“Think of it as medicinal.”
When he handed her a glass, she wrinkled her nose at the generous amount. “Mr. Steele, I do believe you are exercising a deleterious effect on my morals.”
He braced one hand on the fireplace mantel and studied her, looking both elegant and dangerous. Clothed mostly in black as always, with his long hair pulled back in a queue and with the faint scar carving down the side of his temple, he seemed plucked out of time and place. One could easily imagine him as a highwayman or buccaneer, or even the crime lord that so many believed him to be. But, somehow, he also looked at home in this domestic setting, as if he’d just sent the children off to bed and was finishing his brandy before he joined his wife upstairs.
Which, of course, would be her. She blinked, disconcerted by the sudden wave of longing that washed over her.
“One can only hope,” he murmured. His wickedly sensual smile made her lose her breath.
“Um, hope what?” she asked, having lost the thread of conversation.
“That I’m corrupting your morals. One does try one’s best, you know.”
She blushed and took a sip of brandy to cover her confusion. Fortunately, he didn’t pursue the line of conversation that she’d been stupid enough to initiate, instead lapsing into silence as he stared at the fire. She gradually relaxed, letting the strains of the day seep away.
“I was surprised to find you sitting here in the dark,” she finally said, “since you usually have every candle and lamp in the room at full blaze.”
He glanced at her. “I prefer the light but the dark doesn’t discomfort me. Surely you realize that by now.”
“And are you comfortable in the country? Rose told me that you never leave town. I wondered if it bothered you to be forced into exile with such a motley little band.”
“Rose talks too much,” he said drily. “And no one can force me to do anything I don’t want to do, Justine, which is another thing you should know by now.”
“Really?” she said, not hiding her doubt. “Because I can’t help feeling that you’ve been terribly put out by all of this. Not only by the baby but by being forced to marry me, as well.”
She finally allowed herself to acknowledge the guilt gnawing away at her, the guilt about how she had disrupted his life. True, hers had suffered as great an upheaval, but he had been saddled with a wife and responsibilities he’d never wanted, upsetting what had clearly been long-standing plans. She knew what it was to have one’s dreams thwarted, and she hated the idea that she’d done that to him.
He let out a disbelieving snort. “Don’t be a ninny, Justine. None of this is your fault. Well, charging to the rescue at The Golden Tie and revealing yourself was your fault, but I don’t hold that against you. You obviously weren’t thinking in a rational manner.”
“Thank you, I think.” She obviously didn’t agree with him, but there was no point in rehashing the subject. She also realized that he hadn’t answered her question. “So, you don’t mind spending time in the country?”
He sat down, stretching his booted legs to the fire and resting his glass on his flat stomach. “It’s not the most convenient time, given my business concerns, but, no, I don’t. I grew up in the country. I choose not to live there now, but a few weeks won’t kill me.”
Justine couldn’t help coming to alert. Finally, an opening into his past. “You grew up in Yorkshire, did you not?”
He hesitated for a few seconds, and she feared he wouldn’t answer.
“Yes,” he finally said, almost as if he doubted the truth of it. “In a windswept little village not far from South Kilvington.” He flashed a brief smile. “Not that you’ve ever heard of South Kilvington, I imagine.”
She put her untouched glass aside, propped her elbows on her knees, and rested her chin on her palms. “I haven’t, but it sounds rather lonely for a boy without much of a family. Who raised you?”
His voice sounded carefully dispassionate. “My mother’s uncle. My grandfather died a few months before I was born, and my mother was sent to live with Uncle Bartholomew until she delivered. And, as I told you before,” he added, a distasteful note creeping into his voice, “since my mother abandoned me at birth—”
“Yes, you did tell me,” she interrupted. Instinct told her that the best way to deal with Griffin in such matters was with as little fuss as possible. “So, once your mother left, it was just you and your great-uncle?”
He looked slightly disconcerted but shrugged it off. “Correct. And our housekeeper, of course. Mrs. Patterson was the closest thing I had to a mother, growing up. She took good care of me and whacked me when I misbehaved. Not the ideal situation, but it could have been worse.”
“I suppose it was a bit like my aunt Elizabeth,” Justine mused. “She was usually too busy with her radical friends to pay much attention to Matthew and me, but at least we had her to care for us. And she never whacked us, I’m happy to say.”
Griffin had been staring into the fire, but at that he turned his head to gaze at her. “Lucky you,” he said with a smile.
She thought about that for a moment. “Yes, I was lucky, because at least she loved me.” She mentally dodged the sense of melancholy threatening to take over the conversation. “And what did your uncle do? Was he a local squire, or a tradesman? I really know very little about that side of your family, which I believe is a lamentable state of affairs in a wife.”
Now she could see mischief glittering in his dark gaze. “He was a vicar.”
She slowly sat up straight, staring at him. “A vicar,” she repeated blankly.
He nodded.
“You were raised in a vicarage,” she said. She must sound like a simpleton, but she truly couldn’t believe it.
“Indeed,” he said, clearly enjoying her shock. “I was raised by a fire-and-brimstone, old-fashioned parson. Oddly, enough, Uncle Bartholomew was not a bad scholar, although he much preferred putting the fear of God into the Sunday congregation to studying Greek and Latin texts. My grandfather was the true intellectual and teacher in the family, and that was not something Uncle Bartholomew entirely approved of, particularly if one’s studies interfered with leading the flock.”
Justine felt a tickle in her throat. “How . . . how very interesting,” she said. “I must admit I’m still finding it a bit difficult to imagine you being raised by a country vicar.”
“You can imagine how I feel, then,” he replied with a wry grin. “The funny thing is, when I was a boy I wanted to be a minister. For quite a ridiculously long period of time, too.”
The tickling sensation moved down to her chest, then back into her throat. She swallowed, trying to keep it down, but a few strangled giggles escaped.
“It was the music, you see,” he said, obviously feeling he had to explain. “I thought something that beautiful couldn’t be all bad, even though Uncle Bartholomew and his sermons were immensely dreary. And I quite liked the Book of Common Prayer, too.”
Justine had just been managing to get herself under control but that last comment undid her, dissolving her into helpless laughter.
When Griffin’s eyes narrowed on her, she couldn’t help thinking that he did look rather stern and clerical, especially all dressed in black. Unfortunately, that thought did nothing to stem her hilarity.
“Really, Justine,” he said. “It’s not that amusing. You probably had all kinds of silly ideas when you were a child, too.”
“You’re right,” she said, pressing her fingertips to her damp eyes as she tried to contain herself. “It’s not that amusing.” But it was no good. The idea that Griffin, one of the most notorious men in London, grew up wanting to be a vicar was simply too absurd to contemplate. “It’s hilarious.”
This time, when she went off into whoops, he unleashed a reluctant, almost embarrassed grin. It was so charming and self-deprecating, and so unexpectedly vulnerable, that she wanted nothing more than to kiss him.
That alarming thought effectively curtailed much of
her amusement. She hiccupped a few times and then brought herself under control.
“I’m sure you would have made a fine vicar,” she said. “After all, you do look very handsome in black, and you can certainly be stern and frightening when you put your mind to it.”
“Thank you, I think,” he replied in mocking echo of her earlier remark.
Justine reached for her glass and took a sip of brandy. Then she put it down and smoothed her hands over her skirts. “How did you end up in London, then, so far from everything you knew?”
His smile faded and his gaze fell to brooding once more, latching on to some point above the mantel. “When I was fourteen, my uncle died. After that, there was nothing to keep me in Yorkshire.”
She waited for several moments, sensing that he had more to say. But he didn’t say a word, his profile a grim line in the dancing glow of the firelight.
“You must have missed him,” she finally ventured.
A dark laugh greeted that observation. “Hardly, love. My uncle was a coldhearted prig if there ever was one. Never spared the rod nor spoiled the child, as far as I was concerned. He was afraid I would go the evil way of my parents and was determined to prevent such a horrific fate by any means, fair or foul.”
He turned his head to look at her, and her chest pulled tight to see the pain lurking behind his cynical reprobate’s gaze.
“Oh, the irony of that,” he finished in a voice no less sardonic for its quiet tones.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know.”
She wanted to kick herself for letting her curiosity get the better of her, broaching topics so clearly painful to him. But what had she expected? His life was complicated. He was complicated, and often difficult and dangerous to deal with. Could such a man truly have been the product of a loving and peaceful childhood? She should have known it unlikely.
He drained his glass before answering her. “Don’t be sorry. He took me in when no one else would. He made sure I was properly fed, clothed, kept safe, and given a sound education. If he didn’t love me, well, God knows I didn’t love him, either.”
Justine’s heart ached for the little, unloved boy he’d been, abandoned by those who should have cherished him. She realized in that moment how truly lucky she was. Despite her unconventional and often chaotic life, she’d been loved. Without question and without regret. Griffin had been denied that gift and it had clearly left its mark on him, one that she was beginning to doubt could ever be erased.
No wonder he wanted to leave England, and with it all the heartbreak he’d known.
Griffin set his glass down with a click. “Not quite the fairy tale you were imagining, I suppose,” he said.
The thin scar on his face, touched by the light of the fire, stood pale against his tanned skin, like a silent symbol of all the ills he’d suffered over the years. She couldn’t help wondering what evil event had left that mark on him.
There was so much she wished to know about him, but she’d run out of energy to probe any further, at least for tonight. Nor would he tell her more, she suspected. She’d pried a good deal more out of him than she’d anticipated, and for now it was enough.
“Life never is,” she replied as she rose.
For once, he didn’t rise with her. His attention seemed once more on the leaping flames in the grate.
“I’ll bid you good night, sir,” Justine finally said.
When he didn’t answer, she slipped quietly from the room.
Chapter Eighteen
Griffin scowled at the London journal, then pushed aside his half-eaten breakfast. He was thoroughly dissatisfied with himself to the point where he’d almost lost his appetite, and he never lost his appetite. Too many months spent half starving on the streets of London had made sure of that.
Nor did he ever question himself. But in the last few weeks he’d found himself doing it, to the point where he was beginning to doubt the decisions he’d made about his future. It wasn’t a feeling he relished.
He knew who to blame for it, too—Justine, his sweet, managing little wife.
Even thinking about her in those terms still astonished him. Thinking about her astonished him, primarily due to the strength of his emotional reaction whenever she came near. Griffin had never wanted a wife, had never wanted the responsibility, had never wanted to be tied down. And some part of him still balked at marriage, resentful at the unexpected turn of events that had led to his leg-shackling.
But an even bigger part of him had accepted the situation with apparent good cheer. On a daily basis, he found himself having to resist the impulse to spend more and more time with her, trailing behind her like some damned puppy waiting for her notice. If anyone were to guess that state of affairs he’d be a laughingstock—Griffin Steele, one of the most feared men in London, led around like a ridiculous lapdog by his pretty wife.
She’d certainly led him around by the nose last night, prying secrets and reminiscences out of him that he’d never shared with anyone. But Justine possessed a rare talent for truly listening to a person, evincing a sympathetic interest in whatever a man had to say. And if Griffin didn’t miss his guess, she was genuinely fascinated by him, a state of affairs he found more pleasing than not. He’d been happy to indulge her up to a point, and could even appreciate her laughter when he’d revealed his absurd childhood dream of becoming a man of the cloth. Hell, she’d even made him see the humor in it, something that had eluded him before.
Whenever Griffin thought about his childhood, it made him squirm deep inside. He’d been a foolish, needy child, wishing for things he couldn’t have and too sensitive for his own good. His uncle had beaten much of that out of him, and London had done the rest. But for a few moments, through Justine’s eyes, he’d seen his past in a different light. That had everything to do with her and nothing to do with him. For a woman who thought she wanted nothing more than a dull, conventional life, she was remarkably accepting of the flaws and sins of others. No wonder he found it so easy to open up to her. She was the kindest person he’d ever met, with a generous and open spirit.
But that kindness and generosity had led him down paths he had no wish to explore, opening up memories best left buried. He’d recognized the danger almost too late. No matter how much he liked her and wanted to be with her, he couldn’t afford to let her infiltrate his defenses and strip him of his secrets. Secrets revealed made a man vulnerable, and Griffin had no intention of making himself vulnerable to anyone, not even Justine.
Especially not Justine. She might be his wife—and Griffin had every intention of taking advantage of the benefits that went along with the burden—but he could never allow her to control him. For too many years, he had fought to free himself from the chains imposed on him by others. He wanted Justine, and he would take care of her for the rest of her life, but she could never be allowed to trap him or knock him off his chosen course. He would be the master of his own fate, and hers, too. As far as Griffin could see, that was the best and easiest way all around.
Justine would naturally be resistant to that state of affairs but, fortunately, her fascination with him—which he was convinced was primarily of a physical nature—could work to his advantage. As he saw it, getting her into bed was the first step to getting her under control. Once he’d accomplished that, the rest should follow.
Just as the long-case clock out in the hall chimed ten o’clock, the door to the breakfast parlor opened and Phelps entered with a carafe of coffee. After pouring Griffin a fresh cup, Phelps drifted around the pleasant, oak-paneled room, straightening the silverware on the sideboard, brushing away some imaginary crumbs from beneath the toast tray, and twitching aside the curtains another inch to let in what little light there was from the gloomy, overcast sky.
Griffin recognized that behavior. Phelps had deduced he was out of sorts, and had decided Griffin needed a little extra attention.
“Phelps, do stop fussing,” he growled. “I’m absolutely fine, I assure you. Why don
’t you go bother somebody else, like your new mistress?”
His factotum adopted the look of wounded dignity he always assumed when Griffin tried to push him away. “Now, Mr. Griffin, there’s no call to be snappish. I know how you gets when you’re feeling like things are at sixes and sevens, but there’s no need to fret. I’m sure Sir Dominic will have things set right in a trice.”
Griffin rolled his eyes but managed to hold his tongue. There was no point berating Phelps for acting like such an old hen. He and Mrs. Phelps had been fussing over him for years as if he was one of their children.
And now that he thought about it, in light of last night’s discussion with Justine, he realized they’d been more like parents to him than anyone else in his life. If it hadn’t been for them, he’d have starved to death on the London streets. From the beginning, they’d treated him with a kindness that had eventually grown into a fierce devotion. And they weren’t the only ones who held him in such high regard—their daughter, Clara, and her husband, Joshua, were equally loyal to him, as were Deacon and Madeline. In a way, all those people were his family and if that notion didn’t stand him on his head, he didn’t know what would. Griffin wasn’t used to thinking in such mawkish terms, and he knew who was to blame for that, too.
“Where is Mrs. Steele, by the way?” Griffin said abruptly. “It’s rather late for her to still be abed.”
Phelps paused in stacking the crockery into a neat tower on the sideboard. “The missus had her breakfast before eight o’clock, and then went to speak with Cook about a poultice for the baby.” Phelps’ brow creased into deep grooves, making him look rather like a basset hound. “She thinks the little one might be coming down with a cold.”
“That’s certainly a lamentable turn of events,” Griffin commented. “I suppose I should hunt her down and see if she needs anything from the village.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Justine said, coming through the door with a smile on her pretty face. She wore a dark green riding habit that served as a perfect contrast to her burnished red hair, and she was pulling on a pair of serviceable gloves. A neat little hat sat on her gleaming curls, a welcome change from the awful caps she sometimes still insisted on wearing.
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