She ran a finger down the screen. "From nine until eleven, you're meeting with the Bellissime Historical Society-"
Griffin nodded. "Go ahead and cancel it."
She blinked at him. "But . . . it's my job to keep your appointments."
"I know. And I want to cancel that one. What's after that?"
"Lunch with the mayor?"
He grunted. "I guess I can't get out of that one. He's an old family friend. Very well."
She pulled out her phone and then frowned. "What shall I tell them is the reason for the cancellation? Anything in particular?"
He shook his head. "A viscount doesn't make excuses. I'm simply busy."
She nodded and got up, crossing the empty private dining room to make the phone call. He was right, though. No one questioned his cancellation in the slightest.
When she returned to the table, breakfast had been served, and she intercepted the waiter on his way back to the kitchen and pushed a twenty into his hand for a tip. "Thank you."
He took it with a smile and winked at her.
Maylee sat back down at the table and picked up her napkin. Breakfast this morning looked like runny eggs covered with some sort of weird reddish gravy and what looked like caviar on top. Ew. Why couldn't the man order some grits and bacon like a normal person? It was a shame she was so hungry. She was going to eat it anyhow. "So . . . what would you like to do this morning now that you've got it free?"
"After this, I'm going to have the staff go up to our room and arrange to have your clothing dry cleaned at their expense so you can have it back tonight."
She blushed. Our room? "You don't have to do that."
"I don't," he agreed. "But they do. And then we're going shopping."
Maylee gave an excited little wiggle in her chair. "We are? Souvenir shopping?"
He gave her a funny look. "I am a native of Bellissime, Maylee. I'm sure I don't need postcards or cheap shot glasses to remind me of the fact."
"Oh." How did he always manage to make her feel so stupid with just a word? She poked her fork at her egg-things, her appetite disappearing.
"We'll get you clothing. Something appropriate to wear."
Maylee's heart thumped with excitement . . . and then it was followed by immediate hurt. "Because I look so awful?"
"That, and because what you're wearing is appallingly unacceptable for a visit to the Bellissime Royal Palace," he said, salting his eggs and taking a small bite.
That took all the fun out of the thought of going shopping. Maylee stared at her food until tears blurred her vision, but she blinked them away. She was sure he didn't mean to be so cruel . . . did he? "Mr. Griffin-"
"Mr. Verdi," he corrected. "Or Lord Montagne Verdi. Or Viscount Montagne Verdi. Not Mr. Griffin. Please watch your tongue when we're at the royal palace."
"I was going to say that I can't really afford to buy new clothes, Mr. Verdi." She carefully stressed his correct title. "Perhaps I should just stay behind," she said in a small voice, scraping the caviar off the top of one of her slimy-looking eggs.
"Nonsense."
She waited for more. Maybe you're indispensable to me, Maylee or I need your help today or even a you're great company, Maylee. Something that would tell her she wasn't just an ugly, unfashionable burden on him.
When she looked up at him expectantly, he added, "I might have to change clothes for the royal portraits and you'll need to be there to fix my tie."
She sighed.
***
Maylee was utterly impossible to please.
Griffin had thought she'd be happy to get new clothes. Not only were hers hideous, but she was constantly knitting. When he saw the weird little shawl she'd worn earlier, he'd realized . . . she was so poor that she was creating her own clothing. And that made him feel terrible. He hadn't even realized how underprivileged she was until then, and her embarrassment at not having anything decent to wear for the day was palpable. So he'd offered to take her shopping. She'd been excited when she'd thought they were going to a cheap tourist stand. At the thought of clothing, though?
She'd snapped her mouth shut and looked like a kicked puppy.
He didn't know what to make of her. She had him all turned around this morning. He'd been nearly unable to sleep last night, fully aware of her body on the other side of the pillows. She talked in her sleep, too. No nightmares, just mutterings about home and if she had put the dog outside. Did she have a dog? Surely not with the size of apartment she'd mentioned having.
So he'd tossed and turned all night, listening to her mumble, before finally falling asleep sometime before dawn. He'd woken immediately, however, when the alarm went off . . . and was stunned when she'd rolled over and pressed her breast into his hand. Memories of that soft, full breast haunted him even now and made him break out into a cold sweat. He'd feigned sleepiness-hell, what else could he have done?-and she hadn't seemed to notice that he'd clutched the sheets at his waist to hide his hard-on.