No Ordinary Gentleman

“Coffee anyone? Tea?”

“Coffee for me, please.” Griffin lifts a lazy hand before bringing it to Holland’s lap in a blatant attempt to goad me. “It doesn’t matter if I’m kept awake tonight, does it, love?” He raises her hand to his lips as though to press it with a kiss, but she pulls it away quite deftly, playfully pushing his shoulder instead.

“Oh . . . you!” I think that was supposed to be playful, though her expression looks more painful. In fact, she looks like she’s imagining his head exploding.

Or maybe that’s just me.

“How do you like your coffee, Griffin?”

“Like I like my women.”

“Except you don’t have to pay for it here.” The room goes quiet, and I look up from my glass. Fuck. I said that out loud, didn’t I? Much to the horror of everyone.

“Alexander!” This from my sister.

“Jesus, Al.” This from my half-brother.

Though there comes no verbal response from the woman I’ve inadvertently insulted. Just a reproachful look

“I beg your pardon. Present company excepted, of course.” I lift my glass as to my mouth but can’t quite bite back my thoughts. “For her price is far above rubies,” I mutter, plagiarising Proverbs.

31:10, if I’m not mistaken.

Strength and dignity are her clothing, and she laughs at the time to come.

I am an arsehole.

“Coffee, Sandy?”

At my sister’s question, I shake my head. As she frowns my way, I shore up my defences. “I have a touch of heartburn.” It’s not indigestion, and it’s not quite heartache. It’s more like an aggravation, burning me from the gullet up.

“You want to watch that at your age,” Griffin interjects. Despite being just a few short years behind me, he does like to make age-related digs. “It’s like they say, you are what you eat.”

Then it would seem that at some point, Griffin has eaten a massive prick.

I keep the thought to myself. Little ears and all that.

“Holland?” Archie asks, looking like a miniature old man, sporting a fluffy white moustache as he sits in the overly large chair. “You’re sitting on the same chair as Uncle Griffin.”

“Yes, it’s called a couch,” she explains unnecessarily.

“Sofa,” he corrects.

“There’s space for you to sit here, too,” she says, tapping the empty cushion next to her.

“No, thank you.” He scrunches his nose, then wipes the milky froth from his face. “That might mean I’d have to marry you.”

“What?” Holland’s face turns immediately pink. “I’m not marrying anyone, Archie.”

“Are you sure? Aren’t you having a baby then?”

“What? No!”

“But Chrissy said that last time she saw anyone eat the kinds of things you do, they had a baby a few months later.”

“No, nononono. No baby,” Holland insists, her eyes moving warily between my sister and me. “Nuh-uh!” With another denial that sounds more like a noise than an actual word, she almost jackknives to her feet. “Thank you for a lovely evening,” she adds brightly as Griffin and I both rise to our feet.

“I’ll come with you,” he begins.

“No, you finish your coffee,” Holland insists, sending my sister a grateful look as she almost pushes a cup and saucer at him.

Suddenly, I find myself in front of her, taking her arm. “Let me walk you out,” I murmur in complete contrast to the way my fingers tighten on her upper arm. If Griffin protests, I don’t notice, basking in the relief her nearness brings to me as the pain in my chest dissipates. Not that Holland seems at all happy about my presence, which is a shame but not an eternal situation.

I love how small she is compared to me. Next to me. And I hate how it takes every ounce of my willpower not to pull her against me. To take her in my arms. Be the man forever at her side. I want to protect her always. Curl myself around her when she’s round with our child.

My steps falter—where the hell did that come from? Holland appears too annoyed to notice my astonishment.

“It’s fine,” she says through gritted teeth, swinging to face me once we’re out of the drawing room. “I know the way. I can get there perfectly well on my own.”

“No one is suggesting otherwise.” My cool tone is instinctual, though I have no idea where the words have come from, this armour I wear well. All I can think is how I want to get her alone. Strip her bare, strip her down to her soul. But a secluded corner of a hallway will have to do as we turn a corner, and I allow her to pull free from my grip.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

What indeed as I tip her chin.

“Have you no—”

“Morals? None it seems where you’re concerned.” The feeling of those neat muscles at her forearms sends a bolt of heat to my groin. I don’t hold her in my arms, but I do hold her as I lower my head, heedless of how she tries to pull away. She smells like flowers and looks so fucking incensed. But her shock tastes delicious, her pretence fracturing as the first brush of my lips. She gives in to a soft, quivering moan, her lips a decadent mixture of chocolate and wine.