"Absolutely. One cannot be happy until one accepts one's lot in life."
She wondered if she'd ever be happy, then. He certainly didn't look happy. "Is it so wrong to hope for more? To work for more?"
"Of course not." Absently, it seemed, he slipped a thumb beneath the edge of her glove and caressed the delicate skin on the inside of her wrist. "But it's wrong to expect more as your due."
She could scarcely think straight with him touching her like that. But she remembered how, after completing university, he'd felt he had no choice but to work for his uncle. And now, it seemed, he felt he had no choice but to accept loneliness as his lot in life.
That fact made a lump rise in her throat.
"I don't believe in fate," she told him. "Or settling. I believe in striving to make things better." She laid her free hand over his on her arm, and he glanced down, looking startled to find he'd been touching her.
But he didn't pull away.
"Promise me," she said, "as your friend, that you'll search for a way to be happy."
"I am—"
"Promise me."
He didn't. Instead, following a tense silence, he leaned closer and kissed her on the forehead. "You're too sweet for your own good," he said and walked away.
FIFTEEN
RACHAEL CERTAINLY seemed more businesslike than he remembered, Griffin thought, facing her from behind the safety of his heavy desk. Businesslike and beautiful, standing there with one hand firmly on a cocked hip, her silly little reticule dangling from her other wrist.
Why the devil didn't women wear pockets?
He picked up her letter and gazed at it, then back to her. "When I read this, I was picturing you as a twelve-year-old with a plait hanging down your back."
She raised one perfectly arched brow. "I never wore plaits."
He certainly couldn't picture her wearing plaits now. Rachael was half a year younger than Alexandra, which meant she'd been fourteen the last time he laid eyes on her. The transformation from that girl to this woman of almost twenty-two was nothing short of astonishing.
The lavender dress she wore clung to her body, made of some thin fabric that did nothing to disguise her feminine curves. Her eyes were large and the color of a cloudless sky—a hue Corinna would describe as cerulean—and beneath that startling blue gaze, her lips looked like she'd just licked them. Her chestnut hair was done up in a ladylike style, but the loose tendrils around her face weren't tightly curled as was fashionable, instead falling in long, soft waves that hinted at tresses he imagined were heavy and luxuriant.
His fingers itched to unpin the mass so he could see if he was right.
He had never seen a woman in a day dress manage to look so…sultry.
"Did you bother reading that letter?" she asked in a voice much huskier than Griffin remembered.
He swallowed hard. "Of course I read the letter. I invited Lord Hawkridge here as a result. He's assisting me in rectifying the problem."
"In what way?"
"We're diverting the water back to the river by means of pipes and a pump. The new system should be in place by Thursday."
Her eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"Why?" He frowned. "Because I'm flooding your brother's land."
"I meant, why did you begin irrigating in the first place? Have we not enough rain on this blessed island?"
"I'm attempting to save my brother's vines."
When her forehead crinkled, even that looked charming. "Vines?"
"Grapevines, to be precise. I'm raising grapes, with an eye to starting a winery. Or perhaps I should say Charles was raising grapes, and as his successor, I'm doing my best not to kill them."
"Oh." She sobered. "I was sorry to learn of Charles's passing."
"So was I," he said dryly.
She moistened her lips, watching him speculatively. "You don't fancy being the marquess?"
"I wasn't trained for it. Given the trouble I have sustaining the lives of mere grapes, you may pity the unfortunate tenants and villagers who rely on me for their keeping. Sit, please," he added, indicating one of the leather wing chairs.
She did, setting her reticule on the small table beside it. He sat, too, with some relief, as he'd begun wondering if his knees might give out.
He leaned his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers, watching her over them, his jaw tense. If she dared to lick her lips just one more time, he might be tempted to leap over the desk and kiss away that delicious sheen.
But he couldn't, because she was his cousin. And cousins were offered marriage proposals—not indecent proposals. One didn't kiss one's cousin unless one were prepared to ask for her hand.
Which was completely out of the question. He had no intention of marrying anyone until after all of his sisters were settled.
Years after they were settled.
"I'm sorry about your parents," he said.
"It's been six years."
"That doesn't mean it cannot hurt."
Rachael felt tears spring to her eyes and ruthlessly blinked them back. "I haven't cried in forever," she said. "Damn you for making me start now."
If Griffin was shocked at her language, he didn't show it. He just kept gazing at her—no, she decided, devouring her with his eyes. It was infuriating. He was an irresponsible scapegrace, and she wasn't sure whether she wanted to slap him or kiss him.
She couldn't remember ever being so attracted to someone who made her so spitting mad. She couldn't order her thoughts. Her mind kept bouncing back and forth, one second thinking about how unreliable he was and the next second noticing he was as handsome as sin personified.
The reckless, gangly youth she remembered had grown tall, dark, and sleekly muscled. His eyes were a pure leaf green; his jaw was strong and square; his smile was slightly crooked and entirely too engaging.
And he was her cousin.
"I'm sorry," he finally said. "I didn't intend to bring up old feelings."
"It's time for me to deal with them," she admitted. "None
