Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom

by Vanessa Kelly

  All but for the mysterious Count Marzano. He’d regarded Justine with a thoughtful expression, as if he was trying to puzzle out some sort of riddle. She’d still been held captive in the grip of rampant astonishment, so she’d barely been able to think, much less respond. When she’d finally been able to gather herself into a semblance of order, the count had already sketched a bow and followed his friends from the room.

  Griffin had then ordered the girls to return to their rooms and the servants to their work, with an added command to Thomas the footman to lock all the doors and not let anyone in the building until Griffin or Deacon gave him permission.

  Once order had been restored, Griffin turned his attention back to Justine. He’d actually had the nerve to roll his eyes, mutter something unflattering under his breath, and take her firmly by the arm as he steered her out of the room. She’d finally been able to find her voice then, sputtering in protest at his manhandling. His response had been to shush her and propel her down the stairs, back through the connecting passage. After one glance at his rigidly controlled expression, Justine had decided to hold her fire. That Griffin was furious, she had no doubt, but whether that emotion was directed at her or at the intruders who’d caused all the commotion, she couldn’t tell.

  His grip on her arm, although unbreakable, had been strangely gentle, too, and he’d steered her steps with a sure guidance she hated to admit she’d needed. The muscles in her legs had apparently turned to jelly—along with her brain, since she could barely muster a coherent thought—and without his support she would have tripped over her clumsy feet as he ushered her to his office. Mrs. Phelps had been standing outside the kitchen, a worried look on her face when they’d come through, and Griffin had murmured a few quiet orders and instructed that they not be disturbed. Then he had walked her into his office and firmly shut the door.

  Now he leaned forward in his chair, forearms braced on his thighs as he subjected her to a narrow inspection. It made Justine’s nerves skip and jump like a waterbug on a pond, despite the calming effect of the brandy.

  “Feeling better?” he murmured.

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Steele.”

  One corner of his sensual mouth pulled up in a sardonic twist. “Really, Justine, there’s no need to address your husband in such formal terms.”

  That cut through the muzzy feeling in her brain. She forced her spine straight and clasped her hands firmly in her lap, adopting a stern stare.

  “As to that, Mr. Steele, what in God’s name were you thinking? The situation was difficult enough as it was. I cannot begin to imagine how—”

  He leaned forward, his eyes going dark as pitch but cold as ice. Whatever protest she’d been about to make died on her tongue.

  “And what in God’s name did you think would happen when you rushed over there like Joan of bloody Arc? Had you not even a thought for your own safety or reputation? Good God, woman! How could you be so foolish?”

  Justine had to resist the temptation to shrink back in her chair, or to sheepishly agree that he was right. “What else could I do?” she retorted. “You were nowhere to be found, nor was Deacon or Mrs. Reeves or Joshua. It seems to me that you left your people very much at risk, with only one footman on duty to protect them.”

  He flinched. Just a slight jerking of his broad shoulders, but she knew she’d scored a hit.

  “I hate to admit it, but you are unfortunately correct,” he said after several fraught moments of silence. “Until now, no one has dared invade my premises. I will be taking immediate precautions, you may be sure.”

  When Justine nodded, as if to say I told you so, he leaned in another intimidating inch.

  “But that still doesn’t excuse your behavior, Justine, or the fact that you left your charge without protection. Despite your tender regard for my staff, your only responsibility is to the baby. Or have you forgotten that?”

  “Of course not,” she snapped. “And Rose was with him the entire time. I only—”

  She stopped, sucking in a breath as she thought of the mysterious Count Marzano. “The baby,” she gasped, starting to bolt up from the chair.

  Griffin placed his hands on her shoulders and gently pressed her back down. “Stephen and Rose are fine. Mrs. Phelps already checked on them. All was quiet here throughout the entire incident.”

  She let out a relieved sigh and subsided. “Thank God. That man—Count Marzano—I don’t know what he was doing there.” She cast him a troubled glance. “I don’t trust him. He didn’t seem to fit in with the others, and not just because he was a foreigner.”

  “Very perceptive of you, my dear. I suspect that Marzano is not all that he seems. The question is what he was doing with Mulborne and his cadre of idiots? Hanging about with members of foreign legations is hardly their style.”

  Justine frowned. “If you’re suspicious, too, then why were you so eager to invite him back to The Golden Tie? Surely you’re not lacking for business.”

  He raised his eyebrows at her tone, which sounded a touch shrill, even to her. Then he settled back into his chair, assuming an elegantly careless demeanor. He stretched out his legs, the muscles clearly delineated by the clinging fabric of his breeches, until his boots all but brushed against Justine’s skirts.

  “You must learn to trust me, my love,” he said. “I will take care of the count, I assure you.”

  Despite her best efforts not to react, Justine’s cheeks grew hot. “That is the second time you have used that ridiculous endearment, and I do not appreciate it in the least, sir. Which brings us back to our original point—what is to be done about your outrageous assertion that we are married?”

  He leaned his head against the high back of the leather chair, studying her under half-closed eyelids. He looked almost ready to fall asleep. “What else did you expect me to do? Deny that you were my mistress and proclaim the sanctity of your spinster state to the world at large?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what you should have done.”

  His cynical smile faded until he was inspecting her with as sympathetic an expression on his face as she had ever seen. For some reason, it made her want to burst into tears.

  “Justine, it wouldn’t have mattered a damn what we denied. The very fact that you set foot in my house, much less The Golden Tie, doomed you from the minute you were identified. The only rational thing to be done was to proclaim you my wife.”

  Her throat seemed to close. “But then what?” she managed. “We cannot possibly keep up with such a charade for long. It’s demented.”

  He sighed as he allowed his shoulders to slump a bit. Suddenly, he appeared both frustrated and tired. “No. I’m afraid that for both our sakes, the charade must soon become a reality.”

  Aghast, Justine stared at him. “You cannot be serious.”

  “No?” His laugh seemed to come from deep within his chest, harsh and unforgiving. “I think you’ll find we have every need to be serious.”

  Justine stared into his raven-black eyes, seeing not a shred of humor or irony. Nothing that would indicate he was playing a monstrous joke on her.

  “You couldn’t possibly want to marry me,” she whispered, even as something overpowering, something more real than anything she had ever felt in her life, stretched up and loomed over her, blotting out the light from the lamps and the roaring fire in the grate. She could see nothing but Griffin.

  To her astonishment, a gleam of amusement sparked to life in his gaze.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said in a musing tone. “Any woman who, by her own admission, is capable of shooting a man in cold blood is likely the perfect wife for me.”

  Chapter Nine

  Justine hadn’t said a word or even looked at Griffin for the last half hour. Instead, she perched on the edge of her armchair, grimly stitching away on a piece of tambour as they waited for Dominic to arrive.

  And for possibly the tenth time in that same half hour, Griffin pulled out his pocket watch and checked it even though the orna
te ormolu clock on the drawing room mantelpiece confirmed each quarter hour that the minutes were crawling by. He did his best to throttle back his anger with himself, and his annoyance with Dominic for taking so long to respond to the urgent missive he’d sent. Griffin had no desire to rattle Justine any more than she already was.

  For despite putting on a brave face, she was obviously completely unnerved. The strain showed in the paleness of her skin that made the spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks stand out in high relief, and in the sharp set to her jaw that pulled her rosy lips tight. Her world as she knew it had just come to an end with a spectacular crash. Justine could no more return to her quiet life as a companion to Lady Somebody-or-other than she could run away and join a troupe of acrobats.

  Rising from his chair in the bay window, Griffin finally gave in to the urge to move, pacing the length of the drawing room. He’d no doubt wear a path into the thick pile of the Aubusson carpet by the time this day was through, but if he did, he would simply buy another one. That was how he dealt with most of the problems in his life. He threw money at them or he employed another sort of power. He had many means at his disposal for achieving his ends, but money had proven to be the most effective and cleanest.

  Fortunately, his need to utilize violence had faded over the years as his reputation grew along with his power and influence. Most days, merely invoking some vague threat was enough to achieve the desired result, and for that he was thankful. He’d never been squeamish—not after the life he’d led—but violence and intimidation had a way of coming back full circle, dragging a lot of unpleasantness along with them.

  But in this particular situation, neither money, nor threats, nor violence, nor any bald exercise of power could save Justine or him from the parson’s trap. Griffin had made a truly fatal mistake—he’d grown arrogant and careless, and for that Justine would pay the price. The only thing he could do now was salvage the situation as best he could, and hope that marriage would ultimately prove less of a scandal for her than suffering with a permanently soiled reputation.

  “Must you keep doing that?” she snapped, breaking into his ruminations.

  He stopped in front of her. “Doing what?”

  She sucked in a deep, exasperated breath, which drew his attention to her magnificent bosom. That was a consolation, at least, and a considerable one. He’d finally get the girl into his bed, where he’d wanted her almost from the moment he’d met her.

  “Pacing back and forth like a caged animal,” she gritted out. “It’s annoying.”

  Well, perhaps at some point in the future he’d get her into his bed, but if the pinched look on her face and the frosty glint in her eyes was any indication, it wouldn’t be anytime soon.

  “No doubt you’re feeling peckish,” he said. “Why don’t you try to eat something? I’m sure you’ll feel better if you do.”

  She stared at him like he was capering about the room in a dunce’s cap and then returned to her needlework, muttering under her breath. She’d been doing that on and off since she’d stalked into the drawing room and taken a seat by the fire, completely ignoring the generous tea Mrs. Phelps had laid on. Griffin had even poured her a cup, but she hadn’t touched it.

  “When do you think Uncle Dominic will get here?” she asked when he resumed his pacing. “It’s been forever since you sent the note.”

  “It’s only been an hour, Justine. And if there’s one thing we both know, it’s that Dominic answers on his own timetable. But I’m sure he’ll be here soon enough.”

  She shook her head, punching her hook through the innocent piece of fabric. She mumbled something about men under her breath, and then went right back to ignoring Griffin.

  He rubbed the knotted muscles across the back of his neck. Actually, it had been more than an hour since he’d sent Phelps out with the note. That had been the first order of business after he’d announced to Justine that their marriage was essentially a fait accompli. After that, he’d taken pity on the girl, knowing she needed to escape his presence for at least a few minutes. He’d sent her upstairs to check on the baby and hopefully take the opportunity to compose herself. Aside from everything else, she’d clearly dashed to the rescue this morning with hardly a care to her appearance. She’d been wearing a simple morning gown, with her dark red hair in a careless knot that had mostly come down around her shoulders. No wonder that bastard Mulborne thought she was his light o’ love. With her tumbled tresses, heavy, sleep-deprived eyes and simple gown, she’d looked lush and sleepy, like a woman who’d just risen from her lover’s bed.

  A rap on the door stopped Griffin in his tracks. He strode to the window and glanced down in time to see Dominic entering the house.

  “Your time of trial is over, my dear,” he said. “Uncle Dominic has come to the rescue.”

  “Thank God,” Justine muttered, setting her work aside.

  She looked so worried, miserable, and exhausted—all three conditions attributable to him in one way or another—that Griffin was hard-pressed not to pick her up and plop down into a chair with her on his lap. That, however, would no doubt send her shrieking from the room.

  Despite what he’d just said, of course, the reality was that her trial was just beginning.

  A quick tread out in the hallway signaled Dominic’s arrival, along with his raspy voice telling Phelps that he would see himself in. When the door opened, Justine launched herself from her chair.

  “Oh, Uncle Dominic,” she exclaimed in a choked voice as she threw herself into his arms.

  Dominic’s head jerked back in surprise, but then he gathered her into a consoling embrace. “There now, child,” he said, patting her back. “Whatever is the cause of so much upset?”

  Griffin had to clamp down hard on the impulse to stalk across the room, pull Justine out of Dominic’s arms, and plant a facer on the older man’s aristocratic features. That impulse shocked him so much that he stood rooted to the spot, trying to analyze the wild swings in his emotions. If he didn’t know any better, he would think he was . . . jealous.

  He mentally shrugged that off with a scowl. Griffin did know better, and if there was one emotion he didn’t feel, it was jealousy, especially over a woman.

  By the time he’d wrestled himself back under control, Justine had pulled out of Dominic’s arms, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hands and attempting an embarrassed smile.

  “Good Lord, I haven’t done anything like that in years,” she said. She looked at Griffin and grimaced. “I apologize, sir. I can’t imagine what you must think of me.”

  “I’m thinking that you’ve had a difficult morning,” he replied more abruptly than he intended.

  Justine looked momentarily startled by his tone, but she quickly recovered, taking a deep breath and smoothing her skirts with a practiced hand. She returned to her chair, her expression settling into tense but calm lines. Griffin felt a reluctant admiration stir inside. He was beginning to think that what he’d first taken for a disapproving, spinsterish manner was, in fact, an iron self-discipline born of hard necessity. And that was something he could understand.

  “Would someone like to tell me what’s going on?” Dominic asked politely.

  Griffin waved him to a seat and fetched him a brandy.

  “As bad as all that?” the older man said as he accepted the glass.

  “Worse,” Griffin replied.

  “I see. Well, you’d better tell me all about it.”

  “We had an incident next door,” Griffin started, “while I was out. Justine was involved and was seen.”

  He frowned, looking into the fire to avoid Dominic’s searching gaze. Normally, he cared little for what his self-appointed mentor thought of him, but today’s debacle could only be laid at Griffin’s door. Dominic would be furious that he’d put his godchild in danger, and no one could blame him.

  But when the silence stretched under an unbearable tension, Griffin forced himself to look up.

  Dominic hadn’t moved a
muscle, although Griffin thought he detected an element of surprise in the ironical lift of his dark brows.

  Griffin stared at him, puzzled. He’d been certain Dominic would lose his temper. He’d only seen that happen a few times and, as inured to strong emotions and even violence as Griffin was, he had no desire to repeat the experience. But instead of flaying him alive with his tongue, the older man merely studied him, as if waiting for a fuller explanation.

  “That is a pickle,” he finally said in a mild tone. “Now I understand the urgency of your message.”

  Griffin and Justine exchanged a startled glance.

  “That’s your response?” Griffin asked, incredulous. “That we’re in a pickle?”

  Dominic turned one hand, palm out. “Perhaps you could elaborate so that I may be able to arrive at some conclusions.”

  Justine shot Griffin a warning glance, clearly wanting to explain the matter herself. “You see, Uncle Dominic, there was a . . . a commotion next door, while Mr. Steele and Deacon were both out. One of the maids came across looking for help, and there really wasn’t anyone else about but me.”

  Griffin rolled his eyes. “That’s bloody ridiculous, Justine. Phelps was out back in the mews. He and Rose could have dealt with it. There was no need for you to go bolting over there like an avenging angel. You put yourself in a great deal of danger by doing so.”

  She went all stiff and starchy, and her pale cheeks flooded with pink. “I disagree. Rose needed to remain with the children and keep them safe. Besides, I was the one with the pistol. I was perfectly able to defend myself, and Patience, for that matter.” She finished with a disdainful sniff. “Unlike you or Deacon, who could not be found.”

  “I’m glad to hear that you still carry your pistol when you travel, Justine,” Dominic interjected in an approving voice. “It shows a great deal of sense on your part. I’m only sorry that you felt the need to use it.”

  Justine directed a warm smile at Dominic, which made Griffin want to hit him. Then she switched her attention back to Griffin, looking smug. He could swear she was on the verge of sticking her tongue out at him.