“You know, darling, you’ve let your staff become far too familiar.”
“It’s fine, Mother.”
“I have my equerry spend a few days with all of my new staff so he can educate them. It’s clear that you need to do so with yours. It might do her good. Oh, but then you only keep the bare bones of staff, correct?” She sniffed. “That must explain that poor girl’s manners. No one to show her how to be a proper servant. You should really hire someone to take her in hand.”
“It’s handled, Mother.” He was barely paying attention. He kept thinking of Maylee’s flinch as he’d laid into her. He hadn’t been wrong . . . exactly. But he could have gone about it in a much kinder fashion.
She’d been so excited to be at the palace, and here he’d yelled at her more or less in front of everyone. She had to be humiliated.
Griffin decided he would apologize later. In private.
***
When he finally emerged from the portrait session, Maylee was nowhere to be found. The photographer hadn’t seen her since Griffin had forcefully corrected her, and no one in his family would remember her, since employees—even bad ones—tended to blend into the wallpaper as far as they were concerned.
Except, perhaps, when it came to George, the womanizer. And he didn’t want George to remember her.
Just when he was ready to give up on finding his assistant, he spotted a familiar blonde wealth of curls out by the sedan. Maylee’s back was to him, and the chauffeur, whose name he didn’t remember, was patting her on the back, comforting her.
Griffin stalked toward them, just in time to hear a bit of their conversation.
“—They’re not like regular people, much as we like to think so. It’s just something we have to remind ourselves of. If we don’t, they slap us back down.” The man ran a hand over Maylee’s shoulder. “Don’t let it bother you too much, love.”
Love? A furious retort lodged in Griffin’s throat, then died as the two of them turned around and faced him. Maylee’s eyes were red, and she’d clearly been weeping. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, her scarf tying it into a semblance of neatness.
But she gave him a game, polite smile, clearly pretending all was well. “Ready to leave, Lord Montagne Verdi?”
He nodded, noting the flat delivery of his formal title. The chauffeur leapt into action and opened the back door of the sedan. Griffin gestured that Maylee should get in.
She shook her head. “I’ll ride up front with Robbie. It’s only proper.”
And when she wouldn’t meet his gaze, he didn’t argue the point.
When they got back to the hotel, he offered to check her room for her.
She declined.
Nor did she come knock on his door later. He even left the adjoining door unlocked, just in case she got scared and needed to come sleep next to him.
To come cuddle, you mean, he told himself.
He felt like a prat. He was no better than his brother, was he? Lusting after his staff and then slapping them down when they got too familiar.
***
The next morning, Maylee was all business. Her crazy hair was smoothed back into a bun that looked as if it was ready to fly apart at any moment. Her suit was sedate, and she didn’t speak unless he spoke to her.
In short, it was like an entirely different person had showed up to be his assistant that morning.
And Griffin wasn’t sure he liked it.
He tried to make conversation. “Maylee? Which tie do you think I should wear this morning?”
She’d picked one out without saying a word.
At breakfast, she’d ordered toast and coffee, and when she ate, she only nibbled at bites and looked as if she wanted to be anywhere but beside him. She kept her gaze downcast and worked on his laptop while he tried to read his book.
He tried, but failed.
Maylee’s silence was driving him insane. After a few more minutes of quiet, he closed his book and looked over at her.
She gave him a cool look. “What can I help you with, Lord Montagne Verdi?”
“You can start by letting me know if you plan on sulking all day?”
A bit of her old spark flared, then died again. Her mouth flattened. “I’m not sulking.”
“Aren’t you? You’ve not spoken two words since we sat down.”
“Forgive me,” she said in that icy voice. “I thought that was what you wanted in an assistant.”
He got irritated at that. “You know, if you’re going to be like this, I can just send you home.”
She gave him a blank look. “I don’t think you can, Mr. Gr—, er, Lord Montagne Verdi.”
“You don’t think I can?”
“No, sir.” She gave him a challenging look.
“And why do you think that you are so very crucial?” God, she was infuriating.
“Because you have a full schedule today, Lord Montagne Verdi,” she said. “Kip double-booked two of your appointments again so I have to see which one I can move to ensure that everyone is happy.” She closed the laptop and gave him a tight smile. “But I suppose since you’re so in control, you already know that, correct?”
He said nothing.
“Mr. Verdi, if I may be so blunt,” she said, and that soft drawl was nearly gone from her voice. “You say that you wish to be independent and don’t want hovering, but I find that you are not very independent at all.”
Griffin tugged off his glasses so he could give her an appropriately scathing stare. “I beg your pardon?”
“You should,” she said mildly. “But in the meantime, I’d like for you to quit threatening my job, because I don’t think it’s in danger.”
“You’re fired.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re not?”
She shook her head. “Sorry, but you may not like having a country bumpkin like me here, but you still need me.”
“And why is that?”
She tilted her head, and he watched as one curl sprang free from its jail. “What time is your first appointment today and where is it to?”
He licked his lips and thought. Was this a trick question? “I’m meeting with . . . a board of trustees . . .” He tried to think.
Her eyebrows went up. “Go on.”
“Over a . . . donation of some kind.” He waved a hand. “That’s what they’re always about.”
“Wrong. You’re having a late breakfast with your mother at ten in the morning. Then, you’re going to a polo match with your brother, George. And then you have a family dinner at your mother’s later tonight.” She gave him a prim look. “Which you would know if you knew anything about your own schedule. I, meanwhile, have packed your suit for dinner this evening, selected a different tie and shirt for you to wear to the polo match so it doesn’t look like you’re recycling your clothes, and have arranged for you to have a breather in between in case you need to get away from your family because they’re hovering.” Her voice was utterly cool. “So I’ve tried to accommodate that. And I certainly won’t be hovering in the future—”