"Yup," she said, adjusting the blankets around her. "My mama had some extra fabric so she made me some PJs. They're not the rough camo, though. Just cotton. You want to feel?" She held out a sleeve for him to touch. "It's soft, I promise."
That innocently worded request was enough to set off his body again. Damn it, why did he react to every word she said? He immediately flicked the lights off and then adjusted himself, flattening his c**k against his belly and tucking the head into his waistband so it wouldn't tent out-just in case.
"Oh, we going straight to bed?" she asked. "You're not going to read?"
"Not tonight," Griffin told her. "Go to sleep."
"Night, Mr. Griffin," she told him in a cheerful voice. As if they were truly having a slumber party.
He sighed.
Chapter Seven
Days Later
"Oh, lordamercy! Look at the pretty gardens!" Maylee exclaimed as their sedan drove up to the royal palace of Bellissime. Her hand touched the glass of the tinted car windows, as if she could somehow get a better look by pressing herself closer. "I've never seen flowers like that. Ain't that something!"
"They're plants," Griffin said, not looking up from his book. He'd found a few references to Tarshish in his book and was poring through it, looking for additional information that could also point to Atlantis and back up their theory about the ancient city being in the swamps of Spain. "Truly exciting," he said in a dry voice, then flipped a page.
"Do you suppose there's a hedge maze?"
"There is."
She gasped so loudly that his head jerked up. "Oh, do you think we can go see it?"
He frowned at her. "These are the royal gardens. They're not for anyone to go gallivanting around in. Especially not today."
Maylee looked disappointed. "Of course not." She clasped her hands on her lap, resting them on the laptop.
She looked rather elegant today, Griffin had to admit. She was wearing a pale blue dress with a matching jacket and heels, and her wild curls had been pulled back with a matching scarf that acted as a headband. She was quite fetching, really. He felt like he should tell her that, so she knew her appearance met with his approval.
So he said, "You look very appropriate today, Maylee. Well done."
Instead of giving him one of her brilliant smiles, she gave him a frown.
Damn it, what did he say now? He ignored the fact that she turned back to the window and grew silent. He had more pressing things to worry about.
Today, he could no longer avoid his mother and brother. Griffin watched the palace approach with a sense of encroaching dread, and straightened the cuffs of his ceremonial jacket. As was tradition, it was dark blue with golden epaulets and dozens of medals he'd received simply for being born into the right family. The ridiculous jacket was his least favorite part of the pomp that came with being in the royal family, because he felt like a sham. Not only that, a sham in a hot, uncomfortable, tight-necked coat made of thick wool.
And it was a warm day. Ridiculous. It would look appalling if members of the royal family were beaded in sweat in the photo.
The sedan stopped in front of the palace, and attendants came to the door of the car. Maylee turned to him with a wide-eyed look. "What should I do?"
"Do not address anyone unless spoken to first," Griffin said in a blunt voice. "Try to tone down your accent, smile, be polite, and stick to the other servants."
She flinched.
"What?"
"Servants? I'm not a servant. I'm your assistant."
"In the eyes of the crown, they are one and the same. Now, you should let me out first." He gestured at the doors. "I outrank you. It's only proper."
"Of course," Maylee murmured.
They managed to make it inside the palace without causing a scene, for which Griffin was grateful. It seemed that Maylee had taken his instructions to heart. She walked several steps behind him, kept her eyes downcast, and greeted no one who walked past.
There was something that struck him as wrong about that.
"Viscount Montagne Verdi," the butler announced, and the great double doors to the common room in his grandmother's palace opened.
Griffin greeted them with a nod, and before he could take two steps into the room full of waiting royals, his mother was upon him.
Her Royal Highness Princess Sybilla-Louise moved toward him, her gloved hands extended. His mother looked as hale as ever, tall and robust, her clothing practically glittering from all of the beads and sequins and God-knew-what-else she was wearing. Sybilla-Louise's hair was a stately, steely-blue upsweep, a tiny crown adorning the top of her head. She gave him a critical look and then leaned in to kiss his cheek.