Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom Page 9

  And she was beautiful, too. But with all those qualities, she chose to hide away in the corners, like a fusty maiden aunt well past her prime. Justine was self-effacing to the point of fading into the background, which he supposed one might expect in the daughter of a spy. But unlike her father, she had no real need to hide her true nature. Yet she did, and Griffin was honest enough to admit that he’d like to know why.

  He listened to her bustle about the larder, rattling crockery and keeping up an uncharacteristic chatter. She talked about the baby, about Rose and Sammy, and all the little domestic things he supposed women enjoyed talking about. Griffin had always considered most such things a bore, but with her he found them oddly soothing, especially after spending the night going over contracts with Madeline and meeting with his business manager. Griffin had twisted his brain with the details of his plans to leave England, and Justine’s quiet stream of words washed over him in a gentle flow.

  “Here we are,” she said, returning with a tray piled high with food. She set it down carefully in front of him as she glanced anxiously at the baby.

  “Don’t worry,” Griffin said. “He’s still sound asleep.”

  “Thank God,” she muttered as she prepared him a plate.

  “Justine,” he said, as she mounded several slices of cold ham. “There’s enough food here to feed all the patrons of The Golden Tie for a week.”

  She paused in the act of slicing him a generous piece of cheddar. “You mean they actually eat while they are, ah, visiting?”

  Griffin thought of the various ways he could tease her with his answer, but decided to retract his claws—slightly. “Well, one does build up an appetite.”

  Her lips pursed in disapproval, just like the Miss Prim and Proper he’d come to know and enjoy. “I wouldn’t know. Why don’t you give me the baby so you can eat?”

  He stood, transferring Stephen into her arms, and then crossed to the dresser to pull a mug from the shelves. Justine watched him, as if not sure what to do with herself.

  “Well,” she said, “I suppose I’d better go back upstairs.”

  “In a moment. Finish your tea first.”

  She hesitated, clearly torn, which he found interesting.

  “Sit,” he ordered.

  Somewhat to his surprise, she did, giving him a hesitant smile. “I shouldn’t really. I’ll be a wreck tomorrow, but for some reason I’m wide awake.”

  “You can sleep in tomorrow. I’ll make sure Rose takes care of the baby.” He sat down and poured himself tea.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Her smile was so sweet and shy that it tugged hard, somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. He didn’t like that. Curiosity, even lust, was one thing. Emotions were quite another, and he had no intention of developing any of them for her. He might have under other circumstances, perhaps, and he could even wish they might be friends. But their worlds were too far apart, and after she left his house he would never see her again.

  “Tell me about yourself,” he said, more abruptly than he intended. “Have you always lived in the country? You seem rather intent on convincing everyone that you’re nothing but a little country mouse.”

  Her russet eyebrows snapped downward in two elegant lines. “Possibly because I am a country mouse,” she said, her faintly haughty tone unconsciously belying her statement. “Although I spent a good deal of my youth living in London, I prefer the country.”

  “Why is that? I can imagine few things more boring than burying oneself in some backwater village,” he said with a faint shudder.

  Though Griffin owned a manor house in Somerset—he’d won it in a card game a few years ago—he rarely took the time to visit. He’d kept it in good condition primarily because he intended to sell it before he left England. For too many years he’d been buried away in the dreariest Yorkshire village that one could imagine, and had endured enough of that existence to last him a lifetime. “And aren’t you a companion to a fusty old dowager? God, woman, no one could accuse you of living a life of drama and excitement.”

  “No, and for that I am profoundly grateful,” she said tartly. “I’ve had quite enough drama in my life, thank you very much.”

  Griffin layered some ham between two thick slices of bread. “Ah, yes, I forgot. I expect that Ned Brightmore’s life would provide enough drama for anyone.”

  He took a bite, savoring the dense texture of the bread and the saltiness of the ham while watching Justine’s face. A melancholy expression came over her pretty features.

  “Well, it was to be expected, given what he did,” she said with a weary sigh that made him want to pull her into his lap. “But he wasn’t the only reason that our life was rather unsettled.”

  Griffin raised his eyebrows. “Unsettled? And here I thought you’d led a life of order and routine. What other secrets are you hiding from me? Were you a member of a traveling circus in your dissipated youth?”

  As he’d hoped, that teased a smile from her lips.

  “Nothing nearly so exciting,” she said. “My brother, Matthew, and I spent most of the year in London. Since Papa was away a great deal of the time, Aunt Elizabeth cared for us.”

  “What happened to your mother?” he asked.

  “She died when I was three years old, less than a year after my brother was born.”

  Griffin felt the rustling of an old sorrow in his chest. For a moment, it even made it hard to speak. “That must have been difficult.”

  She thought about it for a few moments. “Not in the way you’d expect, since I barely remember her. But I don’t think my father ever recovered from the blow. If she had lived I suspect he would not have chosen the life he did.” She fell silent, as if pondering what that other life might have been like.

  “What happened after your mother died?” he prompted.

  “Aunt Elizabeth, my mother’s older sister, came to live with us. She had been widowed at an early age and had no children, so she took over the raising of us.” Justine gave a wry smile. “Aunt Elizabeth was an unconventional woman, to say the least.”

  Griffin leaned back in his chair, drank some tea, and prepared to settle in. “In what way?”

  “My mother’s family was from Norwich, wealthy cloth merchants.” She wrinkled her nose in a comical look. “They were quite radical in their politics, as many of the merchant class are in that city. Naturally, that horrified my father’s family. And they were Unitarians, if you can imagine such a thing.”

  “I’m reeling at the very idea,” he said drily.

  “I assure you, my father’s family was completely horrified. Grandpapa was High Church and very proper.”

  “That was the late Viscount Curtis, I take it. You must resemble him,” Griffin said, unable to resist the little jab.

  Unexpectedly, she flashed a brief grin. “I do, I’m happy to say.”

  “Then why didn’t you move in with him after your mother’s death?”

  “Oh, Papa didn’t want that. He and my grandfather had quarreled dreadfully over his marriage to Mamma, and then again when he decided to join the Intelligence Service. Papa used to let us spend part of the summer at Mildenhall, at Grandfather’s estate, but he wanted us in London when he was home.”

  She gave Griffin a misty-eyed smile. “Papa did his best to spend time with us, and he was the kindest of men, if rather restless. Of course, there were always a lot of comings and goings and a great deal of work to be done. As I got older, I helped keep his accounts and notes in order, and he would often dictate his reports to me. Aunt Elizabeth wanted to send me away to school, but Papa wouldn’t allow it. He said he couldn’t do without my help.”

  There. Griffin heard it again, the wistful longing in her voice as if she regretted the missed opportunities to have a more conventional life. She probably failed to realize how much more interesting—and less restricted—her life had been compared to the average girl of her social standing.

  “I suppose that’s why Dominic places such faith in y
our discretion,” he said, nodding at the baby.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, finally throwing off her little melancholy. “I’ve known Uncle Dominic for as long as I can remember. Whenever Papa was away, he always made sure that Matthew and I—and Aunt Elizabeth, of course—had everything we needed.”

  “And did your brother stay at home, as well?”

  “No. Papa said Matthew needed to go to school and learn a profession since we couldn’t depend on Grandfather Curtis to support us. Matthew went to Eton and Oxford, and then studied the law. He recently moved back to Norwich with his wife and little boy to set up a practice there.”

  Griffin absently shoved his plate aside. He’d barely made a dent in the enormous amount of food she’d piled on the plate, but he’d had more than enough. “But surely your father was compensated for his work. Did you not receive at least a portion of his pension on his death? I can’t believe that Dominic would be so careless as to leave that to bureaucratic whim.”

  She grimaced and shifted the baby on her lap, as if he was growing too heavy for her. He lifted an eyebrow, silently asking if she wanted him to take the boy, but she shook her head.

  “You’re quite right,” she replied. “Uncle Dominic made sure that almost the full pension came to us.”

  “Then why are you now buried away with a dotty old woman?” he demanded. “Why aren’t you living in London with your aunt, enjoying yourself as other young ladies do?”

  Listening to her admittedly brief account of her life had convinced Griffin that Justine had seen more than her share of sorrows. Surely she deserved more from Dominic than to spend her days as little better than a servant.

  “Lady Belgrave is not a dotty old woman,” she retorted, “and I’m not the least bit unhappy. I did have almost two full Seasons, you know. I’m not entirely a country bumpkin.”

  “I imagine that you were gay to the point of dissipation,” he replied sarcastically. “But then why the devil aren’t you properly married instead of mouldering away in the country?”

  Given her beauty and breeding and fine character, he couldn’t understand why she hadn’t been snapped up immediately. Christ knew that if he’d been allowed to walk in the hallowed halls of the ton, he would have ridden roughshod over everyone to get close to a girl like Justine.

  She narrowed her eyes at him, as if debating whether to deliver a lecture on the evils of swearing. Apparently, she thought better of it. “I wish you would rid yourself of the notion, Mr. Steele—”

  He held up a hand. “Griffin.”

  “—Griffin, that I am mouldering away in the country. And the reason I’m not married is that no one has asked me.”

  He frowned. “And why not?”

  He could practically hear her back molars grinding together. “Because I did not take.”

  Griffin stared at her, taking in the stiff set of her shoulders and the defiant set of her jaw. But he suspected her defiance masked a storehouse of unpleasant memories and small humiliations.

  “Then they were a pack of blithering idiots,” he said. “Which I suppose shouldn’t surprise me, given what I know about the average male aristocrat.”

  Her mouth dropped open a bit, as if that wasn’t the answer she was expecting. “Ah, thank you,” she said.

  He shrugged. “No need. I simply tell the truth as I see it. But none of that explains why you feel the need to work for a living. You have your father’s pension, and I imagine that his family—or your mother’s, for that matter—would wish to help you.”

  “They would, but I have no wish to be dependent on my uncle, the current viscount. Nor would life in Norwich suit me any better than life in London. As for the pension, that has gone to my brother. He has a wife and child to support and a budding law practice. His need is very much greater than mine.”

  “And you didn’t give him much choice in the matter, did you?”

  She shrugged, her gaze sliding away from him. Griffin had her mettle, now. Justine was the sort of woman who felt the need to take care of everyone who fell into her orbit—from her father and brother all the way down to Rose and little Stephen. She even tried to take care of him, the last person on earth who needed it.

  But who took care of Justine? Dominic obviously tried, but she seemed no more receptive to his interference than Griffin did. In certain ways, he and Justine were much alike in their reluctance to be dependent on anyone. Though she had people who obviously cared for her, Justine was as alone as Griffin.

  He frowned, startled by such a thought. Not only did he have nothing in common with a sheltered young woman like Justine, he didn’t much like the notion that something was lacking in his life. Or even more absurd—that he might be lonely.

  “What about you, sir?” she inquired, once more capturing his attention.

  He narrowed his gaze on her calm, lovely face. Her eyes were a clear, azure blue, like the sky on a hot summer’s day, and they held a world of innocence despite whatever sorrows and travails she might have suffered. No, he had nothing in common with Justine Brightmore, and he’d best remember that.

  “I don’t take your meaning,” he responded curtly.

  “Well, I’ve told you quite a bit about my life, but I don’t really know anything about you. Uncle Dominic told me you grew up in Yorkshire, but that’s all.” A faint color crept into her cheeks, the blush of a pink rose. “Except for what you do for a living. I know a bit about that, obviously.”

  His defenses automatically locked into place. No one ever dared to ask him about his family or his past—no one with a sense of self-preservation, anyway. Griffin had worked damn hard to leave that all behind, and he had no intention of discussing it with anyone, and most especially not with her. The very idea made something dark and ugly twist low in his gut.

  After all, what could he say that would not make her feel soiled just to be in his presence?

  Her smile faded as a tense silence swelled between them. Although she didn’t shift in her seat or fidget, her shoulders hitched up a bit. Griffin leaned his forearm on the table, pinning her with his gaze.

  “A bit is all you need to know, my dear. It’s best not to ask questions about me or my past.” He kept his voice quiet, but he allowed a warning note to enter it. “I would advise you not to quiz the servants, or anyone else, for that matter. I will find out if you do, and I will not be pleased.”

  Her face went blank, but something flashed in her eyes—something wounded and vulnerable. An answering guilt rustled within him, as if he’d damaged a fragile piece of beautiful crystal.

  Ruthlessly, he quashed the feeling. He’d enjoyed their conversation, and had enjoyed teasing her even more. But that was enough. No good could come of a friendship between them, and since he couldn’t take her to bed, there was no point in encouraging any further interest on her part.

  Finally, she gave a curt nod and rose from her chair, skillfully hefting the dead weight of the baby onto her shoulder. Griffin resisted the instinct to stand, instead crossing his arms over his chest and letting a sardonic smile curve his lips.

  “Of course, Mr. Steele,” she replied. “Thank you for the cup of tea. I will bid you good night.”

  A sharp pang echoed through his chest at her formal address, but he forced himself to ignore it.

  “Good night, Justine,” he called after her as she quickly made her way from the room.

  Chapter Seven

  Despite the fatigue that weighed her down, Justine dragged herself from bed before the clock struck nine. She’d managed a few hours of sleep after she snuck the baby back into Rose’s room, but only after much tossing and turning. Another London day had gradually dawned, the inky dark fading to a gloomy gray before she’d finally fallen into a restless sleep. And even then she’d dreamed of dark-haired buccaneers with cold, hollow gazes, and a dragon wheeling overhead in a soot-colored sky, breathing fire and terrifying her with his shimmering eyes as he swooped down at her.

  When she’d jerked awake, torn between
fear and irritation at the silly nightmares, she’d been more than ready to escape from her bed. At least when she had Stephen to look after she could distract herself from the man who haunted her dreams.

  After winding her hair in a simple knot, Justine grimaced at her reflection in the dressing table glass. She looked dreadful, to the point where she couldn’t bring herself to put on her cap. Not that it mattered that she looked like a dowdy old maid. Besides the servants and Rose, there was no one to see her looking well or ill, and no one would care about her appearance, regardless. Certainly, not Griffin Steele, as he’d made clear last night.

  Except she thought he had cared, as least for a little while. He’d shown her an unexpected degree of interest and consideration, and she couldn’t deny the pleasure she’d taken in it. She even thought he’d flirted with her, and although she’d found that highly disconcerting, she’d been flattered, too. More than she cared to admit.

  Despite herself, she’d responded to his interest. Something inside her had softened and unfurled, like a rosebud opening under the heat of the summer sun. And when she’d seen that astounding tattoo on his tanned, muscled chest, the breath had seized in her throat. She’d never seen one before, or imagined that something so strange could be so beautiful. The creature was superbly drawn—a fierce but noble beast inked in shades of black and gray by a touch both delicate and sure. The tail curling high, it marched across Griffin’s chest, presumably up over his shoulder. Justine had struggled with an almost irresistible desire to touch it, tracing each line with her fingertips.

  To touch him.

  But when he’d asked if she wanted to see it, reaching to open his dressing gown, she’d almost fainted with shock, more at herself than at him. She knew how outrageous he was, after all. But what had stunned her was how much she’d wanted to do it. To watch him slide the heavy silk robe off his shoulders and expose his masculine chest and shoulders. Justine had never thought of herself as someone much interested in the physical form, but Griffin was making her think and feel in entirely unfamiliar ways.