Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom Page 19

  As she carefully folded her gown and placed it in the small trunk behind the screen, Justine forced herself to consider the strong possibility that Griffin’s reputation had been exaggerated. Why then, did he make no effort to refute all the rumors and whisperings about him, letting everyone think the worst? It was an interesting question, but not one she had either the wit or energy to parse tonight.

  “Are you sure you don’t need any help?” came Griffin’s sardonic voice from the other side of the screen.

  “Certainly not,” she said, hastily divesting herself of the rest of her clothing. “I’ll be right out.”

  “Don’t rush. Perhaps you can tell me about your family while I wait.”

  Clutching her wrapper to her chest, she peeked around the corner of the screen. Griffin was wandering around the room casually inspecting her meager belongings, reaching out a hand to absently stroke the soft wool of a shawl she’d left over the back of a chair, then picking up a book from the small pile on the table by her bed, reading the title. There was a quiet sense of possessiveness to his actions, and an intimacy that robbed her of breath.

  She retreated behind the screen. “What do you wish to know?”

  “Did you always live in London?”

  “Mostly, but my brother and I did spend a good deal of the summer in the country at my grandfather’s estate, especially when Papa was away.”

  She smiled, remembering the fun she’d had with her cousins, especially the boys. She’d had no trouble keeping up with them, roaming through the woods for hours on end, or learning to ride. “I enjoyed that very much, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I often cried when I had to return to London.”

  “Despite your proper and surely disapproving grandfather?”

  She slipped on her wrapper, knotting it firmly about her waist.

  “Grandpapa never disapproved of me,” she said as she came out from behind the screen. “I used to spend all sorts of time with him in the library helping him with his translations. He was a rather good scholar, you see,” she explained as Griffin drifted across the room to her. “In fact, he used to say that I was the cleverest of his grandchildren. Only to me, of course. It wouldn’t be proper to say that sort of thing to the others.”

  He stopped only inches away. Justine had to repress the impulse to step back—not because he frightened her, but because her awareness of him thrummed inside her body, silently urging her into his orbit.

  Griffin’s mouth curved in a dangerously seductive smile as he gazed down at her. “I might have known you’d be a little bluestocking. Tell me more.”

  His gaze, so full of secrets, sucked her in, tempting her with forbidden thoughts. Almost unconsciously, she raised her hand to the neckline of her robe, pulling it tighter.

  “Why do you even care?” she whispered.

  His eyes half closed and he leaned toward her, as if trying to capture some elusive scent. “For some reason I’m unable to fathom, I want to know everything about you. I want to know what your favorite toy was when you were a child, what was your most treasured possession. Who comforted you when you cried, or if you ever climbed a tree. I want to know what you like to eat and what makes you curl up your sweet little nose. I want to know when you first wished to kiss a boy. I especially want to know about that,” he finished with a wicked purr.

  She stared into the dark well of his eyes, transfixed. His voice lulled her into a dangerous submission and she swayed, ever so slightly, leaning toward him. His gaze flared hot in response.

  But when he reached for her, the moment shattered. Justine let out a self-conscious gasp and jerked away, rushing to her dressing table to straighten up her things with shaking hands.

  Griffin muttered something under his breath—something unflattering, she suspected.

  “There’s no need to be frightened, Justine,” he said in a dry-as-dust voice. “I’m not an ogre.”

  “I’m not the least bit frightened. I just don’t want to talk about silly things like my childhood, that’s all.” She straightened her new brushes and mirror into a careful line.

  Griffin leaned against the post at the foot of her bed, as if he intended to spend the rest of the night right there. The heat had faded from his eyes, replaced by a sardonic amusement that made her inwardly wince. “Don’t you think a husband and wife should know something about each other, Justine? How else are they to get along?”

  “Well, you seem to know quite a bit about me, but I know very little about you,” she retorted, feeling unaccountably defensive. It was as if he’d exposed something inside of her, something she’d rather not know about. “I hardly think that’s fair.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Are you still planning on leaving England?” The question had popped from her mouth before she’d even thought of it.

  He dipped his head once. “Of course.”

  She waited, but no other information seemed to be forthcoming. “That’s all you have to say about it?” she asked incredulously.

  He simply shrugged.

  That made her temper flicker to life. How could he be so casual about something that had the potential to affect her so greatly? She barely knew how to respond to him anymore, how to think about their future together. The day had been so tumultuous, so replete with upsets.

  She stiffened, suddenly remembering what she’d learned about him this morning from Patience and Rose. Justine couldn’t believe she’d managed to forget something so important. Right now, the very idea that he’d withheld such vital information seemed almost dishonest.

  “My love, are you going to stand there in a brown study all night, or is there something else you’d like to ask me?” Griffin prompted with a grin.

  “Quite a number of things, when I think about it,” she said. “For instance, I had no idea who your father was until Rose and Patience told me this morning. That was a revelation, believe me. And I don’t think it right that you withheld that information from me before our marriage.”

  He slowly uncoiled from his relaxed pose. Too late, she remembered Mrs. Reeves’ pointed warning not to broach this very subject. Still, she told herself, she had every right to know. After all, they were married now.

  “Just what did they tell you about my father?” he asked in a dangerously quiet voice that had her questioning her certainty of a moment before.

  “That he’s a prince, Ernest, Duke of Cumberland.” Even saying it now, it seemed so impossible. “They didn’t say who your mother was.”

  “That’s because she didn’t matter to anyone. My mother was a fourteen-year-old girl who my father”—the word sounded like brimstone on his tongue—“seduced and tossed aside, never again to be acknowledged. Not that I suppose she had any desire for him to acknowledge her. God knows I don’t want it from him.”

  “Not that you suppose? You mean you don’t know what your mother wanted?” she asked cautiously.

  When he crossed his arms over his chest, the silk gaped at the throat to reveal a gryphon’s claw, seeming to cruelly dig into his bronzed flesh. “How should I? She abandoned me when I was an infant. I never knew her.”

  He tossed the words at her like they were rocks. Her heart clenched at the bitterness shooting through each syllable. Clearly, there was so much left unspoken, a man’s entire history hidden behind a wall she suspected few if any had ever breached. No wonder he guarded himself with such determination.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, wishing she’d bitten her tongue before exposing him to such painful memories. “I didn’t know.”

  His eyebrows arched with an uncannily aristocratic disdain. “If you had known that I was the by-blow of a man known for the worst sort of vices and a woman who lacked all decent feeling, would you have married me, Justine? Or would you have preferred the censure and scorn of the world rather than soil yourself with my name? With my touch?”

  Her eyes widened with horror. How could he think that about her? “Of course not! We are not responsible fo
r the actions of our parents. And you didn’t even know them. Their faults are not your faults.”

  His mouth pulled into a hard, disbelieving line. She took a few steps closer, desperate to convince him . . . to comfort him.

  “It was never my intention to insult you, my dear sir,” she said, investing as much sympathy as she could into her voice. She itched to touch him, to stroke his silken-clad shoulders, letting her fingers drift down to settle on his warm skin. The desire was so strong and unnerving that she clenched her fingers by her side.

  “You’ve been nothing but kind to me,” she said, “and I will always be—”

  He seemed to leap across the space between them, one hand landing on her shoulder and the other taking her chin, forcing her to look up at him. She swallowed hard at the sight of his cold, flat gaze, chilling in its lack of emotion. But even though his black eyes looked implacable and merciless, his touch was gentle. Even in his anger, she knew he could never injure her.

  “Kind?” he barked out in a harsh voice. “Don’t mistake indulgence for kindness, Justine. I never fall prey to that emotion. In that, I am just like my father.”

  “I don’t believe it.” She refused to shrink before him. “You are nothing like your father or your uncles. I’m sure of it.”

  He snorted his contempt for that notion as his hands dropped from her. “I am just like them. And the sooner you realize that, my dear wife, the better for both of us.”

  On those discouraging words, he turned on his heel and stalked from the room.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Justine stared moodily at her plate, resisting the urge to glare at her husband at the other end of the polished dining room table. He was engaged in an animated conversation with her cousin, Serena, Lady Danforth. Serena—one of Justine’s least favorite persons—was a tall, slender beauty with smooth golden hair that always did exactly what it was told to do. She was also married to one of the most boring men in London, one who barely noticed her and didn’t give a fig that his wife carried on any number of flirtations—if not worse—with the ton’s most disreputable men.

  Exactly the kind of woman to spark Griffin’s sexual interest, apparently.

  “Justine, my dear, I don’t believe you’ve been listening to me,” her uncle said with quiet reproof. “I don’t know where your manners have gone missing this evening. It is most unlike you.”

  With a guilty start, she flashed her uncle an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry, Uncle William. I am a bit distracted but that’s no excuse for bad manners.”

  Her uncle, seated in the place of honor at the head of the table, across from their hostess, Lady Thornbury, inspected her with grave concern.

  “I suppose it’s to be expected,” he said in a low voice. “I was never more shocked than when you wrote to me to inform me of your marriage. I can only be grateful that your dear aunt and grandfather are no longer with us to see the unhappy result of your reckless behavior. Really, my dear, what were you thinking?”

  If that was her uncle’s idea of making her feel better, he might as well stick her in a pot of boiling oil and get it over with.

  “I don’t believe I had a choice, sir,” she tried to explain for what seemed the umpteenth time. She did truly love her uncle, who had always been the soul of kindness to her, but he tended to be a tad dense at times and as high in the instep as his father had been. “Under the circumstances, accepting Mr. Steele’s offer of marriage seemed the only acceptable course of action open to me.”

  Uncle William rested his knife and fork across his empty plate with careful precision. “I do not fault you for accepting his offer of marriage, Justine. There was no other course of action and I am indeed grateful that Mr. Steele seems to possess at least some small remnant of respectability. What disturbed me was your initial decision to take up a position in his household. Not only was that exceedingly foolhardy, it was well beneath your notice.”

  Justine could barely hold back a wince. Under her present situation, she could hardly argue with her uncle’s logic. “I did it for Sir Dominic, you see,” she said. “He needed my help.”

  By the look on her uncle’s face, she might as well have waved a red cloth in front of a bull.

  “I have always held it as a great misfortune that Sir Dominic has such an influence over you,” her uncle said in a frosty voice. “I am convinced he was at fault for my dear brother’s unfortunate career, which ultimately led to his death. Edward was a reckless young boy, but I’m sure he would have eventually come round if he hadn’t fallen under Sir Dominic’s influence. Your grandfather never approved of him, either.”

  Justine stifled a sigh, nodding as one of the footmen took away her plate. There was no point in trying to convince Uncle William that her father’s duties in the Service had focused his reckless energy, guiding it into a useful path that allowed him to utilize his quick wits and restless intelligence. And even though he died too soon, Justine was convinced that without Dominic’s guidance, her father would have come to a bad end at a much earlier age, perishing in a foolish carriage race or losing every penny he had at the gaming tables.

  “Ah, well,” her uncle said after he’d helped himself from the platter of goose as the next course was served, “I suppose we’ll simply have to muddle through. Between my patronage and Lady Thornbury’s kind offices, we should be able to beat back the worst of the gossip. Mr. Steele’s history is most unfortunate but, after all, he does come from the highest family in the land. And Captain St. George did tell me that Mr. Steele is quite in the Prince Regent’s good graces, which is something, I suppose.”

  Justine didn’t know what that something was, since the only reason the Regent even acknowledged Griffin was because he owed him a considerable sum of money. Still, she could appreciate Aden’s attempt to smooth her uncle’s ruffled feathers, even though Aden was at this very moment sitting to her right, trying not to laugh. He’d clearly been listening in on their conversation, which was just the sort of conduct one could expect from a spy. Justine had every intention of having a word with him about his inappropriate amusement and his eavesdropping as soon as she had a chance.

  “And,” her uncle added in a brighter voice, “you must be pleased to see Serena taking such an interest in Mr. Steele. Serena is quite one of the most popular hostesses of the ton. You can be sure that if she gives your new husband her approval, many others will follow.”

  Uncle William beamed down the table at his eldest daughter, sitting so close to Griffin that she was practically in his lap. If Justine knew Serena, she probably had her hand on his thigh, too. And from the look on Griffin’s face—his lips curved in a lazy, amused smile—he was enjoying every minute of her cousin’s cloying attentions. It was all Justine could do not to stand up, grab one of the heavy Wedgwood candlesticks in front of her, and lob it at her husband’s head.

  Fortunately, Lady Thornbury smoothly inserted herself into the conversation, capturing Griffin’s attention away from a pouting Serena. Justine breathed a sigh of relief to see her husband shift his undivided interest to his hostess. Griffin clearly enjoyed flouting the rules of social convention. But he just as clearly knew how to employ them, and had the decency to behave like a gentleman to Lady Thornbury who’d done everything she could to make this evening a success.

  “Having fun?” Aden murmured to her when her uncle turned his attention to his other seatmate.

  “You have no idea,” Justine replied in a dry voice.

  Aden briefly glanced down the table in Griffin’s direction. “All in all, I think it’s going rather well. My cousin hasn’t insulted anyone or made any lewd jokes, though I can tell he’s itching to do so. You must be a good influence on him.”

  She sighed. “I doubt it.”

  As far as Justine was concerned, the evening couldn’t end soon enough. It had followed a few extremely tense days in the Steele household, the result of her unwelcome wedding night questions regarding Griffin’s family. After he’d stalked out of he
r room, she hadn’t seen him until the next afternoon when he’d marched into the drawing room where she and Vivien St. George were having a quiet visit. With barely a nod in Vivien’s direction, he announced that he intended to hire an additional nurse for Stephen. When Justine objected, saying she was perfectly capable of taking care of one little baby, he’d barked out that he would not tolerate his wife scuttling around the house like a servant.

  Griffin had followed up that nonsense by instructing her to visit a dressmaker to order a wardrobe appropriate to her new status. That, naturally, had led to another argument, culminating with him stalking out of the room and Justine thinking about bashing him over the head with the teapot. That she could wish to behave so uncharacteristically led to only one conclusion—either she possessed more of her father’s temperament than she’d ever imagined, or Griffin was driving her insane.

  Once Justine had wrestled her temper under control, Vivien had managed to convince her that she did need a new dress for tonight’s dinner party. Reluctantly, Justine had agreed, and Vivien had borne her away for a hasty fitting at one of the most fashionable shops in London.

  When the dress arrived late this afternoon, Justine had been forced to silently admit that it was lovely. It was a shimmering, pale green satin in a fairly modest but flattering cut, trimmed with blond lace on the bodice and hem and tiny yellow fabric leaves scattered on the soft skirt. Griffin had clearly approved, his eyes sparking with heat as she descended the staircase to the entrance hall, pulling on her matching green kid gloves.

  Of course, he’d then ruined the moment by ordering her back upstairs to remove the barely noticeable lace cap on her head. To avoid a fight in front of the servants, she’d complied, but evened the score by refusing to speak in the carriage on the way over. He hadn’t seemed to care a jot, leaving her to ruminate on the fact that her manners had taken a perilous turn for the worse since she’d fallen under his sphere of influence.