Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom

CHAPTER Eleven



Rose grimaced at Justine. “Lord, miss, don’t wind your hair into that ugly knot. It makes your face go all tight, as if you have the headache.”

Justine did have a headache, but she still gave the braid at the back of her neck another twist and shoved some pins through it. “No one will see it, since I’ll be wearing a cap.”

Patience, the girl she’d helped rescue the other day in the brothel, let loose a dramatic gasp. “You can’t be wearing a cap on your wedding day, Miss Justine. You’ll look a fright.”

Justine acknowledged that unpleasant truth as she eyed her reflection in the dressing table’s glass. With the dark smudges under her eyes, her pallid complexion, and the taut lines of her mouth and jaw, she was as far from the image of a happy bride as one could imagine. She hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep since stepping foot into Griffin Steele’s benighted house, and now it was to become her home for the foreseeable future—if, that is, her legal lord and master didn’t drag her along with him on his wanderings or deposit her somewhere outside of London. Although at this very moment, the idea of retreating to some isolated bolt hole in the countryside was vastly appealing.

“What does it matter what my hair looks like?” she grumbled. “I’ll just keep my bonnet on.”

Rose and Patience exchanged a knowing glance that made Justine grind her teeth. They obviously thought she was nervous about her impending nuptials. She was, but not for the reasons they likely imagined—although she had been doing her best to ignore the kiss she and Griffin had shared last night. That had stemmed from a ridiculous lapse in judgment, a momentary weakness she wouldn’t allow to happen again.

More pressing than any confusion over her emotional response to her future husband was what loomed before her. For today meant the end of the life she’d carved out for herself with diligent, careful steps. It meant she would once more be at the mercy of a charming but reckless man who thought nothing of the chaos he created in his wake. Like her father, Griffin would keep her at sixes and sevens with all kinds of odd, even scandalous, behavior that she would be expected to manage and whitewash, imposing order where very little existed. The idea of returning to a life of such uncertainty churned her stomach.

At least in her father’s case, Justine knew how much he had loved his children. And as much as she had resented the way Papa had lived his life, he’d been doing something important—something for the greater good that he believed merited the sacrifices imposed on himself and his family. But no one would ever accuse Griffin Steele of sacrificing himself for the common good or putting his needs before others. He was a dangerous, hardened rake and reprobate who’d earned his fortune in a way that should disgust any respectable person.

And into the hands of such a man was Justine forced to entrust her fate. It still seemed utterly impossible.

“Here, miss,” Rose said in a coaxing voice as she picked up the new brush she’d placed carefully on the dressing table. “Let me do it for you. You’ve got such lovely hair. It would be a shame to cover it up, especially today.”

Sighing, Justine capitulated, too tired to fight over something of no consequence. In fact, as Rose undid the braid, letting the heavy masses of hair fall around Justine’s shoulders, she could barely hold back a pleasurable little moan at the release of tension on her scalp. Like the idiot she was, she’d been punishing herself by pulling her hair back so tightly, jabbing pins into it as if her very life depended on them. Somehow it had seemed important to look exactly as she always did, day in day out, despite the momentous change this day would bring.

As Rose smoothed the brush through her hair, Justine fiddled with the hand mirror on her dressing table. It was part of the ornate enamel and bronze vanity set Phelps had delivered first thing this morning, a wedding present from the bridegroom. She’d been shocked to receive the expensive gift—any gift at all, for that matter—but Phelps had thrust the box into her hands and retreated down the hall before she’d been able to utter a word.

Enraptured, Rose and Patience had exclaimed their delight over the beautiful gilding and the exquisite, delicate portraits of Mrs. Siddons and other great actresses of the British theater that ornamented the backs of two hairbrushes, a hand mirror, a dress brush, and a nail buffer. The set was colorful, expensive, and entirely frivolous, and not something Justine would ever think to buy for herself—even if she’d been able to afford it. And although she could appreciate the beauty of the pieces, they seemed so out of keeping with the situation that she hadn’t known how to react.

Her first impulse had been to reject the gift, but Rose and Patience had shrieked, telling her she couldn’t possibly offend Mr. Griffin. Justine reluctantly saw the sense in that. Since she and her future husband had to pull in harness, there was no point in starting off on a rude footing. And Griffin’s note had reassured her somewhat. Written in a sardonic, light tone, he had simply said that a bridegroom was expected to give his bride a gift, no matter how awkward the circumstances, and he hoped Justine would find the small token both charming and useful, which is how he thought of her.

That had made her smile, which was a miracle, all things considered. Despite her worries that she was marrying a man whose values differed so greatly from her own, she had to admit that Griffin treated her kindly and was making as great a sacrifice as she to preserve her reputation. Thinking of it in that light, she’d decided it would be churlish and mean-spirited to return his gift, no matter how ill-suited it might be to her tastes. He clearly didn’t understand the first thing about her, but she couldn’t fault him for the well-intended gesture.

“I’ve never understood why people say they don’t like red hair,” Patience said after she’d peeped into Rose’s room to check on the sleeping babies. “I’d kill to have it. There’s many a gentleman who’ll pay extra for a girl with red hair, especially if it’s natural.”

“Really?” Justine asked, finding that hard to believe. “Why?”

“They think if a girl has a red—”


“That’s enough of that,” Rose interjected in a sharp voice. “Miss Justine doesn’t need you blathering on about such nastiness.”

“There’s nothing nasty about it if a gent knows what he’s doing down there,” Patience retorted. “In fact, it’s the nicest thing about the whole bloody lot, if you ask me, and don’t happen often enough.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Justine broke in when it looked like the two women were going to fall into an argument. She wasn’t entirely sure what Patience was talking about, but she was quite sure she didn’t want to discuss it, especially with two women who knew everything there was to know about sexual congress. What little Justine knew about the duties of the marriage bed could probably be contained on the back of a calling card. As irrational as it was, she had no desire to expose her ignorance, especially to the experienced Rose and Patience.

“There,” Rose finally said, admiring her handiwork. “You look as pretty as a picture, you do.”

Pretty was not a word Justine often heard, but Rose had done a lovely job with her hair. She’d pulled the mass into a loose, full knot on top of her head, with a few soft ringlets curling down the sides of her face and the back of her neck. It made her features seem less strained and angular. Justine thought it made her look younger, too, and somehow more vulnerable. She wasn’t sure she liked that last bit, but she had to admit it was how she felt at the moment.

She smiled at Rose’s reflection in the mirror. “It’s lovely, Rose. Thank you.”

“Psh, it’s nothing,” Rose replied. “But it needs a little something else, too.”

She fished in the pockets of her plain round gown and extracted a few delicate pins topped with dainty flowers made out of silk. “Here, these will finish it off nicely,” she said as she carefully placed the pins in the top knot.

When Justine started to protest that the decorations were unnecessary, Rose bluntly cut her off. “These are my very own, that my man gave me,” she said. “I want you to wear them today so you’ll feel special. Everything’s been done in so harum-scarum a fashion that we don’t have time to do things up proper for you. And Lord knows you deserve special today.”

On a sudden surge of gratitude and affection, Justine slid around in her seat and took Rose’s hand, pressing it briefly to her cheek. “Thank you, Rose. You’ve been a true friend, and I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“Here, now,” Rose scoffed in a gruff little voice, “no need to turn into a watering pot on account of a few pins. But you’re an out and outer, Miss Justine, and I don’t mind saying so. Most fine ladies wouldn’t give the likes of Patience and me the time of day. Mr. Griffin is a lucky man to be marrying such a fine woman like you.”

“I doubt he thinks himself very lucky,” Justine said with a sigh. “Nor do I feel particularly like a bride. But I do appreciate the effort you’ve made to make me more presentable.”

Such preparations, though, made her even more nervous, as if she were about to enter into a real relationship and not some hastily arranged marriage of convenience.

“That’s the spirit,” said Patience in an encouraging voice. “After all, you don’t want to be disappointing Mr. Griffin, now, do you, miss? He’ll be wanting a pretty young lady coming to his bed tonight, not a spinsterish old tabby.”

At that unfortunate choice of words, Rose rounded on Patience and began to berate her.

“No, really, it’s fine,” Justine said, coming to her feet. She flapped her hands, cutting Rose off in midscold. “Everything is fine. You’re correct, Patience. I am a spinster, but I think you’ve both misunderstood the situation. My marriage to Mr. Steele is more in the nature of a . . . business arrangement, for lack of a better word. Nothing more.”

At the startled glance the two women exchanged, Justine clamped her lips together, feeling her cheeks heat up with a flush. Logically, she knew she didn’t have to explain the nature of her relationship with Griffin, but she couldn’t bear the idea of anyone misunderstanding.

“Really?” Patience asked doubtfully. “That don’t sound like Mr. Griffin. He’s always been one for the ladies, and the ladies for him.”

Justine’s blood congealed in an odd combination of jealousy and disappointment. “Are you saying,” she said carefully, “that Mr. Steele is, ah, intimate with his girls?”

She hadn’t thought so, and Griffin had never given any indication that he availed himself of the services of his own bawdy house. But perhaps she was being na?ve.

And stupid to care about it, one way or the other.

Rose scowled at Patience before giving Justine a reassuring smile. “Oh, no, not a bit, miss. Mr. Griffin would never do something so havey-cavey. He has more respect for us than that.”

“You’re right, but you must admit he has quite the reputation,” Patience mused. “Not that he’s anywhere near as bad as his father or any of his uncles.” She rolled her eyes. “Lord, that lot will populate half of London with their bastards before they’re under the dirt.”

“That’s true,” Rose said judiciously. “Whatever his reputation might be—and I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve some of it—Mr. Griffin doesn’t have a patch on his uncles, so no need to worry on that score.”

Puzzled, Justine sank down on the dressing table chair, staring up at the two women. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. I know nothing about Mr. Steele’s uncles or his father. What does their behavior have to do with anything?”

With an internal jolt, Justine realized how little she knew about the man she was about to marry. Aside from the few facts Dominic had revealed on the day of her arrival, she knew nothing about Griffin’s family or his personal history.

Patience’s bright blue eyes went round as marbles. “Lord, you mean you don’t know? Well, you’re in for a shock, miss, and that’s the truth.”

Rose jabbed Patience in the ribs. “If Mr. Griffin didn’t feel fit to tell her, then she don’t need to know, do she? And you can just take yourself off now, since Miss Justine is ready. There’s no need to be standing around telling silly stories about things that don’t concern you.” She hurried over to the bed and started to fold up Justine’s night rail and wrapper, clearly wanting to end the discussion.

Patience cast Rose a puzzled glance, but then nodded and started for the door.

“Wait,” Justine said, now even more curious than before. “Please tell me what you were about to say.”

Patience rolled a worried eye at Rose, who stopped her fussing and studied Justine with a cautious air. With a sense of foreboding straight out of a melodrama, Justine felt prickles of warning dance up her spine.

“If you don’t tell me,” she said, slowly rising to her feet, “I’ll ask Mr. Steele myself.”

A wary exchange of glances between the two women did nothing to calm the accelerated beat of Justine’s heart.

“Do you want me to tell her?” Patience finally asked Rose.

Rose grimaced and carefully set the clothing back on the bed. Clasping her hands in front of her, she came slowly to face Justine.


“Just tell me,” Justine said quietly.

“Oh, miss, it ain’t so bad as that,” Rose exclaimed, giving her a bracing smile. “I’m just not sure if it’s our place to tell.”

Justine grimaced. “Truly, whatever it is, I’d much rather hear it from you.”

Patience eyed her, and then sighed. “Well, Mr. Griffin’s father . . . he’s the Duke of Cumberland.”

Justine’s knees went slack and she thumped down in her seat. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn’t that.

“Cumberland?” she asked faintly.

“Yes, the royal duke,” Rose said carefully.

“And Prinny is Mr. Griffin’s uncle,” Patience added. Clearly deciding it was no longer necessary to leave, she plopped down on the bed, her face shining with the joy of imparting such spectacular news. “It’s ever so exciting, miss. Just think—Prinny himself will be your uncle by marriage.”

“On the wrong side of the blanket,” Rose said drily. “And it’s not like he and Mr. Griffin are bosom bows, especially since Prinny owes him so much money.”

“The Prince Regent owes Mr. Steele money?” Justine echoed. Her reeling mind, for some bizarre reason, latched on to that detail. Perhaps the other news was simply too stupendous to fathom.

Rose nodded eagerly, her inhibitions regarding sharing gossip about her employer seeming to vanish. “Lord, yes. He’s in deep to Mr. Griffin. He used to play at all Mr. Griffin’s clubs before they were sold. So did the Duke of Kent.” She flashed a sudden grin. “And Clarence and York too, for that matter. The lot of them didn’t much like the money they lost to a bastard nephew, but sometimes Mr. Griffin was the only one who would take their vowels. He used to joke that he enjoyed helping his family.”

Justine forced the next question past her cold lips. “And what of the Duke of Cumberland?”

Now that she’d had a few moments to absorb the news, she couldn’t prevent her ire from rising. At some point, either Griffin or Dominic should have mentioned this pertinent piece of information. Not that it would have made a whit of difference to the outcome of events, but the fact that they hadn’t bothered made her feel . . . diminished, for lack of a better word. Had it never occurred to either of them that she would want to know?

Rose looked a little grim. “Mr. Griffin doesn’t speak to his father, Miss Justine, and the duke doesn’t acknowledge him, as far as I know. Cumberland’s a right coldhearted sod, by all accounts. I’ve heard Mr. Griffin say so myself. He wants no truck with him.”

While she’d been speaking, Madeline Reeves had quietly opened the door and entered the room. From the look on her handsome face, she didn’t approve of the current discussion.

“And I would suggest that you have no truck with this topic,” Mrs. Reeves said in a reproving voice. “You know how Mr. Griffin feels about it.”

She placed the long drape of fabric she carried onto Justine’s bed before turning to speak sharply to Patience. “You’ve given Miss Justine more than enough help, my girl. Be off with you now.”

Patience gave Mrs. Reeves a pert sniff before sketching Justine a brief curtsy. “I’m sure I wish you much happiness on your wedding day, miss, and even more on your wedding night.” With a wicked little chuckle, she scurried out of the room.

Mrs. Reeves propped her hands on her hips and scowled at Rose. “I’m surprised at you, telling such Banbury tales. You know how Griffin feels about them.”

“They’re not lies, Mad, and Miss Justine has a right to know the truth,” Rose said rather defiantly.

“Perhaps, but it’s not up to us to make that decision,” Mrs. Reeves responded. “It’s up to Griffin. Speaking of which, he’s waiting downstairs for Miss Justine. I’ll finish up in here and take her down.”

Rose let out a disgruntled snort at being summarily dismissed, then gave Justine a swift embrace. “Good luck, miss. And if you want to talk about anything before tonight, you just find me later.”

She gave Justine a roguish wink, leaving no doubt as to what anything meant.

“I will,” Justine replied. She and Griffin would not be sleeping together, but she couldn’t fault Rose for wanting to help.

“I’m sorry if you found their gossip disturbing,” Mrs. Reeves said after Rose left the room. “I would disregard it if I were you.”

Justine couldn’t help giving her an incredulous glance as she retrieved her gloves and reticule from the dresser. “That would be difficult, under the circumstances. And I suppose I should be grateful that they did tell me, since Mr. Steele apparently didn’t think it necessary.”

Mrs. Reeves hesitated. “He doesn’t like to talk about it, you see,” she finally said. “Not with anybody. Most days, he tries very hard to forget exactly who his father is.”

Justine frowned. Although she could understand that one would have mixed feelings about such a parentage, it didn’t seem the worst of fates. The Duke of Clarence, for instance, was reputed to be very close to his children by Mrs. Jordan, and society in general was quite tolerant of any illegitimate offspring of the royal family. Some had even gone on to marry into the best families in the land.

But if that was the case, why was Griffin apparently such an outcast?

“Why won’t he speak of it?” she asked.

“Because he hates the Duke of Cumberland. He always has and I imagine he always will,” replied Mrs. Reeves. “And if I may give you a bit of advice, my dear, I would suggest you let the matter drop. Griffin rarely shows his anger, but that particular subject never fails to annoy him.”

While Justine digested that blunt warning, Mrs. Reeves deftly switched topics. “Now, enough of that dreary conversation,” she said with a smile. “I’ve brought you something lovely to wear.” She picked up the cloth she’d deposited on the bed, which turned out to be a hooded velvet cloak in a rich shade of hunter green. She held it up, displaying the white silk lining that gleamed in the light of the lamps.

“Griffin has forbidden you to wear your mustard color pelisse, especially on your wedding day,” Mrs. Reeves said with a smile. “So I’m lending you one of my cloaks. The color is perfect for you.”

Justine reached out a hand and stroked the beautifully soft material, her emotions wavering. It really shouldn’t matter what she wore today, and her pelisse was both warm and serviceable. Still, she had no desire to look like a complete dowd, even if her marriage was a little more than a fraud.

But then she remembered how annoyed she was with Griffin for hoarding so many secrets. “No, thank you,” she said firmly. “My pelisse will do just fine.”

Mrs. Reeves’ gracefully shaped eyebrows marched up her forehead. “My dear Miss Brightmore, I do realize the circumstances of your marriage are rather awkward, and they undoubtedly give you some misgivings. There is, however, no need to face your wedding day looking like an ape leader.”

Justine winced. To Mrs. Reeves, a tall, generously shaped woman who always dressed in the height of style, she supposed she looked little better than a frump. But Justine hadn’t exactly been expecting to get engaged one day and married the next.

“Not that your dress isn’t perfectly acceptable,” the older woman added hastily, “but I do think the cloak will be much more flattering than your pelisse.”


Justine cast a glance down at her dress. It was her best one—a kerseymere gown in a soft gray trimmed with a bit of lace. It was warm and, she thought, gave her short, plump figure a more attractive line. But Mrs. Reeves, it would appear, did not agree.

“Come,” said the other woman in a coaxing voice, “just try it on.”

She swirled the cloak around Justine, tying it shut at the throat. After arranging the hood in a soft fall around Justine’s shoulders, Mrs. Reeves gently turned her to the pier glass.

“See,” she said. “You look lovely in this color.”

Justine stared at her reflection, surprised to conclude that she did look rather pretty, even to her own critical eye. Her cheeks were faintly flushed and her hair seemed to gleam with fire against the rich color of her cloak. And her eyes were big, startlingly blue, and softened by fatigue.

From somewhere deep inside came the errant wish that Griffin would find her pretty, too.

Mrs. Reeves gave Justine’s shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry, my dear,” she said, as if reading her mind. “I’ve seen how Griffin looks at you. Everything is going to be fine.”

“That’s what I always say,” Justine whispered.

Only this time, she didn’t believe it.