A shutter instantly came down over those ‘calm grey eyes’. ‘The truth of the matter is, Griffin,’ she told him coolly, ‘you don’t know me at all!’
‘I beg to differ—Izzy.’ He raised one blond brow pointedly. ‘But enough of that,’ he dismissed lightly as she continued to look at him coldly. ‘I bet that’s the first time you’ve ever sold a biography of Dickens with a Griffin Sinclair autograph in the front of it!’
He hadn’t? He couldn’t have?
He had, she realised increduously as she saw the laughter in his eyes.
‘I doubt that has increased its value,’ she bit out waspishly.
‘Ouch!’ he murmured ruefully, his gaze lingering on her face. ‘But it’s good to see that, between the two of them, Charles and your father didn’t knock all the spirit and fun out of you.’ His expression was grim now, green eyes hard as the emeralds they resembled.
‘Neither Charles or my father ever raised a hand to me,’ she defended indignantly.
‘They didn’t need to,’ Griffin scorned. ‘Verbal abuse, in the form of constant put-downs in your case, can be as effective as a physical blow.’
Dora looked up at him wordlessly for several long seconds. But finally, seeing in his demeanour no hint of apology for what he’d just said, she turned away, before getting restlessly to her feet, needing to put some distance between the two of them.
‘You’re talking absolute nonsense,’ she dismissed impatiently. ‘Now I wish you would just state your reason for being here and then go.’ Because, as always, he was shaking her natural calm. And after the recent strain, she needed to hold on to that. ‘I’m sure your mother—for one—would not approve of your paying a visit to your brother’s exfiancée!’ Dora couldn’t resist making a dig of her own; Margaret had always disapproved of Griffin’s apparent familiarity with Dora in the past, and Dora had no reason to think it was any different now, even with Charles dead.
Griffin relaxed. ‘I’m sure my mother’s opinion—‘‘for one’’!—is of no interest to me!’
It had always amazed Dora in the past that it never had been of much interest to Griffin. Margaret Sinclair was tall and autocratic. Widowed while her children were all still quite young, she had taken over as the head of the family, seemingly without pause for mourning her husband’s demise.
Charles, as the eldest son, had been groomed for the family’s re-entry into the political arena his mother had loved so well. Charlotte, as the youngest child and only daughter, had been brought up to be a wife and mother—although she was neither of those things yet, as far as Dora was aware. Griffin, the second son and the middle child, was as different from his siblings as night was from day—his blond good looks against their darker colouring. He was also the rebel in the family, fitting into none of the careers Margaret would have liked him to follow.
It was a role, Dora had learnt after a very short acquaintance with the whole family, that Griffin nurtured and loved!
She gave him a rueful grimace. ‘How has she taken to your television career?’
He gave her a sideways glance, green gaze openly laughing. ‘What do you think?’ he drawled mockingly.
‘Oh, no.’ Dora laughed softly. ‘You aren’t going to draw me into that one!’ Although she could well imagine how Margaret had reacted to her middle child being on public television in a programme that, knowing Griffin, would be slightly less than serious. But, as in the past, Dora had every intention of keeping well out of the feud that existed between Griffin and his mother. Anyone caught in the middle of that animosity was likely to get trampled underfoot by one or both of them!
‘She’s horrified.’ Griffin cheerfully confirmed Dora’s suspicions, at the same time giving the impression—once again!—that his mother’s opinion was of no interest to him. ‘In fact,’ he continued dryly, ‘she was so angry with me when the first programme was televised that she didn’t speak to me for a month. That was the most peaceful month of my life!’ he added with feeling.
Dora gave another laugh, realising even as she did so that it was the first time for a very long time she had found anything to laugh about…
She sobered, feeling almost guilty at her humour now, with her father only dead a matter of days. And here, too, of all places, in the shop he had spent so much time in.
‘And yet,’ Dora murmured softly, ‘it’s you who she called when there was a family crisis.’ This last was said half questioningly; Margaret had always been so in control, so self-possessed, it was hard to imagine a situation she couldn’t deal with herself.
Griffin shrugged. ‘Mother hasn’t been quite her—autocratic self since Charles’s death.’ He frowned, as if he had only just realised that particular fact for himself. ‘In fact, it was that that caused the row between Mother and Charlotte.’
‘Charles’s death?’ Dora looked at him sharply.
The two brothers hadn’t always seen eye to eye, being far too different in outlook and temperament for that, but Margaret and Charlotte had both adored Charles; Dora couldn’t imagine the two women arguing about him.
‘The time-scale of it.’ Griffin nodded grimly. ‘Charlotte’s finacé, Stuart— I’m sure you remember him? Well, he’s been offered a job in the States,’ Griffin continued at her affirmative nod. ‘Which he is due to start in a couple of months’ time. Charlotte, quite naturally, wants to go with him.’
‘And your mother isn’t happy about the two of them living together?’ Dora nodded—although she still didn’t see how that involved Charles.
Griffin gave a mischievous grin. ‘She certainly wouldn’t be happy if that were the case,’ he acknowledged tauntingly. ‘Although, at twenty-eight, Charlotte is old enough to make up her own mind how she wants to live her life! But, no, Charlotte and Stuart are going to do the decent thing and get married. It was the date Charlotte set for the wedding that caused the problem. Four weeks on Saturday,’ he explained as Dora still looked confused. ‘That way the two of them will be able to have a honeymoon before Stuart is due to start his new job.’
By which time Charles would only have been dead for eleven months… And, bearing in mind Griffin’s earlier comment to her today about wearing black for a year, it all began to make perfect sense.
‘Your mother believes the wedding date is disrespectful to Charles’s memory,’ she guessed knowingly.
Once again Griffin gave her that sideways glance. ‘Don’t tell me you agree with her?’
‘No, of course I don’t,’ she answered impatiently. ‘You have a very strange opinion of me, Griffin.’ She frowned, remembering some of his earlier remarks concerning her father and Charles. ‘I’m very pleased for Charlotte and Stuart.’ She had always been very fond of the other couple; in fact Charlotte was the only member of the family that she had continued to see for coffee occasionally after Charles died.
‘Because they’re getting married—or because they’re moving far away from my mother?’ Griffin muttered grimly.
Dora shook her head at him. He really was the most disrespectful man! ‘I’m sure your mother means well, Griffin,’ she reasoned evasively; she had been more than aware, during her brief engagement to Charles, that Margaret would make a formidable mother-in-law…!
‘Are you?’ Griffin looked at her with narrowed eyes. ‘I wish I had your confidence,’ he added disgustedly. ‘Whatever, the wedding is going ahead as planned in four weeks’ time.’
‘How did you manage that?’ Dora wondered curiously. If his mother could stop speaking to him for a month simply because he appeared on public television in what she considered amounted to a role of entertainer, how much deeper would her response have been to Charlotte thwarting her wishes?
‘Bribery