Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom

CHAPTER Fifteen



As Griffin’s mouth descended to hers, Justine vaguely noted how odd it was to be spitting mad at a person one minute and in the next be ready to forgive him all sorts of things. But when Griffin had explained his behavior during dinner, it made sense. His seductive manner was clearly so much a part of him, coming to him as easily as he took in breath. For all she knew, it was completely unconscious, an instinctive response to the enthusiastic female attention he attracted the minute he stepped foot into a room. She might as well tell the tides to cease rising as to expect him to react contrary to his nature.


When his hand dipped under the lace of her bodice, she started to tremble. Her cautious nature struggled to reassert itself over her rising excitement, and she instinctively grasped his wrist to hold him still.

His head come up. Her heart skipped a beat at the hard, hungry glitter of his gaze and the taut cast to his features.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked.

“Um, I don’t really know,” she stammered, sounding like a dimwit. She truly didn’t. A war was going on inside her, between her head and . . . well, she wasn’t sure it was her heart, but it was certainly her body. She’d never felt so reckless. Always, she’d been the opposite of reckless, or at least had been until she met Griffin. But she wanted this, wanted him so much that it almost frightened her.

Almost.

“You have to be sure, Justine,” he said. “I cannot make this decision for you.”

“I know,” she replied in a breathless voice. And even though he’d stopped kissing her, he still held her in an encompassing embrace. Nor had his hand come up from under the trim of her bodice. In fact, his fingers continued to play absently with her, lightly stroking and sending shivers through her body, even as his attention remained on her face.

“The trouble is,” she said in a rush of candor, “that I don’t want you to stop. I know it’s perfectly demented, but I want this. Is that stupid of me?”

His hard mouth curved into a rueful smile. “Probably, but why don’t we be stupid together, at least for tonight?”

She searched his face in the uncertain light, trying to deduce what lay behind the cool, handsome features. He’d pitched her off balance, and she couldn’t help wishing that some little part of him felt the same. But in the shadows of the carriage it was difficult to tell. She couldn’t help worrying that she was making a tremendous mistake, allowing him to push her where she didn’t wish to go.

But he wasn’t pushing. He simply held her, his fingers barely moving on her, waiting for her decision. And, truthfully, the only place he clearly wanted to take her was exactly where she wanted to be. She’d given up hope long ago that any man would want her in this way. Given up hope that any man could make her feel this way . . . special enough to risk her heart.

But he did. Griffin Steele, the rake and reprobate who’d treated her with more genuine kindness and consideration than any man she’d ever known.

She was tired of holding back. For once, she wanted to throw her caution aside and face the consequences later.

“I do want this,” she said, smiling up at him. “I want it more than anything.”

His eyelids shuttered for a second, then opened on a dark gaze lit with passion. “Then you shall have it, Justine. Everything I have to give.”

He pressed his lips tenderly to her mouth for a long, aching moment that spun into a lovely forever. Then he moved, sweeping her into his lap. He barely broke the kiss as he did so, his wiry strength making light work of her weight.

“Goodness,” she managed. “That was—”

His mouth swallowed her words, drinking deep as he ravished her. Her cloak had floated outward as he’d plunked her down on his lap. Through her thin gown and chemise she felt the insistent press of his erection under her thighs. Between the wickedness of that tempting length and the return of his confident hand to her breast, Justine thought she just might keel over in a dead faint—if, that is, one could faint from such a wonderful rush of pleasure.

“God, Justine,” he murmured in a husky growl against her lips. “You’re such a sweet little baggage. I’ve been waiting for much too long to get my hands on you.”

She blinked at that. No one had ever called her a baggage before—in fact, she defined the opposite of the term. But for some ridiculous reason she found it tremendously flattering. She clapped her gloved hands on his lean cheeks, holding him still so she could kiss him back with all the eagerness swelling within her.

Griffin showed his approval by tightening his hold on her. His hand moved from her breast to settle on her thigh, his fingers clenching the fabric of her dress and pulling it up her legs in a silken slide. The cool air hit the skin of her thighs just as his gloved fingers did, sending sparks of sensation shuddering across her skin. She whimpered and wrapped her arms around his neck as his fingers began a teasing, circling glide up the inside of her thighs. His touch made her wriggle against him, restless with excitement, and—

The carriage jolted to a halt. Griffin jerked his head, muttering a curse as his arms tightened around her. Justine knew exactly how he felt. She’d been on the edge of something quite earth-shattering, but their arrival home returned them to reality with a thud.

Sighing, she tugged her bodice up to its proper position and started to slide off his lap. He resisted.

“There’s no need to rush, my sweet,” he said, his voice tight with frustration. “Joshua will wait until we’re ready.”

But a moment later, the carriage rocked as if someone had jumped down to the ground. They heard a rush of hurried voices outside and then Joshua, the coachman, banged on the door.

“You best come out, Mr. Griffin,” he barked. “There’s trouble.”

Griffin lifted Justine and deposited her so quickly on the padded bench that she barely had time to blink. He pulled her cape around her and flipped the hood up.

“Stay here,” he ordered. “Don’t move until someone comes for you.”

Her heart took a sickening jolt as she thought of Rose and the babies. “Griffin,” she gasped, grabbing his arm. “Stephen, and Rose’s little boy. They’re—”

He removed his arm from her clutch. “I’ll take care of it.”

When he opened the door, Justine caught a glimpse of Joshua standing by the carriage with a drawn pistol, his normally stolid expression grim. Griffin slammed the door shut behind him, sealing her in as he ordered Joshua to keep watch over the carriage. In the dim light of the lamps and with the muffled, hurried voices outside, the luxurious interior became suddenly sinister. Only moments ago, she’d been awash with pleasure, lost in a sensual daze in Griffin’s strong arms. But now she felt like she’d been dipped in a bath of ice water. She shivered from a combination of cold night air, nerves, and a pressing desire to take action. Obviously, something was very wrong, and Justine hated that her husband had locked her away like some shrinking, delicate flower. If Stephen was in danger, then Justine needed to be with him.

The baby was her responsibility now, but it was more than that. He’d come to recognize her, greeting her with sweet smiles and cooings whenever she walked into the room, always eager to come into her arms. The idea that something might have happened to him, and that she hadn’t been there to try to prevent it, made her chest ratchet tight.

Just as she was about to defy her husband’s orders and get down from the carriage, the door opened. Griffin stood there, holding out his hand to help her down. His features were arranged in a calm mask, but his dark gaze sparked with anger.

“What is it? Has someone been hurt?” she blurted out.

“No, everyone’s fine. I promise.” He waved her forward. “Come, Justine. You’ve been sitting in the cold long enough.”

She took his hand and let him guide her down to the pavement. She cast a glance up and down the street, but she saw only a small group of inebriated young men, loudly carousing as they stumbled their way in the direction of St. James. There was nothing unusual about that, especially at this time of night.


“Whatever is the matter?” she asked, peering past Griffin at Mr. Deacon standing in the doorway of the house, looking as harsh as a stone gargoyle. A gargoyle holding a pistol, that is.

“Inside first,” Griffin snapped out as he tugged her under the portico.

Justine cast him a startled look. She’d seen him when he was angry, she’d seen him at his most seductive, and she’d seen him adopt any number of negligent, sardonic poses. But she’d never seen him so obviously livid. His hand on her elbow gripped her almost to the point of pain as he shoved her into the hall, though she was certain he was unconscious of it. There was an urgency to his movements that signaled how clearly he wanted her safe indoors.

Only when the heavy oak door had slammed shut behind them did he loosen his hold on her arm. And in the light cast by the lamps in the hallway she could see how tight-lipped he was, the skin around his mouth white with anger.

“What has happened?” she asked again as she yanked off her cloak and thrust it at Phelps, who had silently appeared from behind Mr. Deacon’s bulky form.

“Armed men broke into the house,” Griffin replied as he shrugged out of his greatcoat.

Justine sucked in a shocked breath. “They dared to break into your house? They must have been mad!”

No one in London’s criminal underworld—no one in his right mind, at least—would dare to attack Griffin in so foolhardy a manner. There was much she didn’t know about her new husband’s history, but she knew that. How much of his reputation could be put down to rumor or truth was an open question. What was not at issue, however, was that Griffin protected his people, and that anyone who crossed him suffered swift retribution.

Justine glanced around the hall, finally taking in the disorder. The large pier glass by the door was cracked, as if someone had slammed into it, and the night porter’s chair was tipped sideways. The candlesticks on the narrow table against the wall had been knocked over, dripping wax along the polished mahogany surface to the floorboards.

“Who would do such a thing?” she asked in disbelief.

Griffin exchanged a hooded glance with Mr. Deacon. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I intend to find out.”

Justine’s instincts told her that he was withholding something from her. That same instinct counseled her to hold her fire, for the present.

“Where are Rose and the babies?” she asked.

“In the kitchen, Mrs. Steele,” Deacon answered.

Justine hurried down the hall and below stairs, practically running. Her heart thudding, she thrust open the door to the kitchen. When she saw Rose and Mrs. Phelps, each holding a baby, she sagged against the door frame with relief. “Is everyone all right?”

Rose, dressed in a blindingly green and purple striped dressing gown, rocked her little boy in her arms. Sammy’s eyes were big and round and he sucked his thumb for all it was worth. Mrs. Phelps, cradling little Stephen, got to her feet and came to Justine.

“Everything’s fine, missus,” she said in a soothing voice. “Don’t you worry none.” Carefully, she transferred Stephen to Justine.

The baby gazed up at her, his eyes red and his fat cheeks stained with tears. He was still snuffling and hiccupping, but he gave Justine a watery smile and grabbed for her curls as she transferred him to her shoulder.

“There, there, my love,” she crooned as she patted his bottom. “No one will hurt you, I promise.”

She bounced him gently in her arms as she studied the two women. Rose had clearly been ready for bed when the intruders had burst in, but Mrs. Phelps was still dressed in one of the neat, gray gowns and white aprons she wore every day.

“Tell me what happened,” Justine said in a quiet voice.

“Well, Miss Justine—I mean, Mrs. Steele,” Rose said, “we were havin’ a bit of a late night. Neither of the little ones wanted to sleep, so I thought I’d best bring them down to the kitchen for a bit and have a spot of tea with Mrs. Phelps.”

“Little Sammy has a tooth coming in,” explained Mrs. Phelps. “Makes him a bit fractious.”

“I didn’t want to leave Stephen up there by himself, not with you away from the house,” Rose said. “Thank God I brought him down.”

Justine’s legs suddenly felt weak. She sat down in the chair next to Rose. Behind her, the door swung open and a moment later Griffin came to stand silently behind her. He placed a hand on the back of her neck in a comforting, possessive gesture but remained silent.

“What did they want?” Justine asked.

Rose hoisted Sammy to her shoulder, patting him on the back. “Don’t know. They were bloody foreigners, and that’s a fact. I heard one of them yelling out in the hall and it weren’t no King’s English he was speaking, I can tell you.”

Justine glanced back at Griffin. “Was anyone able to make out what they were saying?”

He hesitated but when Justine scowled at him, he gave a slight shrug. “Dominic’s man said he thought they were speaking Italian, although he wasn’t entirely sure. He didn’t recognize the dialect.”

“What was one of Uncle Dominic’s men doing here, anyway?” she asked. “Was he looking for you?”

“No. He was keeping an eye on the house.”

It took Justine a few moments to digest that. When she did, her temper spiked. “And neither of you thought to tell me that? Clearly, Uncle Dominic suspected something like this might happen or he would not have placed a man on guard.”

She knew well how her godparent worked. He would only place a man to watch the house if he had concerns for the security of those inside. The fact that he had felt it necessary to do so, when Griffin already had a fair amount of protection, told her something about the nature of the threat.

“He didn’t want to worry you, and I agreed,” Griffin said. “You had enough on your mind already.”

“Thank you for making that decision on my behalf,” she groused.

He simply arched an arrogant eyebrow, making Justine want to kick him in the shins. But there was no point in ripping up at him now. She’d discuss the decision to treat her like a silly miss with him—and Dominic—at a more appropriate time.

“How did they manage to get into the house?” she asked. “How many were there?”

“Apparently they came by carriage,” Griffin said. “There were five of them but only one presented himself at the door, telling Phelps he had a message for me. When Phelps opened the door to let him in—and that man did speak English—the others came swarming out of the carriage. Fortunately, Deacon was working in my office and heard the commotion. Dominic’s man was also able to alert the porter on the door at The Golden Tie. Between the four of them, they were able to repulse the attack.”

“But what did they want?” Justine asked. “Were they trying to rob you?”

Griffin pressed his lips into a hard line, as if he didn’t want to answer.

“Tell me,” Justine demanded.

He grimaced with grudging capitulation. “They made no attempt to try for my office, where the safe is, nor did the man who got upstairs show any interest in my bedroom or belongings.”

Already dreading the answer, Justine cradled the now-sleeping baby more closely against her shoulder. “Where did he go?”


“To my room, miss,” said Rose in a grim voice. “And he tossed it right proper, too. He was looking for something, all right. Although what he hoped to find in a baby’s cradle is a mystery to me.”

Horrified, Justine stared into Griffin’s implacable, knowing gaze. She could barely force the words past her lips. “He was looking for the baby. And for the ring.”