Bloodline (Whyborne & Griffin Book 5) (2 page)

To see Griffin in this setting, an outside observer would
have thought him born to high society, rather than an Irish orphan raised by
Kansas farmers. He appeared entirely comfortable, charming his conversational
partner as if he attended such gatherings every day. But he had a natural
talent to mimic those around him and put them at ease. The confidence he
displayed in nearly any situation had been one of the things that had both
drawn me, and—were I to be entirely honest—put me on my guard when
we first met.

My experience of confident men included my father and
brother. Men so certain of their place in the world they viewed anyone less
certain as inferior, to be used or crushed as circumstances dictated.

Not Griffin. His kindness ran deep, and it was what I loved
most about him.

Well, along with his handsome face and devilish smile. And
the way his form filled his tuxedo. I’d had the pleasure of watching him put it
on earlier in the evening, and although the tails currently obscured his
backside, I could attest to the fit of the trousers beneath.

I approached just close enough to pick out Miss Lester’s
voice from the hum of the crowd. “Of course Lady Gravenwold returned,” she told
Griffin. “They always do, you know.”

He sipped his champagne. “I’m not certain what you mean.”

“This town knows who belongs and who does not.” Her black
eyes glittered like anthracite. “Those whom Widdershins claims can never leave
for long.”

“I don’t believe the countess intends to return
permanently.”

“It hardly matters what she intends.” Miss Lester tugged one
of her opera gloves higher on her arm. “Just as it does not matter whether you
believe or not. Facts do not change to suit one’s fancy. Now, if you will
excuse me, I see someone I wish to avoid.”

As Miss Lester departed, Griffin met my eye, a grin curving
the corners of his mouth. I could not help but return it.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked.

“Not in the slightest,” I confessed. “You?”

He cast a look about the room before answering. “It is…a bit
more rarified atmosphere than I’m accustomed to.”

I snorted inelegantly. “To be fair, it’s better than a
family dinner. At least not everyone present is utterly obnoxious.”

He laughed, green eyes flashing, and it lightened my heart
further. “I hope I am one of the exceptions.”

I made a show of considering the matter. “Hmm…you can be a
bit trying at times.”

He moved closer. No one else was near, so he lowered his
voice and said, “I have always been quite happy to try you, it’s true.”

I pretended to observe the nearest painting, to hide my
blush from the gathering. Griffin had been my lover for close to two years now,
yet our flirtations still brought heat easily to my face. “We have put in our
appearance. Shall we leave?”

He frowned slightly. “No one will miss you? You are one of
the guests of honor, after all.”

“I don’t give a fig for any of them.” Although Mr. Endicott
had seemed interesting. “Besides, everyone here is curious about Guinevere.
Most of the old families have remained in Widdershins for generations, and
having one of our own relocate to England seems far more exotic here than it
would in New York or Newport.”

“So I hear,” he murmured, glancing in the direction Miss
Lester had gone. “How long is your sister visiting?”

“I’ve no idea.” I shrugged. “No doubt she will want to visit
New York at some point, and socialize there. I’d expect her to return to
England before Christmas, however, for appearance’s sake if nothing else.”

“And not because she misses her husband and child?” Griffin
asked.

I remembered what Father had said. The sharp line he’d drawn
between duty and love. One was of great consequence, and the other something
frivolous, the sort of thing to be dreamed of by shop girls and readers of bad
novels. And me, apparently.

“She will want to do right by them,” I said quietly. “Beyond
that, I can’t say.”

His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners when he frowned,
hinting at the first touch of crow’s feet, even though he was only thirty. Then
his expression cleared. “I’ve never had a chance to tour the house,” he mused.

Now it was my turn to frown. “I suppose not. You’ve seen
most of the downstairs, though.”

“Still, this seems a good opportunity to see more.”

I couldn’t imagine why he’d want to view the blasted place,
but if it got us away from the party, I would agree to it. “Of course. Come
with me.”

We slipped through the open doors, past the stairs, and into
the grand foyer. The chandelier high above blazed with newly installed electric
lights, the shadows far more sharp-edged than those I remembered.

“What do you want to see?” I asked. Griffin had been invited
into the private parlor, the dining room, and Father’s study on previous
occasions. “Or do you wish a general tour?”

He leaned against the balustrade and cast his eyes to the
upper floors. “What of your room? The one you had growing up. I assume you
weren’t forced to share with Stanford?”

“No, of course not.”

Griffin grinned. “Very few could say the same. Had I not
been the only child—adopted or otherwise—I would have shared with
all of my siblings. Our neighbor had seven children, all packed into one bed.”

“One bed?” I asked skeptically.

“Perhaps two.” He nudged me with his shoulder. “So is your
old room given over to a guest, do you think? Can we have a little glimpse?”

I hadn’t the slightest idea why such a thing would be of
interest to him. “It will be empty. Father was so convinced I would fail at
Miskatonic, he ordered my room untouched after I left.” Because, clearly, I
would never accomplish anything without his direction and support.

Griffin frowned. “But surely, after so long…?”

“That would require Father to admit he’d been wrong in the
first place.”

He shook his head, laughing softly, as if to himself. “Of
course.”

“At least my family amuses someone,” I muttered. “If my old
room is what you wish to see, come along.”

I led the way up the grand staircase to the third floor. As
we emerged onto the landing, I caught a glimpse of dark skirts and a familiar
silhouette leaving one of the rooms. “Miss Emily!”

She turned to me with a bright smile on her face. “Master
Percival!”

I embraced her gladly. As my mother had been confined to her
room for as long as I could remember, often too ill to venture forth, Miss
Emily had helped raise me. Some of my happiest memories were of nights when
Father was out of town, freeing Miss Emily to take me into the servants’
quarters to eat dinner at their simple table.

“This is my friend, Mr. Griffin Flaherty,” I said. She
hesitated at being introduced to a guest, but Griffin gave her a small bow.

“Whyborne has spoken quite warmly of you,” he said. It was
the truth, but delivered with his characteristic smile, it could not help but
win her over.

“You’re very kind, sir,” she said demurely, but with a
decided blush. I withheld my sigh. Griffin could charm anyone of either sex.
“Mrs. Whyborne says you’re very good for Master Percival, if you don’t my mind
saying so. I don’t mean to pry, of course, but raising Master Percival from a
babe, I can’t help but worry.”

“How is Mother?” I asked. She’d been too ill to make
public—or semi-public—appearances for my entire life. But she doted
on Griffin, and I thought she would like to see him.

Miss Emily’s face fell. “Not feeling herself tonight, the
poor thing. I left her sleeping not fifteen minutes ago.”

Griffin nodded his understanding. “Then please, give
Heliabel my regards. I hope to see her again soon.”

“Yes, sir.”

I had no wish to detain Miss Emily from any duty she might
have, so kissed her lightly and promised to return soon. As she hurried away,
Griffin leaned against my shoulder. “Another piece to the puzzle that is you.”

“I’m no cipher,” I objected.

“I disagree.” A slight frown creased his brow. “I’ve never
though to ask before, but why has your mother remained here, rather than retire
to a sanitarium in hopes of improving her health? I understand why she would
have stayed when you were younger, but after her children were grown, why
didn’t she seek out a more congenial climate?”

“Because Widdershins wouldn’t let her leave,” I intoned,
mimicking Miss Lester’s voice.

Griffin chuckled. “I’d wondered if you’d heard that. So you
don’t think there’s anything to it?”

“Of course not! It’s superstitious bunkum, and I’m appalled
someone with Miss Lester’s education would believe such nonsense.”

Griffin looked less convinced than I. But after a moment, he
merely nudged my arm. “Your old room?”

In all truth, I never wanted to lay eyes on the place again.
But I understood his curiosity. I would have felt the same about the farmhouse
where he’d been raised. “This way.”

A part of me hoped the door would be locked. But the knob
turned easily under my hand, and I flung it open.

“Here,” I said, not bothering to hide my resignation from
him.

He stepped just inside, found the light, then waited for me
to join him. I brushed past him with a sigh. The air held a certain musty
smell, but the servants cleaned often enough it wasn’t overwhelming. “Father
chose the decorations,” I said, gesturing to the bloody hunt scenes depicted on
the tapestries, the battles woven into the rugs, the swords carved into the
mantelpiece. “That’s my paternal grandfather,” I added, indicating the massive
portrait facing the bed. As a youth, I’d drawn the bed curtains against the
censure of his gaze, while I laid hand to my length at the thought of handsome
men.

At least until Leander had died. The boy I’d loved as a
youth myself; the guilt of having survived when he died convinced me desire was
poison. After, this bed had truly been a prison, a struggle between grief and
horror and guilt and longing.

“Not many good memories then?” Griffin asked quietly from
behind me.

“No,” I said, grateful not to have to explain. He understood
me so well.

The lock on the door clicked sharply.

I turned. He leaned back against the door, a knowing smile
on his face. “Then perhaps we should make a better one.”

My heart beat faster. But… “This is my parents’ house!”

He stalked toward me. “It is.”

I swallowed. “Th-there are people here. Downstairs. I mean…”

He reached me and pressed close, so his breath stirred the
small hairs beside my ear—and stirred something else, as well. “Yes. The
elite of Widdershins, who won’t have the slightest idea I’m sucking you just
two floors above their heads.”

Clearly, everything I found to be an objection, he
considered a benefit. Desire fogged my thoughts. “A-all right.”

He mouth turned up into a triumphant grin, green eyes
flashing at me from under his lashes. “Lie down on the bed.”

My clothes would be in danger of becoming creased—but
to the devil with it. We’d sneak down the back stair and leave that way if we
ended looking too disreputable. I tugged off my gloves and shed my tailed coat
to keep it in decent form, and he did the same.

I pulled him close, kissing him. He tasted of champagne and
chocolate cake, mingled with warm male. Griffin returned the kiss, plundering
my mouth with his tongue even as he gripped my hips and pulled me tight against
him.

“Father thinks you’d be perfectly happy if I were to marry
some heiress,” I mumbled against his lips.

Griffin snorted. “Then your father doesn’t know either of us
very well, does he?”

Griffin had been with women in the past. Mainly men, but he
was not entirely unmoved by the feminine form. I lacked even an aesthetic
appreciation, a fact on which my dear friend Christine occasionally teased me.

“No, but I thought he’d entirely washed his hands of me.”
And his talk about how sorcery might assist Whyborne Railroad and Industries…what
the devil was the man about?

Griffin caught my chin gently in his fingers. “Shh. Quiet your
busy mind, Ival.”

The pet name always brought warmth to my chest. “Perhaps
you’d best offer it a distraction.”

He laughed and pushed me back, until my legs met the edge of
the bed. I reclined on the eiderdown quilt, the rich brown satin soft under my
fingers. The canopy loomed above, familiar from a thousand sleepless nights.
Griffin settled between my thighs, his hands already working on the buttons of
my trousers.

His touch through the cloth hardened me in anticipation of
such a touch against skin. I’d not spent a single moment in this bed for over a
decade now, since the morning I packed my things and went down to Father’s
study to inform him I was leaving for Arkham, to study at a university of my
choosing rather than his. He’d known nothing of it—Mother had sold her
own jewelry in secret to fund my scholarship—and nerves had kept me awake
the entire night beforehand.

If only there were some way to whisper back through the
years to that frightened boy. To tell him his life would become immeasurably
better in every way imaginable.

I gasped softly at the brush of Griffin’s mouth against my
member, his tongue tracing a slow path up and down its length. Teasing with
little jabs at the slit then edging the hood. I let him know my pleasure with
encouraging sighs, bunching my fingers in the blanket to keep from reaching for
his hair. Later, I would disarrange his curls and make a mess of his clothing,
but for now, I did nothing to cause undue comment, should anyone see us leaving
afterward.

He took me in his mouth, all the way to the root, his throat
working around my length. I bit my lip against a groan, hips quivering with the
need to thrust against the hot wetness engulfing me. But I let him set the
pace, my hands clenching and releasing the satin bedding.

My eyes fluttered closed. I forced them open, glaring at the
canopy and all the memories that had collected like dust in the heavy folds of
its curtains. Letting the rising tide of pleasure sweep them away. “Griffin,” I
whispered, like a charm. I loved him. And, no matter how impossible it might
have seemed to the achingly lonely boy who’d slept in this bed—how
impossible it seemed to me sometimes even now—this man loved me in return
with a fierceness which stole my breath away.

He moaned in response, hungry and wanting, the sound muffled
by my cock in his throat. And God, it was too much: hot and wet and oh so good.
I thrust uncontrollably against him, thought and memory unraveling before the
cresting wave of ecstasy.

I blinked at the canopy, dazed and drained. Just a moment,
to gather my breath and my wits, so I could return the favor and do the same
for him.

Someone knocked firmly on the door.

~ * ~

I jerked up onto my elbows, met Griffin’s alarmed gaze where
he still sprawled between my legs, my softening cock in his hand and his lips
flushed from the act he’d just performed.

“A-a moment!” I stammered. Thank heavens Griffin had thought
to lock the door. I rolled off the bed, hastily putting myself back into order
even as my mind raced. My eye fell on the door to the dressing room, and I
grabbed his arm and steered him toward it.

The barren closet was musty and filled with
cobwebs—apparently, the servants felt no need to keep this room up.
Griffin’s face had gone white, and fear flickered in his eyes, although whether
from the close darkness of the dressing room or the chance of discovery, I
didn’t know. He went willingly enough, though, and I shut the door on him as
quietly as I could, the sound covered by another knock.

“I’m coming!” I exclaimed crossly. Damn it, whoever was on
the other side of the door would have a great deal of explaining to do. If a
guest, I could act suitably offended at their intrusion. If a servant…I
couldn’t imagine Father would send any of them to spy on me, as he would
doubtless prefer not to know what I got up to out of his sight and hearing.

I slid my coat back on—and spotted Griffin’s lying
draped over the back of the desk chair where he’d left it. Blast! With no
better idea what to do, I stuffed it hastily beneath the somewhat disarranged
blanket, smoothed out what wrinkles I could, and opened the door.

Guinevere stood on the other side, her hand raised to knock
yet again.

I gaped at her. Had she ever come to my room, even when we
were children? I certainly couldn’t recall it.

“Shouldn’t you be downstairs with the guests?” I demanded, a
bit more roughly than I intended. Why had I ever let Griffin talk me into this?

“I could ask the same of you.” She scowled and pushed past
me into the room. “Good, you’re alone.”

“Yes,” I said, more firmly than the situation called for had
it been true. “Why are you here?”

“Why are
you
here?” she countered. “Stanford says you
rent a room in some awful shack.”

“I thought to remind myself why I’d never return to this
house,” I snapped. “And it isn’t a shack, but a very nice home, thank you.”

She walked to the window, dangerously near the dressing room
door concealing Griffin. “God, Stanford was right—you
are
turning
into quite the little prick these days.”

The tightening of the scar-laced skin on my right hand made
me conscious of my clenched fists. Fighting not to grind my teeth as well, I
said, “Exactly. So I suggest you return to the more congenial company
downstairs and leave me to my business.”

“Congenial—ha. At least Thomas Abbott won’t follow me
in here. Ordinarily, I pity the poor English girls, chaperoned every instant of
the day until they’re finally married off. No wonder their men prefer us
American females to those dull things. But at least they don’t have to put up
with old lovers hanging about.”

“Did you want something?” I asked. “Because if not, surely
your room will provide adequate refuge from Mr. Abbott.”

She turned from the window, the train of her skirt wrapped
dramatically around her legs, her dark eyes flashing. She’d always cultivated
the regal attitude and bearing of her namesake. “Close the door,” she ordered.

Despite my misgivings, I obeyed. “What is this about?”

“I’ve been hoping for an opportunity to speak with you
privately.” She glanced around, as if suspecting spies in the draperies. At
least she didn’t think to check the dressing room for anyone lurking.