Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom

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.


Griffin ran an appreciative eye over her curvaceous figure. “Good morning, my wife. I understand you were up and about at a ridiculously early hour. That is both an unnecessary and regrettable habit in a woman of your station.”

“Only to a man who runs brothels and gaming houses,” she retorted. “And, besides, we’re in the country. There’s no earthly reason to be sleeping in till all hours of the morning.”

Griffin could think of one very good reason, but he didn’t want to shock her. At least not with Phelps still lurking in the corners.

“You are dressed for riding,” he said. “I hope you’re not intending to leave the grounds.”

She shook her head. “No, but I understand from Uncle Dominic’s man, Parker, that there are a few good hackers in the stable. It’s been so long since I’ve been riding,” she said in a wistful voice. “I thought that I might go out for an hour or so while the baby is sleeping.”

Griffin strolled over to her, enjoying the clean, gentle scents of lemon and talc that seemed so much a part of her. “And how is your little charge? I understand he might have a cold.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Just the sniffles, I think, but I want to nip them in the bud. Cook put together a splendid little poultice for his chest. Rose thinks he’ll be fine, but she’ll stay with him until I get back.”

Griffin stroked her satiny cheek, enjoying the faint blush that tinted her skin. “My sweet, you’re not to wear yourself out looking after the baby. There are plenty of people here to help with that.”

“I know, but I like spending time with Stephen.” She gave him a wistful, almost sad smile. “My heart just aches for the poor, motherless thing. Who knows if he’ll ever see his parents, or feel his mother’s touch?”

Something cold rustled in Griffin’s belly. “That’s not the worst thing that could happen to him,” he said in a clipped voice. “And he’s got you and Rose to look after him, at least for now. There’s no need to worry on his account.”

Her eyes narrowed, and he could tell she was thinking about their conversation last night.

“Well, enjoy your ride,” he said, stepping back from her. “Just make sure you don’t stray off the estate. And take a groom with you.”

“The groom’s gone into town for supplies,” Phelps said. He’d stepped out of the room for a minute before returning with a stack of letters in his hand. “Won’t be back until after lunch.”

“Drat,” Justine muttered under her breath. Then she eyed Griffin. “Perhaps you could escort me. I’m sure you must be tired of being cooped up in the house.”

Griffin hesitated, but then shrugged. “I don’t ride.”

She looked blank for a second. “What do you mean? You have some of the best horses in London.”

That was true. Griffin’s were the best and he had the bills to prove it. “They’re for my carriages, not for riding.”

She frowned. “But why don’t you ride?”

He had to resist the temptation to shift from one foot to the other. “Because I never learned. My uncle thought it was a waste of time. A pony and trap was all a minister needed, according to him.”

Justine bit her lip, as if she were trying not to laugh. It was Griffin’s turn to narrow his gaze at her.

“Perhaps you’ll let me teach you to ride someday,” she said politely.

He wasn’t fooled. “Not today. And I don’t want you riding without a groom, either.” When she started to object, he held up a hand. “Justine, it’s not safe. If you wish, you may go for a walk within sight of the house. I’ll speak to the groom when he gets back and instruct him to make sure he is available to you from now on.”

She gave him an adorable little grimace. “I hate it when you’re so sensible. Very well, I’ll go for a walk through the gardens and around the house. That will give me a little exercise, at least.” She moved to the door and then stopped to look over her shoulder, giving him a hesitant smile. “Would you like to come with me?”

Griffin stared at her, tempted to say yes. But he’d revealed more than enough to her last night, and he suspected Justine would simply use the opportunity to pry more secrets from him. “I’m sorry, but I must attend to my correspondence. I’ll see you at lunch.”

She blinked, and he imagined for a second that she was hurt by his rejection. But a moment later she gave him a bland smile and a nod, and left the room.

Griffin ignored his insistent urge to follow her.





Two hours later, Griffin looked up from his correspondence. As far as he knew, Justine still hadn’t come back inside, and it had also started raining a few minutes ago. The cold, steady downpour would surely soak her to the skin. Did the blasted girl not have the sense to return to the house?

He pushed aside his papers and strode out into the hall. He was barely halfway across the tiled floor before Phelps appeared from the back of the house.

“Has Mrs. Steele returned from her walk?” Griffin asked.

“Aye, she checked on Rose and the baby not twenty minutes ago, then went out to the stables.”

“Not to ride, I hope,” Griffin said, his alarm spiking.

Phelps gave him such a pitying glance that Griffin had to clench his teeth not to bite the man’s head off.

“Happens the groom hasn’t returned from the village yet,” Phelps replied, “and I don’t suppose he will until it’s stopped pissing down rain. Missus said she just wanted to take a look at Sir Dominic’s cattle.”

“The silly chit will get soaked to the skin,” Griffin muttered. “I’d better go fetch her.”

“There be some nice heavy cloaks hanging up by the servant’s entrance,” Phelps offered with a sly grin.

Griffin had no idea what his factotum found so damn amusing, so he turned on his heel and headed down the corridor that led to the back of the house. There was a small estate office just by the door that was vacant at the moment. Dominic’s servants—most of them retired from the Service—were an unobtrusive lot. They were rarely seen unless there was a problem or one went looking for them. Griffin approved of that arrangement, since it grated on him to be reminded how dependent he was on Dominic for Justine’s and the baby’s safety. He hated having to depend on others, even Dominic.

Well, most especially on Dominic, the interfering old bastard.

He grabbed a greatcoat off a hook and shrugged into it, then stuffed a heavy cloak under the coat.

Phelps was right. It was pissing down rain, and Griffin yanked his collar up as he darted across the cobblestone courtyard to a tidy building of red brick with a tiled roof. He headed for the closest door, right under the opening to the hayloft, and hurried inside.

After shaking the moisture from his coat, he glanced down a line of about a dozen stalls searching for Justine. She was at the last stall, apparently having a comfortable cose with an enormous, roan-colored horse that seemed as interested in her as she was in him. The animal snuffled and snorted into her glorious red hair, knocking her hat askew as she stroked his neck, crooning to him in a soft voice.

It occurred to Griffin that he’d like to be in a similar position, with Justine’s hands petting him as he played with her silken hair and kissed his way down her slender throat to her generous breasts.


Once that idea got into his head, it locked on like a bulldog’s bite. He’d left Justine alone for a few days, attempting for once in his life to be a true gentleman, and the strain was beginning to wear on him. After all, she was his wife and he had every right to take her. God knew there were few benefits for either of them in this marriage, other than the most obvious one. And as he watched her now, taking in her sweet face and even sweeter figure, it occurred to him that he’d been a complete fool to abandon his plan to seduce her into his bed—or her bed, as the case may be.

And why not? Though Justine might think an annulment was still possible, Griffin knew how ridiculous that notion was, as did Dominic. No, they were riveted together for life, and she might as well get used to it. That being the case, there was no reason they couldn’t indulge themselves in the pleasures of the marital bed. It would certainly make him a hell of a lot happier, and he suspected it would go a long way toward soothing her fretful nerves. In his experience, frequent sex had a remarkably leveling effect on a woman’s temperament.

Soft and giving, and made to warm a man’s bed, Justine was born to be a wife. Griffin might not be the obvious choice, but he was the man who’d wed her, and he wouldn’t be fool enough to ignore such a treasure.

He closed the stable door behind him, muting the sound of the downpour. A quick glance around the stalls and the tack room suggested that he and Justine were alone with the horses. His satisfaction grew as he strolled toward her, stopping briefly to inspect the matched pair of bays that were the only other animals in the building besides the roan.

Justine glanced his way when she heard his footsteps, surprise making her mouth briefly drop open. Before she closed it, her pink tongue darted out to wet her lips, as if she were nervous. So simple a gesture, and yet it captured Griffin’s undivided attention.

“Oh, I didn’t hear you come in,” she said in a diffident voice.

He draped the cloak over the rail of the empty stall next to them. “You were whispering confidences to this fine fellow.”

As he reached to pat the animal’s neck, his arm brushed across the front of her bodice. Griffin had to repress a smile at Justine’s sharp intake of breath. “Who would have ever thought I’d be reduced to jealousy over Dominic’s cattle,” he said with an exaggerated sigh.

A smile quirked the corner of her mouth, creating a perfect dimple in her left cheek. Funny, he’d not noticed it before. Then again, Justine didn’t smile much. True, she lacked cause, but he decided it was past time to redress that dismal state of affairs.

“That is the silliest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said. “How can you be jealous of a horse?”

He braced a hand on the stall, boxing her in. “I’m jealous of anything that takes your attention away from me,” he murmured.

Griffin let his gaze drop to her plush lips, not bothering to mask his intent. Justine froze, collecting stillness around herself in the way of a small animal trying to escape the notice of a predator. Unfortunately for her, it had the effect of bringing his most rapacious instincts to the surface.

Her gaze flicked to the cloak he’d draped over the adjoining stall. “Is that for me?” she asked in a breathless voice. “It started to rain just as I came in here. I thought it best to wait until it let up.”

“Yes, it’s for you, but there’s no rush to return to the house.”

When she kept her eyes fixed on some point beyond him, Griffin skimmed his hand up to her shoulder and then her chin. Tilting it up with two fingers, he forced her to look at him.

“I’m happy to have the opportunity to spend some time alone with my wife,” he said, letting his voice go deep with sexual intent. “Without being interrupted by mewling babies or interfering servants.”

Her sapphire blue eyes stared back at him, shadowed by an emotion that startled him. It looked like sadness, or perhaps a yearning for something she could never have. It seemed to twist its way around his heart, as if she’d attached a ribbon to it and pulled it tight.

“I wish you wouldn’t amuse yourself at my expense,” she finally replied. “It’s not very nice of you.”

He frowned, disconcerted by her words. Not because it wasn’t partly true—he wasn’t a nice person, which she surely realized by now. But when it came to her, it suddenly struck him how serious his intentions were. Whatever careless words might emerge from his lips, in truth he could no more jest about wanting to be with her than he could turn back the hands of time and wipe away the ugliness of his past.

Griffin habitually viewed the world through a prism of mocking cynicism, but not when it came to Justine. Though that should have surprised the hell out of him, it didn’t. Her character was as finely and cleanly wrought as the most delicate Venetian glass, but a great deal stronger. The generosity and decency that were so intrinsically a part of her could move even the most hardened of cynics.

Feeling oddly humbled, he opened his fingers, cradling her chin.

“I assure you, Justine,” he said quietly, “that I am not jesting. In this moment, I count myself exceedingly lucky that you are my wife. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted any woman.”

Her eyes went wide, and a flush of pink stained her cheeks. That small display of vulnerability had the opposite effect on him, since all the blood in his head seemed to rush down to his groin. His arousal, a lazy simmer only moments ago, flared with blazing heat. Suddenly, he couldn’t wait any longer to have her.

“But it’s not like either of us wanted this marriage,” she said, sounding torn between puzzlement and nerves. “You didn’t want to marry me. You had no choice in the matter, and neither did I.”

He let his fingers drift down to her throat, enjoying the petal-soft texture of her skin. “Perhaps that was true at the time, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t want you. And those feelings are a great deal stronger now.”

Slowly, he leaned in, brushing his lips against hers. She seemed to hold her breath, but one hand crept up to his chest to nestle into his cravat, coming to rest like a small bird seeking shelter from the storm.

When he ended the gentle, teasing kiss, he pulled back a few inches. A flare of satisfaction surged through him at the sight of her dazed eyes and the gently bemused look on her face.

“Really?” she whispered. “You mean what happened in the carriage the other night wasn’t simply about taking advantage of a convenient set of circumstances? I quite thought it had more to do with being annoyed with me than anything else.”

He ignored the second part of her comment, though it was partly true. But his need to dominate her was only one element in their complicated relationship. Besides, admitting that would hardly help his case. Justine was not the sort of woman to roll over simply because a man, even her husband, snapped his fingers.

“What, exactly, do you find convenient in this situation, my sweet?” he asked. “Everything about this marriage is the most insanely inconvenient set of circumstances I’ve ever experienced, and I expect you feel the same. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting you in every way that a man wants his wife, or keep you from wanting me. I see nothing wrong in that.”

He settled his hand at the base of her throat, intensely aware of the fluttering of her pulse through the gauzy fabric that poked out from the top of her bodice.


“And you do want me, don’t you?” he challenged, holding her gaze.

Her pulse leapt under his fingertips. Though her soft lips parted, she seemed lost for words. But Justine was no coward. Her thick, reddish-brown eyelashes fluttered down to shield her eyes from him, but then she slowly and deliberately nodded.

“Yes, I do want you,” she said in a queer voice, as if she couldn’t really believe it. “I shouldn’t, but I do.” She shook her head, still refusing to look at him. “I suppose that makes me something of a fool.”

He gently pushed her chin up with his thumbs. “I thought we’d already decided to be fools together, remember?”

She blinked at him, but then stunned him with a beautiful smile that parted her lips and brought a sparkle to her eyes. The power of that smile slammed into him like a runaway horse.

“What, exactly, do you have in mind?” she asked in a voice that held the barest hint of laughter.

Griffin swept an arm around her waist and pulled her against him, lifting her to her toes. She squeaked, but he silenced her with his mouth, surging between her lips with a hot sweep of desire. The roan snorted, tossed his head, and backed away, clearly vexed by the sudden movement.

With a curse, he pulled her away from the stall. “Speaking of horses,” he muttered, annoyed for not being more careful.

Justine plastered her hands to his chest, steadying herself. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” he said. He cast another quick glance around the stables. “Is there anyone else in here? The place seems deserted to me.”

Except for the roan in the stall behind them and the pair of bays at the other end of the row, he thought they had the place to themselves. And given how heavily it still rained, he didn’t expect the groom back from the village for some time yet.

Justine shook her head. “Derek is running errands in the village for Cook, and Potter has gone to Horsham to see about some repairs to Uncle Dominic’s phaeton.”

Griffin drew her down the aisle toward the tack room. “Who the hell are Derek and Potter?”

“Derek is a groom and Potter is Uncle Dominic’s coachman,” she said. “I’m surprised you don’t know them, since they’ve both been with him for years.”

He hustled her into the tack room, latching the door behind him. “It’s bad enough I have to know Dominic. Do I really need to memorize the names of everyone who works for him?”

She rolled her eyes, but her half smile told him she realized he was teasing her.

Griffin’s quick glance inside the tack room earlier had shown him a cot neatly made up in the corner, with several blankets stacked on the end. Putting his arm around Justine’s waist, he swept her past a large worktable covered with tack and various tools, stopping beside the cot.

“What are you doing?” she asked with something that sounded like a nervous giggle. Since Justine never giggled, it was an unexpectedly charming sound.

“Since this is the only place on the entire bloody estate where I can be alone with my wife, I thought I’d take the opportunity to make love to her.” He turned her to face him and began unbuttoning her habit, his fingers uncharacteristically clumsy in his haste to get her undressed. If he didn’t get her under him soon, he thought he would go insane with lust.

She gaped at him. “You want to make love to me in a tack room?”

The disbelief in her voice drew him up short, his hands halfway down the front of her bodice. When he glanced around the room, the reality of the situation finally sank in. Bridles, saddles, and tack hung from the wall, along with various farrier and shoeing implements. The place was well-swept, tidy and, given the dreariness of the winter day, almost cozy, retaining warmth from the banked coals in the small stove in the corner of the room. The cot itself looked clean and perfectly comfortable.

But they were in a stable, for Christ’s sake. What was he thinking? Only a brute would take his wife under these circumstances, treating her with no more respect than a bloody schoolboy would treat a kitchen maid.

Or like his father had treated his mother.

Self-disgust snaked through his gut. He drew his hand from her bodice, clenching it into a fist.

“Forgive me, Justine,” he said, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. “I’m obviously forgetting my manners. Not that I ever had many in the first place, as you’re aware.”

She gazed up at him, her brow slightly wrinkled. The air settled thickly around them, invested with the kind of tension that seemed to hint of a momentous decision. Over the pounding of the rain on the tiled roof, he heard Justine’s steady, calm breath and realized he’d been holding his.

As he forced himself to exhale, her lips trembled into a mischievous smile, one so innocently seductive that it made the hairs stand up on the nape of his neck.

“I suppose we could go back to the house,” she said, putting a finger thoughtfully to her chin. “But I’m sure you’re right. Someone is bound to interrupt us there, which would be very annoying. Besides . . .”

When she trailed off, Griffin had to repress the mad urge to growl. As much as he wanted to push her down onto the cot and toss up her skirts, claiming her in the most primitive way, he wanted—no, he needed—Justine to be sure. It suddenly seemed essential that she choose this path of her own free will, knowing there would be no going back. Both his mind and his body rejected the idea of seducing her into submission.

“Besides?” he prompted, almost wincing at his eagerness.

She gave a charming little shrug, as if yielding to fate. “It’s simply pouring out. We don’t want to get soaked running back to the house, do we?”

Griffin finally loosed the predator inside him as he reached for her. “No, my sweet. We certainly do not.”