Notorious Pleasures (Maiden Lane #2)(53)

A footman took her wrap, and Lady Hero glanced at Griffin, then away again swiftly. “I… I just need to freshen up. Phoebe will show you to the luncheon room.”

Griffin bowed, watching moodily as she retreated up the stairs.

He turned to Lady Phoebe, offering his elbow. “I’m at your mercy.”

She grinned, taking his arm. “It’s just us for luncheon—myself, Hero, your brother, and Cousin Bathilda. Have you met my cousin Bathilda yet?”

“I haven’t had the honor.”

She nodded. “Don’t let Mignon bother you. She growls at everyone.”

And with those cryptic words, she led him up the stairs and into a light, feminine room, all yellows and whites with dauntingly fragile furniture. Thomas was standing at the far end with a rather stout matron. He looked up at their entrance, seeming less than pleased to see his brother.

“Look who Hero brought home,” Lady Phoebe said as they neared.

“Griffin,” Thomas murmured in greeting.

“Thomas.” Griffin turned to the older lady and eyed the small black, white, and brown spaniel she held in her arms. It was growling at him, low and continually, rather like a bumblebee.

“This is Lord Griffin Reading, Cousin Bathilda,” Lady Phoebe murmured. “My lord, this is my cousin, Miss Bathilda Picklewood.”

Miss Picklewood dipped into a creaking curtsy as he bowed. “We shall have to tell Panders that there is one more for luncheon.”

“I’ll try not to eat too much,” Griffin said lightly. “What a pretty little spaniel.”

“She is, isn’t she?” Miss Picklewood had actually pinkened. She stroked the spaniel’s head, and it interrupted its rumbling to lick her fingers. “Would you like to pet her?”

“Ah.” Griffin examined the dog warily. It hadn’t started growling again, but then its protuberant brown eyes didn’t look particularly friendly either.

Beside him, Lady Phoebe’s eyes were positively dancing behind her spectacles. “Don’t be frightened. If she bites, we’ll send for a doctor, I assure you.”

“Bloodthirsty baggage,” Griffin muttered under his breath before extending a hand toward the dog’s nose. If he were going to be bitten, he might as well get it over with. “Mademoiselle Mignon.”

The spaniel sniffed daintily and then opened her mouth in a doggy grin as he gingerly fondled her ears.

“I don’t understand it,” Miss Picklewood said. “She usually hates gentlemen.”

Griffin’s outraged gaze flew to Lady Phoebe’s own, and she covered her mouth to stifle a giggle.

The girl shrugged. “She’s never actually bitten a gentleman before. Just threatened to.”

“She came close with me,” Thomas remarked drily. “You must’ve rubbed your fingers in bacon, Griffin.”

“Perhaps she just has very good taste,” Griffin said as he scratched Mignon’s chin.

“In any case, she certainly seems fond of you,” Miss Picklewood muttered. She nodded as the butler made some sort of signal. “I think we’re ready to go in. Perhaps you can see what’s taking your sister so long, Phoebe?”

Lady Phoebe slipped from the room, and Thomas made a social remark, but Griffin wasn’t paying attention. He absently stroked the little spaniel and wondered if he was the reason Hero was reluctant to come to luncheon.

Damn, damn, damn. He’d made the worst mistake of his life.

“Here she is.”

He looked up at the sound of Lady Phoebe’s voice. Hero was standing beside her, composed, though color still flew high in her cheeks.

She walked straight to Thomas and held out her hand. “My lord, it is good to see you.”

Thomas bent over her hand in a polite, everyday gesture that in no way could be construed as passionate, and pain arched through Griffin’s body in a searing flame. In that moment, he wanted to shove aside his brother, lift up Lady Hero, and bear her away. Take her someplace where he could wipe that look of bored serenity from her face and replace it with lust. Lust for him.

Instead he took a breath and offered his arm to Lady Phoebe. “Will you accompany me into luncheon, my lady?”

She smiled up at him, her round, rosy cheeks merry. “I’d be delighted, my lord.”

The luncheon, like the room, proved to be a feminine affair. A clear soup hardly more than a broth, delicate little pastries more pretty than filling, and a variety of breads and cheeses. The wine was good, though, and in ordinary circumstances, Griffin might’ve enjoyed himself.

“I understand you manage the family estates,” Miss Picklewood said with a queer look fixed on her face. She sat at the head of the table. One of her hands drifted beneath the table.