Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom

by Vanessa Kelly

  As soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted to shovel them back in. But she forced herself to meet his gaze, even though she felt horribly vulnerable.

  Griffin placed his bread down on his side plate. Justine had the distinct impression he was thinking through his response. She found herself holding her breath as she waited for him to speak.

  “No, it meant something to me, as well,” he said. A faint, wry smile twisted his lips. “Not that I’m able to put it into words, at least not yet. But that should tell you something about how much you’ve discomposed me.”

  “Really?” she whispered as a fugitive whispering of hope stirred in her breast.

  He cocked his head, studying her. “Could you not tell?”

  “I, yes, I think so,” she stammered. “I hoped so, anyway.”

  She fell silent, completely unprepared for this sort of conversation and terrified of revealing her rampant insecurities. No matter what Griffin might say in his attempts to soothe her ruffled nerves, she still couldn’t believe he would appreciate a full-throated declaration of love.

  Finally, he nodded. “I’m glad to hear it. Now, tell me about the baby. What worries you?”

  Justine breathed a mental sigh of relief at the change in topic, since she felt like she’d been caught in a thicket of brambles. She had much to worry about, particularly the man sitting across from her, but for now the baby’s needs must come first. Anything else at this point would be self-indulgent.

  “Stephen is worse than he was this morning,” she said. “Rose thinks it’s only a nasty head cold, but these sorts of fevers in babies can turn bad very quickly.”

  Griffin looked genuinely concerned. “Would you like me to send for a doctor?”

  “Is that possible? Is there someone who can be trusted, given our need to keep the baby hidden?”

  Griffin glanced at Phelps, who had soft-footed his way back into the room with a platter of ham and boiled potatoes.

  “Well, Phelps, what about it? Is there anyone who can be trusted?”

  “Aye,” the factotum replied, putting the platter down in front of his master. “Happens I already asked about that. Mrs. Moore—”

  He paused to roll his eyes at Griffin’s bemused expression. “She’s Sir Dominic’s cook and fairly well runs the house, as you would know if you troubled yourself to ask.” When Griffin simply grinned at him, Phelps carried on in a long-suffering manner. “Mrs. Moore says there’s a good surgeon in Horsham that’s to be relied upon. Sir Dominic has used him in the past.”

  “Thank heavens,” Justine said, starting to rise. “I’d better speak to Rose and see what she thinks. I know I’d feel better if we had someone look at the poor darling.”

  “Please sit down and finish your dinner,” Griffin said. “Phelps can discuss the situation with Rose.”

  “But—”

  “Sit down, Justine,” he said in a voice that brooked no opposition. “It is entirely unnecessary for you to run around like one of the servants. You need to eat and you need proper rest, otherwise you’ll fall ill yourself.”

  Before she could utter a word of protest, Griffin flicked a glance at Phelps, who nodded and scuttled out of the room.

  “I am entirely capable of dealing with the situation,” Justine said indignantly. “There is absolutely no need for you to order me around.”

  “Apparently there is,” he said as he served her a slice of ham.

  When she put her fork down and crossed her arms over her chest, Griffin sighed. “Justine, it’s time you stopped acting like a nursemaid. You’re my wife, and you must learn to conduct yourself as such.”

  To her mind, that instruction raised a number of questions. It also brought her anxiety about their changed relationship roaring back full force.

  “But I don’t even know what that means,” she blurted. “Or how to do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Be your wife.”

  It took only a moment for the wicked gleam to appear in his dark eyes. “You made a very good start of it this afternoon.”

  “I’m serious, Griffin,” she said. “I don’t have the faintest idea what we’re doing, or how we’re to go on. I asked you this afternoon what would happen now, and you couldn’t answer me.”

  He picked up one of his knives and started to fiddle with it, an uncharacteristic sign of hesitation. “I couldn’t answer you because I didn’t know the answer.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not comfortable with that kind of uncertainty.”

  “Very well,” he said, putting down his knife. “What, specifically, would you like to know?”

  She wanted to know so many things, but one question topped the list. “After this situation with Stephen is resolved—”

  Justine paused, struck by the realization that part of her didn’t wish for the situation to be resolved. With every day that passed, she hated the idea that Stephen’s care might soon pass from her to a stranger.

  “Yes?” Griffin prompted.

  Her father’s voice whispered in her head. One problem at a time, my girl. That’s how you’ll get on.

  “Once Stephen’s situation is resolved,” she continued firmly, “what are your immediate plans?”

  “My immediate plans are to conclude my business with Madeline and her partners, rent out the house on Jermyn Street, and arrange for my departure from England.”

  Justine’s stomach gave a nasty little flip. “Your departure?”

  Griffin hesitated, but then he gave her a smile that was more cautious than welcoming. “Our departure, if you agree to join me. I’d be very pleased if you’d travel abroad with me, Justine. Not only might you enjoy it, but I believe it to be the wisest course of action for you.”

  She frowned. “I’m not sure I follow.”

  His lips firmed and his nostrils flared a bit. It was a look Justine was beginning to recognize, and it signaled her husband was about to dig in his heels.

  “Despite my ability to set you up in a comfortable situation, either in town or in the country, you will be left without the protection of your husband,” he replied. “My name will only go so far in keeping you safe if I’m not here to see to your well-being.”

  “Why would I need protection?” She cut him off with the wave of a hand. “Yes, yes, I understand that less than honorable men will see me as a target ripe for seduction, particularly given the, er, irregular nature of our marriage. But surely you can’t believe I’d be susceptible to that sort of thing.”

  When he didn’t answer, her stomach dropped again. “Griffin, you cannot believe I’d be capable of such a thing,” she said, aghast. “I would never betray you.”

  A glimmer of a smile lightened his brooding expression. “I know. You are eminently trustworthy, my sweet, more than anyone I’ve ever known.”

  A great sense of relief allowed her to breathe again. “Thank you,” she said, shyly pleased by his compliment. “But then what could possibly concern you? I am not without friends and family, as you know. I can always rely on them for help in your absence.”

  Except I don’t want him to leave—ever.

  Justine did her best to ignore that useless wish.

  He was back to fidgeting with his knife again, and she began to get a very bad feeling. “Griffin, what is it?”

  He put down the fork and let out a sigh. “I’ve made enemies over the years, Justine. Powerful enemies. If I am not close by to protect you, any one of those men might decide to use you as a tool of retribution or revenge. Dominic might be able to keep you safe from some of them, but he cannot protect you like I can.”

  Justine could do nothing but stare at him. It seemed insane to be discussing such a thing in so domestic a setting. But for the first time, perhaps, she began to realize just what it meant to marry a man like Griffin Steele. How much she would be forced to give up, like her long-sought and cherished peace, and the quiet order of her days.

  He held her gaze, and she saw in the dark depths of his eyes a bl
eak cynicism. For a man who was not yet thirty, he suddenly looked considerably older.

  “Justine, I’ve had little cause to regret the choices I’ve made since coming to London. But what I do regret is the impact of those choices on your life, and the difficulties they cause you.” He scrubbed his hands over his face, as if he could scrub away some sort of pain. Then he rested his arms on the table and looked at her with a weary sort of resignation that cut through her like a blade.

  “It’s not your fault, at least when it comes to me,” she said. “After all, it’s not as if you wanted to marry me. And I know you did everything you could to protect me.” She tried for a wavering smile. “I’m sure everything will be fine. We simply need to think about it a bit more, that’s all.”

  Well, as long as Griffin’s enemies didn’t try to murder her, that is.

  “Perhaps we should talk to Uncle Dominic,” she said, hoping to quell the sick burn in her stomach. “He did promise to help, after all.”

  “You’re not Dominic’s responsibility,” Griffin said quietly. “You’re mine.”

  Justine knew that was wrong, too. She alone bore responsibility for her life, but there was no point in arguing with Griffin, a man whose very nature dictated protecting those he considered his own.

  Which, apparently, included her.

  “Where do you intend to travel?” she asked, trying to be practical about the discussion.

  His eyebrows ticked up at the question. “Italy and Greece, and probably Egypt. I’d also like to visit Constantinople and possibly farther east, as well. But I haven’t made any final decisions.”

  Justine had to admit she quite liked the idea of visiting Italy and Greece. But Egypt and the Byzantine Empire seemed much too exotic to her. If she were honest with herself, Griffin was much too exotic for her, too.

  “Might not some of those places be dangerous?”

  He lifted his broad shoulders in one of his insouciant shrugs. “Not for me and, by extension, not for you. You must know that I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

  She did trust him to do his best, but even Griffin couldn’t keep her safe from shipwrecks or marauding bandits. “And how long do you think you would be away? What are your plans for returning to England?”

  His dark gaze bore into her. “I have none, at least not for the immediate future.”

  She couldn’t think of any coherent reply, couldn’t do anything but stare at his impassive, handsome face. He was proposing the overthrow of the only life she’d ever known. She couldn’t decide which was the greater risk—to remain in England and possibly be a target for his enemies, or to toss away every shred of caution she’d ever possessed and follow her husband on a madcap journey into foreign lands.

  Griffin surprised her by coming swiftly around the table and going down on one knee beside her. Gently, he took her hand and silently urged her to face him.

  “Come run away with me, my sweet Justine,” he said in a husky and surprisingly emotional voice.

  He stroked her cheek, and she had to resist the fierce impulse to nuzzle into his hand. Whenever he touched her with such tenderness, her resistance melted away like a snowcap on a warm spring day.

  “We wouldn’t have to answer to anyone but ourselves, or think of anyone but ourselves,” he said, making it sound like a forbidden, tantalizing gift.

  He leaned forward and brushed a soft kiss on her mouth. Justine clutched at his shoulders, dizzy with nerves and a strange sort of excitement.

  “Think of all the adventures we could have, just the two of us,” he whispered against her lips.

  Adventures.

  That word brought her thudding down to earth. That’s what Papa had always called it when he had to go away on a mission—adventures. But his last adventure had killed him.

  Griffin must have sensed the change in her because he pulled back, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

  Before she could answer, the door opened and Phelps hurried into the room. Griffin cursed under his breath and stood.

  “What is it, Phelps?” he asked curtly.

  The factotum looked at Justine and grimaced. “The wee one ain’t doing so well. Rose says you’d better send for the doctor.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Justine walked through the connecting door from the nursery into her bedroom, quietly shutting the door. But Griffin wasn’t fooled. His pretty bride was spitting mad—the snap in her blue eyes and the flush in her cheeks told him that. When she saw him standing by the window, she marched up to him, looking ready to brawl.

  “Before you fire up at me,” he said, “I want you to sit down and have something to eat. Then you can rip at me to your heart’s desire.”

  She eyed him with a smoldering gaze before looking at the heavily laden tea tray Cook had rolled in on the occasional table. Justine had to be famished and exhausted. She’d barely slept the last two days as she tended to the sick baby, and she hadn’t eaten since early this morning. Since it was now going on six o’clock in the evening, it was a wonder she hadn’t keeled over in a dead faint.

  He steered her to the armchair he’d pulled up to the table. “You know that Cook is entirely capable of helping Rose until the surgeon arrives.”

  “So she just informed me when she threw me out of the room,” Justine groused. “It’s ridiculous. I’m absolutely fine.”

  She wasn’t fine. Despite the angry flush in her cheeks, she looked pale and heavy-eyed, her normally clear brow creased with worry. He knew she hated leaving the baby for even a second, and he’d been forced to call in the heavy artillery in the form of Mrs. Moore, Dominic’s formidable cook and a woman he’d come to appreciate these last few days. Moore and Phelps had kept the house running so Griffin could devote his attention to Justine and the baby.

  He hadn’t been able to do much, of course. He knew little of babies and sickrooms. But he’d done what he could to ease the burden on Justine by forcing her to eat and snatch a few hours of sleep when he could persuade her to do so. He’d only been able to do that by promising to assist Rose, with a promise to call Justine if necessary.

  He’d been little better than a lump of coal while he kept vigil with Rose, who cared for the baby with kindness and competence. And thank God for that, because it had wrung what little heart Griffin had left to see the poor mite too miserable to do more than whimper. Rose had assured him that Stephen would soon be “as right as rain,” but Justine’s worries were far from unreasonable. Small children and babies were particularly vulnerable to illness and fever, as Griffin’s grim experiences in the London stews had taught him.

  “There is nothing to be gained by your refusal to eat,” Griffin said to his wife. “You’ll fall ill yourself, and then the household will have another patient to care for.”

  She blew out an exasperated breath. “I hate it when you’re so reasonable.”

  “I’m always reasonable, love.” He pulled up a chair on the opposite side of the table. “Any change for the better?” he asked as he poured her a cup of tea.

  “Rose and I think he’s better, although I’m almost afraid to say it out loud.” She ladled some thick clotted cream on top of a scone. “I’m hoping the surgeon will be able to provide a more accurate assessment.”

  He gave her an encouraging smile. “That’s good news. And Mr. Langton said he would return to check on Stephen early this evening, so I’m sure we won’t have long to wait.”

  Her wavering attempt to smile back sliced through him like the sharpest of blades. It practically killed Griffin to see how she suffered, and it frustrated him to realize there was little he could do to relieve it. If he’d learned one discomforting fact from this crisis, it was that he would do whatever he could to make Justine’s life easier. What impact that knowledge would have on his future plans was something he wasn’t yet prepared to think about.

  They spoke little, and Griffin was content to watch her. She gave him a shy, grateful smile once or twice but kept her attention on her pla
te, clearly forcing herself to eat. When the small clock on the fireplace mantel rang out the hour, she glanced anxiously at the nursery door and came to her feet.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Griffin said. “Cook will stay with Rose until the surgeon arrives.”

  Justine propped her fists on her hips and scowled. “And what am I to do?”

  He rose and came to her, resting his hands on her shoulders. “You might try lying down for a bit.” He lowered his head and touched his nose to hers. “You must be dead on your feet.”

  She allowed herself to lean against him. “I am, but I’m too nervous to rest.”

  He urged her close, circling his arms around her back, relishing the way her sweet curves fit so perfectly against him. “What can I do to help?”

  “If you won’t let me back in there, then you can talk to me. That might distract me.”

  “Talk about what?”

  He felt a sudden spooling of tension in her body, and all his senses came to alert.

  She turned her face into his waistcoat, and the words came out muffled. “About you. About your past.”

  He automatically rejected the suggestion as he eased her away from him. “I never talk about that.”

  “Don’t shake your head at me, Griffin Steele,” she said. “I’m your wife. I have a right to know.”

  “I thought you wished to be wife in name only,” he said drily. “And yet now you want to claim your privileges?”

  She stood her ground, staring back at him with a challenge in her eyes. “I think we both know I’m your wife in more than just name, Griffin. It seems to me we have both claimed our privileges.”

  He couldn’t gainsay that, although he didn’t necessarily agree that she—or anyone—had the right to root around in his past.

  She sighed. “You have asked me more than once to trust you. Can you not learn to trust me? Just a little?”

  He didn’t respond. He’d spent too many years building high walls around his life, and they wouldn’t come down easily.

  “I’m not asking simply out of curiosity,” she said. “I’ve had a lot of time to think these last few days. About us, about our life together. What that will be like.”