“Nothing,” she murmured, averting her gaze.

“What is it? What happened?”

She saw his feet approach her, and then she looked up, up into his face, his expression changed from sexually satisfied to concerned.

“It’s nothing.”

He placed his fingers on her chin, staring into her eyes. “It’s not nothing. But you’ll tell me when you’re ready.” It wasn’t a request. But he’d left the decision up to her as to when she would share it. Perhaps it would be soon, perhaps it would be never. But it would be up to her.

She nodded. “Yes.”

It shouldn’t have irked him that she had closed up so soon after sex.

Never mind. It should; he would be bothered no matter who it was. He didn’t like it when Clark didn’t share where he went after their nights out drinking. He would say the same about Hyland, only Hyland shared everything, so that didn’t come up.

But her—usually so open about her feelings, so clear about what she wanted. Not to open up about what she was feeling now made him wonder just what it was she was hiding. But he couldn’t just demand she tell him, as he would with Clark. His relationship with her was far more nuanced. He knew he had never had this kind of particular connection with anyone before, and frankly, he felt out of his depth.

But that didn’t make him feel lost. On the contrary, he wanted to discover just what it was that made this, and her, so different.

But only if she allowed it. And he found he very much wished she would allow it. Nearly as much as he wanted to be allowed back into her body, and very soon.

“Captain!”

Griffith had arrived home to discover his valet-secretary or secretary-valet and Hyland were both out of the house. The butler, whatever his name was, informed him that his men had walked over a few streets to a nearby pub. Griffith thought he might as well go see what they were up to, since he had no desire to sit inside and wonder what she might be thinking.

Or recalling how she felt, or how she screamed. Not if he didn’t want to hasten back over to her house so he could do it all again.

So here he was, in some nondescript pub that was empty save for Clark, Hyland, and a few assorted men who seemed as though they were upper servants from some of the nearby houses.

In other words, no lords here except for Griffith, thank God.

“Captain!” Clark shouted again as Griffith walked toward the table.

Judging by Clark’s tone of voice and the number of glasses in front of him, he and Hyland had been drinking for a while.

Griffith beckoned to the barmaid as he walked.