Free Somebody To Love by Kate Rothwell Page A

breath. “What can I do for you, Mr. Calverson?”
    “I am merely enjoying your company.”
    “Hmm.”
    “No, I am not lying, Araminta. I am not sure I should admit this to you, but I have rather admired you since that day in Minnesota when we, or rather you, discussed my sister’s marriage. My interest was furthered during your two more recent visits.”
    Could he be serious? She assumed he meant the day she’d informed him that he was a worthless specimen of a man.
    “I had no notion.” She was dismayed at her breathless voice. She’d hoped to sound arch.
    “I did not want you to.”
    Her heart beat far too fast, and she had trouble with her breathing. “Coward,” she whispered, unsure if she meant herself or him.
    “Yes, I am.” His voice was dry as three-day-old bread.
    Amazement helped her regain some of her composure. “Griffin, have you learned to laugh at yourself?”
    “I have learned to tolerate your laughter,” he said, his face and voice still so deadpan she could not read his mood. “Araminta.”
    She’d always disliked her name, but not when he spoke it. He made it a poem—about lust for her, perhaps, but still fairly beautiful. He shifted so that the outside of his leg touched hers. She grew dizzy with anticipation waiting for the touch her skin almost felt, or the kiss she could almost taste. But before he’d bent close, another voice interrupted.
    “Hist, sir. He’s coming now.”
    Griffin bounded to his feet. His dark shape blocked the dim light from the garden as he peered out from the doorway, but then he backed away and stood in the shadows next to her. He yanked off his jacket and tossed it to her. The wool garment still warm from his body landed across her lap, but before she could ask him what he was about, he’d pulled his shirt from his trousers. A moment later he unbuttoned his trousers, then rebuttoned them obviously wrong.
    Araminta half rose from the bench. “What do you suppose you—”
    He leaned close to Araminta and whispered, “Stay in the shadows and keep quiet.”
    “But I—”
    “Keep quiet.”
    Griffin trotted down the steps and was greeted by a cheery outcry. Kane.
    “Good evening, sir! Have I interrupted something?”
    “A few minutes earlier you might have.”
    “Oho, so you have taken a fancy to one of our ladies? Which do you have in there?”
    Araminta shrank against the vines, at last understanding Griffin’s actions. She hoped.
    “The one called Lola, I believe?” Griffin sounded as cool as ever, though perhaps faintly lazier. “I was just on my way inside. Did I hear you mention that you have a faro table upstairs tonight? I was going to try my hand at that.”
    The men’s voices grew faint.
    Araminta rubbed her hands together; her palms had grown damp. She picked up his jacket, a heavy, well-tailored piece of clothing. Almost reluctantly, she pressed the jacket against her face and inhaled his scent. Then she folded Calverson’s jacket and left it lying on the bench.
    She stood in the arched doorway and glanced around the now-deserted garden, and then descended the stone steps to the path.
    “Miss Araminta,” a voice hissed from the boxwood hedge next to the arbor.
    She started and gasped. “Mr. Hobbes, you have removed yet another year from my life. How do you manage to pussyfoot about the place?”
    “I’m Hobnail,” he reminded her. “Haven’t snuck around at all. Was stationed here.”
    “Oh.”
    She leaned against the thick wooden arch and considered this confirmation that Griffin had set the man on her. If Hobbes was supposed to look after her, maybe he’d be willing to threaten Kane about keeping his battering fists off Olivia’s body. After all, Calverson had said he would help.
    “Mr. Hobbes—”
    “You ready to go?”
    “I’d like to hire you. To protect someone. Do you know Miss Smith, Mr. Hobbes? th
    “Hobnail. Nah, don’t hire me. Do my best, but can’t do much. Can’t annoy Kane. Ready?” He stood and