The Girl in the Steel Corset - By Kady Cross Page 0,85
looked tired. He hadn’t shaved and his hair was mussed beyond its usual disregard. There was an ugly bruise on his jaw where Sam had struck him. It spread up his cheek to darken his right eye and across his nose to cast a purple smear under the left eye, as well. His poor face. She wanted to touch it, but resisted the temptation, knowing how badly it must hurt.
“Hello,” she echoed lamely, partially hiding behind the door frame. “How’s Sam?”
“Recovering,” he replied with a slight smile. “As charming as ever.”
She laughed at that, more out of relief than anything else. Sam was all right, and Griffin didn’t hate her.
“You didn’t have to come all this way to tell me that.”
He put one foot on the threshold, closing the distance between them. “I didn’t.”
“Oh.” That was a bit of cold water in the face. She opened the door a little wider, putting herself behind it. “Did you come to see Jack? He’s in the—”
“Finley.” She started as his palm slapped the door frame just above her head. He leaned closer, so that their faces were only inches apart. There was a glint in his eyes she didn’t understand, but it made her heart pound. “I’m not here to see Dandy, either.”
“Then…” She cleared her throat. Her voice sounded like a little girl’s in her ears and she cursed herself for it. “Why are you here?”
“For you.”
He had to know she didn’t belong at his house, with him and his friends. They wouldn’t want her after yesterday. “Griffin, I…”
Suddenly he was in the doorway, looming over her in a determined fashion. Gone was sweet, patient Griffin. This was the Duke of Greythorne, one of the most powerful men in England.
“I don’t care that you came to Dandy,” he said, his voice low, but sharp. “If you want to blame yourself for Sam’s injury, then go ahead and be a fool. And I don’t care that you could cosh my head in if you wanted. I came here to get you and if I have to, I’ll toss you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carry you all the way to Mayfair. I’m taking you home where you belong.”
Home. How long since she’d felt like she even had one?
“Ohhh, even I ’ave goose bumps,” came Jack’s lightly mocking voice behind her.
Cheeks hot, Finley looked over her shoulder to see her dark savior standing there, her valise in hand. He must have run up stairs to her room and collected her things as soon as she went to answer the door. He knew she’d go if Griffin came for her.
And he wasn’t giving her a choice.
“You’d better go with ’im, Treasure,” he said before she could utter a word. “I don’t wants ’im appearing on my step whenever he likes. I ’as a reputation to fink of.” His tone was light, but she didn’t believe it, not completely. And though she knew she didn’t belong in his world, she was sad to leave it so soon.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the bag from him. She locked her gaze with his. “For everything.”
He merely inclined his head, smiling that enigmatic smile she’d come to find so charming.
She turned back to Griffin, who took her luggage.
“Take care of her,” she heard Jack say, his tone more than just vaguely threatening.
Griffin shot him a hard glance. “I will.”
She felt a bit like a bone between two hungry dogs.
Finley cast one last glance at Jack over her shoulder and waved goodbye. He returned the gesture with a salute and a darkly amused smile, then shut the door behind her.
Griffin’s steam carriage sat in front of the building, but the ducal crest wasn’t out on the door where it was normally displayed. She knew how much he disliked small spaces, so he must have given thought not only to his own privacy, but Jack’s, as well. The driver wore plain black rather than Greythorne livery as he sat behind the steering wheel on his high perch.
“Would you really have carried me out of there like a sack of potatoes?” she asked.
He shot her a wicked grin before moving so quickly she scarcely had time to realize what he was doing. He came at her, bent over and scooped her off her feet as his shoulder fit against her stomach. The next thing she knew she was hanging upside down over his back, admiring the fit of his trousers across his posterior, squealing.