, not precisely indifference. If given the chance, Faith appeared to be ready to fling a variety of breakable objects at his head.

Griffin paused and cleared his throat. “I want you to come home with me, Faith. Tonight.”

“No.” Her expression never altered. “Not tonight.”

“When?” he asked, almost desperately.

“I am not certain.”

Her cool composure was starting to eat away at him. She seemed so untouchable, so unattainable, so very much unlike the woman he knew her to be. When Griffin realized he would prefer to be dodging hurling objects than facing those frigid eyes, he knew he had lost complete control of the situation.

“I love you, Faith.”

Her eyes flew open in shock. Some of the tightness left her features. With a feeling of triumph, the viscount waited for her lips to soften, her eyes to light with joy and excitement. He barely resisted the urge to open his arms wide so she could throw herself into them.

The delicate porcelain clock on the mantel ticked away. There were no other sounds in the room except the rise and fall of their breathing. Faith seemed unaware and unconcerned about the silence that was stretching longer and longer.

He moved closer, reaching for her hands. “I said I love you,” Griffin repeated.

“I heard you,” she said, tugging her fingers out of his grip.

He tightened his grip. She pulled harder, but he would not let go.

Her expression grew annoyed. “How dare you bully your way into my home, command that I leave, and then calmly announce that you love me? Do you think that really changes anything? Because you now suddenly claim to love me, that gives you the right to abuse me? To keep secrets from me? Secrets about our child. I think not, my lord.”

Griffin abruptly dropped her hands. He had promised himself that he would not get angry, would not lose his temper, but Faith was pushing him to complete frustration with her attitude.

“I have explained my reasons for keeping the truth about Georgie from you.” Griffin looked at his wife helplessly. “I have apologized. I ... I—”

With a muttered curse, Griffin turned and stalked away. She wasn't really listening; she was still judging him. She was hurt and angry and confused. And in a most ironic twist of the absurd, Griffin understood those feelings. Hell, he even agreed that she was entitled to them. Well, some of them.

The night air felt cold and bitter. He was forced to wait on the front steps for several minutes while his mount was retrieved from the stables, but the respite helped to clear his muddled head and calm his rising ire.

The viscount swung into the saddle without assistance, forgetting to toss the young footman a coin. Once clear of the gravel drive, Griffin let the horse run hard, galloping through a shortcut in the fields.

The full, bright moon and star-filled sky lit the way back to the castle. As he rode, Griffin, no longer feeling tongue-tied, thought of all the things he should have said to his wife. How he should have been more forceful in expressing the depth of his feelings and less demanding in his expectations of her behavior.

And yet, though she did not express it, Griffin had formulated the clear impression that Faith expected him to somehow prove his love. Not just express it.

Exactly how that was to be accomplished was a true mystery. What male ever truly understood the complex workings of a female mind? Not to mention the intricate, unstable feminine emotions?

Griffin suddenly smiled. For so many years he thought himself to be a great connoisseur of women. What a joke! Faced now with the challenge of winning over his wife, he realized all he could do was to lumber along clumsily and pray that he would eventually get it right.

With a single-minded purpose, the viscount set about preparing himself to accomplish this all-important task.

 

 

Faith sat alone in the drawing room a long time after Griffin left, her emotions in complete turmoil. She had truly not expected him to come to the manor. He had made no real protest when she had left the castle, simply allowing her to leave.

He had not written, had not sent any messages with his sisters when they came each day to call. During her afternoon teas with Elizabeth and Harriet, Faith had asked only a few, vague questions about her husband, usually inquiring politely after his health.

She had been told that he was well, working as hard as usual, eating properly at meals, keeping regular hours at night. As though she had never left, or worse, had never once been a part of his life.

And then he had arrived. The moment Faith set eyes on him she couldn't decide if she wanted to cry or scream or throw her arms around his neck and never let go.

She had not wanted to see him. And when she finally did, she had wanted to look away. To turn her head and pretend he wasn't standing before her, forcing her to face the emotions she was trying so hard to tame.

She hurt so badly it was nearly impossible to maintain her composure. His declaration of love had shocked her. Never in her deepest longings had she thought to hear him speak those words aloud. And yet they had not brought the rush of joy and emotion she had always expected.

She knew Griffin believed he was being sincere, truthful. Yet she wondered at his sudden epiphany of emotions, fearing it was born out of guilt.

That was not what she wanted. She wanted his love to be born from the same burning emotions that engulfed her, wanted him to feel that same desperate need that she did, wanted him to realize they could nourish their hopes for the future and fulfill their dreams only if they were together.

So she had steeled herself to coldness, showing almost no reaction. Which had been by far the most difficult thing Faith had ever done. Because despite all that had happened Faith knew that she was utterly and hopelessly in love with her husband.

 

 

Griffin returned to Mayfair Manor two days later. He did not march up to the front doors and demand to see his wife as he had done on his previous visit. Instead he sat upon his horse and waited for nearly two hours in a grove of bare trees, knowing she would eventually emerge from the manor house.

It was Thursday, and on Thursday Faith always paid a call on the vicar and his wife. Griffin suspected that despite her temporary change of residence, his wife would adhere to her usual routine whenever possible.