Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom

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 plate, 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.”

“And what conclusions have you reached, Madame Wife?” he asked, taking refuge in sarcasm.

“That I have the same right to ask for your trust as you have asked for mine,” she said quietly. “And if we can’t trust each other, then there’s no hope for us to be anything but polite strangers who occasionally share a bed.”

He wandered over to the window to escape her perceptive gaze. He had asked her to trust him—on the day he’d asked her to marry him, and on the day he’d taken her as his bride. He wanted her to trust him enough to leave England, a leap of faith that would take her far from the only life she’d ever known. Could he ask that of her and yet not give her something of the same in return?

But, Christ, that would mean digging up the ugliness he’d worked so hard to bury. And who knew what she would think of him when she knew the full truth?

Justine didn’t say a word. Her very silence was a challenge, a challenge to let her in instead of shutting her out and hiding from his past like a frightened boy. He’d be damned before he’d let her think that.

He turned to face her. “What do you want to know?”

Looking a little shaky, she sank back into her chair. “Well, who was your mother, and what happened to her?”

His mother. The heart of the matter.

“Very well.” Averting his gaze, Griffin braced a hand on the window frame. “Her name was Chloe Steele. Her father was a scholar and a language tutor to the royal household at Kew. They lived in a small house near the Green, not far from the princes’ residence.”

“Ah. So, that was where your mother met Dominic.”

“Correct.” Griffin didn’t know much about Dominic’s early years, other than that he’d been raised in the royal household as a companion to the younger brood of King George’s children. It had always struck him as an odd arrangement, one which Dominic loathed discussing.


Much as Griffin loathed discussing his personal history.

“And it was at Kew that your mother met Prince Ernest, I presume.”

“Yes. My grandfather was his German tutor.” Just thinking about his father and what he’d done made his skin crawl, so he hurried along. “You don’t need to hear the details, only that my mother was very young and that the prince seduced her. When her pregnancy was discovered, she was sent to Yorkshire to live with her uncle—the man who subsequently raised me.”

“Your great-uncle Bartholomew?”

He nodded. “From what I’ve been told, he was as hard on her as he was on me. It must have killed the old prig to take her in, but there was nowhere else for her to go.”

“How old was she?”

“Fourteen when she was seduced, fifteen when she had me.”

She blinked. “So young? And how old was Prince Ernest?”

“Fifteen, but that doesn’t excuse what he did,” he said, giving her a hard stare.

She shook her head. “Of course not, but it might partly account for such a terrible lapse in judgment. And your poor mother . . . she must have felt so dreadfully alone and frightened.” Her eyes grew soft with sympathy.

“She was alone,” he said slowly. “From what Dominic told me, she was devastated to have to leave my grandfather, who then died a few months later.”

He’d never thought about it before, but his mother had been forced away from those she loved at the very same age he’d been left alone in the world. It might have served as a bond between them if she hadn’t subsequently abandoned him.

“What happened after your mother gave birth? Why wasn’t she allowed to raise you?”

Griffin rested his shoulders against the window frame. “Uncle Bartholomew believed my blood was already tainted by the sins of my parents. Chloe’s wicked influence would surely compound the sin.”

Justine snorted. “What utter rot. Truly, Griffin, I wonder if your uncle was not in his right mind. For an educated man to believe such a thing of innocent children is positively irrational.”

As much as he hated discussing his past, Griffin had to smile. His wife had the kindest heart of anyone he’d ever met. “Not everyone shares your generous view of nature, my love.”

“Well, they should,” she grumbled. “If Chloe was not allowed to raise you, then what happened to her?”

“She was shipped off to a boarding school outside Leeds. It was a very strict, regimented establishment where she could repent her sins while being trained as a servant.”

Justine slapped her palms flat on the table. “She was to be sent into servitude, a gently born and raised girl like your mother? I can hardly believe your great-uncle could be so cruel.”

“Believe it. The old bastard wanted nothing to do with her. He agreed to pay for her education and to see her settled, but he was determined she be kept far away from me.”

She covered her eyes. “That’s just awful.” After a moment, she dropped her hand and Griffin could see her eyes sparking with fury—fury on his behalf, and on his mother’s.

“And what did your uncle tell you had happened to her?” she asked in a grim voice. “Did you ever try to seek her out?”

He grimaced. “When I was old enough to start asking questions about her, my uncle claimed she had died before her eighteenth birthday.” He forced himself to ignore her choked little gasp. “Later, when I got older, he explained my bastard origins and made it clear that it was best for all concerned that my mother had died so young. That way,” he said, unable to keep bitterness from his voice, “she was kept from the temptation of further sin.”

Justine’s fury bled away, her sapphire gaze now soft and misty. “I’m so sorry, Griffin. That was an awful thing for you to have to hear.”

A long-buried shame—shame of his mother and of himself—had Griffin clenching his fist. “I don’t want your pity, Justine, and I don’t need it. It was a long time ago and it hardly matters anymore.”

She blinked in surprise, but then her mouth firmed into a stubborn and quite adorable line. Rising, she marched over to him.

“You, my dear sir, are confusing pity with sympathy. You’re the least pitiable man I know, and I’m sure any number of people would tell you so.”

He couldn’t help scowling at her. “Don’t try to manage me, Justine. It won’t work.”

She grabbed the sleeve of his coat and gave him a little shake. It was such a wifely thing to do that Griffin had to swallow a startled laugh.

“Do you pity me because of my childhood?” she asked. “Without a mother and with a father who was often absent, risking his life without regard for how it would affect his children?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you pity me because my father died in such violent circumstances?”

He was tempted to tell her that their situations were nothing alike, but he forced himself to consider her words more seriously. In certain ways they were alike, having both been raised in a hard and unforgiving school. And it didn’t take him long to realize he’d made assumptions that didn’t fit her character. Justine never indulged in mawkish sentimentality, so there was little reason to imagine she’d start doing it now, especially when it came to him.

“Very well, you’ve made your point. I apologize for being such a thick-head,” he replied, using sarcasm to cover the relief that Justine didn’t pity him after learning the tawdry details of his life.

The beginnings of a smile lurked in her eyes. “I should hope so. You are wealthy, powerful, and respected—even feared. I see nothing to pity in that. Still,” she said, her hand slipping down his sleeve to curl softly around his fingers, “I’m so sorry your mother died. I know the painful absence that leaves in one’s life.”

“Ah, well, as to that . . .” He trailed off, trying to think of some way to soften the blow. More for his own sake, he was ashamed to admit. He had no doubt Justine would be furious with him for withholding what she would surely consider a vital piece of information.

“Yes?” she asked, encouraging him with a sweet smile.

“My mother isn’t dead, Justine.”





“Thank you, Mr. Langton,” Justine said as she escorted the surgeon into the hall. “You have greatly relieved my mind. I don’t know what we would have done without you.”

“Nonsense, Mrs. Steele,” said the gruff but kindly man. “You and Rose did all the work, and you’re both to be commended. You provided the baby with excellent care, and I have no doubt he’s well on the mend. His fever has clearly broken, so he should be as right as a trivet in a few days.”

“Thank God,” she said.

She felt almost dizzy with relief and, after the stresses of the last few days, more than ready to crawl into bed and sleep for ten hours, or more. Unfortunately, though, she had another pressing concern to deal with—her secretive, stubborn, and immensely infuriating husband.

“It’s hard not to worry with the little ones,” Mr. Langton said. “But these sorts of fevers, if they don’t progress, usually resolve very quickly. Just keep him warm, supplement his feedings with barley water, and he’ll be fine.”

Justine thanked him again, handing him off to Phelps who waited at the top of the staircase. She stood quietly for a minute or so, composing herself for the coming discussion with her husband. Or confrontation, probably, for she had a strong suspicion he already regretted revealing the news about his mother. The surgeon’s appearance had provided Griffin with a short reprieve, but Justine had no intention of allowing him to avoid the subject. She only hoped she wouldn’t be reduced to searching the house for him, given his tendency to avoid anyone he didn’t wish to talk to.


But to her surprise Griffin was still in her bedroom, picking over the remains of her tea.

“Would you like me to ring for more?” she asked with polite sarcasm. “I’m sure you’ve not had nearly enough to eat today.”

“Now, Justine,” he said, coming to his feet. “There’s no need to be testy. And if you sent back an untouched tray, you know Cook would be insulted.”

“No worries about that when you’re around,” she muttered under her breath.

His unrepentant grin told her she hadn’t been quiet enough, though, and, yes, she sounded like a shrew, but she had good cause as far as she was concerned.

He came over to take her hand, towing her back to her chair. “Yes, I know I’m a terrible trial and I know you have a thousand questions. And I will answer them, however reluctantly, once you tell me what the surgeon said. Is the baby on the mend?”

His genuine concern soothed her ire. Griffin might pretend not to care for sick babies in general and Stephen in particular, but she knew the opposite to be true. Like most men, he had no desire to play nursemaid, but he’d been more than willing to help Rose whenever Justine snatched a few hours’ sleep. His kindness had surprised and touched her, and done nothing but hasten her precipitous tumble into love.

“His fever has broken, so Mr. Langton believes he’s on the mend,” she said as Griffin poured her a fresh cup of tea. She sighed, gratefully accepting it. “I’m very glad that ordeal is over.”

He contemplated her with a faint smile. “Indeed. And you, my little wife, are sorely in need of a good night’s rest. I suppose it’s a waste of breath to attempt to persuade you to put our talk off until morning.”

“If you don’t mind,” she said in a firm voice.

“I’d rather not discuss it at all, but I suspect you would relentlessly pester me until I crack like a bad egg,” he said.

“Well, yes, I would,” she said, her heart sinking a bit.

Griffin had clearly used the surgeon’s interruption to regain control over his emotions. Unlike before, his manner was now cool and faintly sardonic, and the tension she’d felt from him earlier had dissipated. Still, at least he was willing to speak about it, which she counted as progress. Normally, when Griffin declared a topic as taboo, it was well nigh impossible to shift him.

“Very well,” he said, taking the seat across from her. His habitual, languid sprawl indicated that his usual persona was firmly in place. “What would you like to know?”

“When did you find out that your mother was still alive?”

“Shortly after my fourteenth birthday. My uncle was on his deathbed after an apoplectic fit that almost killed him. I suppose his conscience troubled him, because before he drew his last breath he told me that my mother had not, in fact, died of a fever. When she finished school, she was put in service to a woman who lived outside of Leeds. My uncle, of course, had known this all along, but in his infinite wisdom had decided I was better off an orphan than tainted by any contact with my mother.”

Justine’s heart ached, both for the little boy and for the man who sat before her. Griffin might have a tight hold over his emotions, but she couldn’t miss the bitterness in his voice or the bleakness in his eyes.

“What an unkind man your uncle was,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice. “It’s a miracle you turned out as well as you did, given so bad influence on you.”

Her reply seemed to surprise him. “I suppose he thought he was doing the right thing by me.”

“You have a great deal more charity than he did,” she said. “What did you do with this knowledge?”

He was staring at her with an odd expression on his face, but then he shook it off. “I went through his papers and found the address where she was in service. Then I went looking for her.”

Justine stared at him, aghast. “You went to Leeds, by yourself?”

“Of course.”

“How did you get there? What did you use for money?”

He gave her a lopsided grin. “I cleaned out my uncle’s money box. There wasn’t much there, but enough to book me passage on the mail coach and pay for my meals. I also lifted some of his personal belongings—anything I could carry with me and later pawn.”

Justine rested her forehead on her palm, torn between horror and laughter. “For a boy raised in a vicarage, you took to a life of crime rather quickly.”

“Apparently I had an innate talent,” he said drily.

“Obviously. Were you able to find your mother?”

His smile faded. “Unfortunately, no. The woman who employed her, a Mrs. Lamotte, had died a few years before. She was wealthy but fairly reclusive, a Quaker who lived quietly. Shortly after she died the house was shut up and the servants moved on to other jobs.”

“And you heard nothing more about your mother?”

He shrugged, his gaze moving away from her to the darkness of the winter’s night outside the window. “I couldn’t find anything more. But I was only a boy, with few means at my disposal. I spoke to a few people who remembered Mrs. Lamotte, but no one had ever heard of a Chloe Steele.”

Justine shook her head. “But I don’t understand. Why did your mother not attempt to get in touch with you? Even if your uncle was determined to keep you apart, surely she could have found a way.”

When he met her gaze, what she saw in his eyes made her shiver. “Obviously, she didn’t want to. What woman in her right mind would want such a mistake thrown back in her face every bloody day of her life? Either that, or she had a heart of stone.”

Everything in Justine rebelled against that interpretation, but she doubted Griffin could be talked out of it. Not after so many years, and not without proof that his mother truly did care for him.

“What did you do when you couldn’t find any answers in Leeds?” she asked.

“There was nothing to go back to in Yorkshire, so I made my way to London.”

“Did you know anyone there?”

“No, not really,” he said.

He sounded evasive, but before she could say anything he carried on. “Of course, by the time I reached the City I had only a few shillings left in my pocket. I almost starved to death within a month of my arrival, idiot that I was.”

“Oh, Griffin, I’m so—”

His eyes narrowed in warning, and she forced the words back down her throat.

“I won’t pretend that it was easy,” he said, clearly not wanting sympathy, “or that I didn’t spend many a miserable night shivering in a gutter, starved and half frozen. But I survived when many did not.”

She nodded. “Phelps and his wife.”

“And Deacon, too. I tried to pick his pocket one day while he was eating in Phelps’ tavern.” He smiled faintly at the memory. “Phelps gave me a sound thrashing for that, but then he convinced Deacon to give me a job.”

Justine smiled, even though his matter-of-fact recital of his horrific childhood experiences was breaking her heart. “So that’s how you met him.”

“Deacon was a doorman at The Cormorant at the time, and he got me a job running errands. Eventually, I took on other tasks and then moved upstairs, working the tables.” He gave her a full-out grin. “Apparently, my instincts when it came to money were as finely tuned as my criminal instincts.”


“Imagine my surprise,” Justine replied. “So that’s what provided you with your foothold in that world.”

He nodded. “When the owner died some years later, when I was twenty-two, I had enough blunt to buy the place outright from his heirs.”

She shook her head, amazed and reluctantly admiring of the drive and skill that had allowed him to attain both wealth and power at so early an age.

Justine was about to tell him so when another thought had her frowning. Griffin lazily crossed one leg over the other.

“I recognize that look,” he said. “What is it?”

“It’s Uncle Dominic,” she said. “He knew about you, didn’t he? Why didn’t you go to him when you arrived in London? Surely he would have helped you.”

He shifted, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Because I didn’t know him. He’d written to my uncle a number of times over the years, but I never knew that. I found a few of the letters when I went through Uncle Bartholomew’s desk. But as far as I could tell, Dominic hadn’t written in some time. Besides, how was I to know how he’d react if an orphaned brat showed up on his doorstep?”

“I’m sure he would have taken you in.”

He dismissed that with an irritated wave. “I had no way of knowing that.”

“Of course,” she said, not wishing to argue. “How did he manage to eventually find you?”

He scoffed at her. “He’s a spy, Justine, although he’s never explained to me how he tracked me down. He found me about a year after I started working at The Cormorant.” He shook his head. “Wanted me to come live with him. Not bloody likely, I told him.”

She frowned. “Why not? You would have had a much easier time of things if you had.”

“It took me years to escape from under my uncle’s thumb. I had no intention of putting myself at the mercy of Dominic’s tender ministrations. He’s an interfering old woman, as you well know. He wanted to send me away to school and then University, if you can believe that.”

She glared at him. “Uncle Dominic cares for you, Griffin, and he wants to help you. It’s what he does.”

His jaw set in a stubborn line. “I don’t need anyone’s help.”

Not even hers, she supposed, but there was little point in following up on that contentious and depressing fact.

“Did Uncle Dominic know your mother was still alive?”

“Not until I told him. It’s the only time I’ve seen him completely set back on his heels.” He frowned. “Well, almost the only time. He’s been fairly put out over this entire affair with Stephen, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

Justine rested her clasped hands on the tea table. “Yes, but I suspect we’ll never know the reason why.”

Griffin looked like he wanted to say something but then thought better of it.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing. Are we done with the interrogation?”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Almost. I was just wondering if Uncle Dominic did anything to try to find your mother.”

“He certainly did. Came up empty, too, despite all his damn connections and resources.”

Justine stared at him, puzzled. “So, you don’t know whether your mother is alive or not, do you?”

He hesitated, then a grim resignation settled onto his shoulders like a heavy weight. “No, I suppose I don’t. Dominic is convinced she’s alive, but that’s probably wishful thinking on his part. He’s spent the better part of his life looking for her. God only knows why.”

Justine understood why—Dominic obviously loved Chloe Steele and refused to give up on her. Griffin, however, had never known his mother’s touch, or seen evidence of her love. To him, family meant harsh treatment and rejection and, in the case of his parents, complete abandonment. What could he feel about a mother who never made any attempt to find him?

“What are you thinking?” he asked in a quiet voice.

She drew in a deep breath, searching for the right words. His confession, so reluctantly given, was both amazing and heartbreaking. Even given her unconventional childhood, she could hardly begin to understand the emotional burdens he had carried over the years.

“I’m thinking how sorry I am that you were denied the love you deserved as a child. That you were cruelly betrayed by those who should have known better.” She had to stop for a moment, fighting to hold back the tears that threatened to thicken her words. “And I hate that you were so alone when you came to London, and that you had to live on the streets, starving and half perished from the cold.”

He scowled. “Justine, I already told you—”

He broke off when she slipped out of her chair and went down on her knees before him. His eyes widened with surprise, but his mouth flattened and he looked wary.

“No, you misunderstand me,” she said earnestly. “I’m in awe of what you’ve done . . . the life you’ve made for yourself out of nothing. I know it’s probably wrong of me to say so, given the sort of life you’ve led and how you’ve made your fortune, but I’m proud of you, Griffin. You forged your own path in life and you’ve taken care of the people who depended on you. You’ve more than earned their love and respect.”

A hint of color tinged his cheeks. “Love might be overstating the case,” he said, sounding embarrassed. “They simply believed that I’m a generous employer, that’s all.”

“Dominic cares a great deal about you, too,” she said stoutly, resting her clasped hands on his knee.

“Interfering old sod,” he muttered. Still, he didn’t contradict her.

“And you get along very well with your cousin Aden, and with Vivien, as well. Really, when one thinks about it, you have quite a lot of people who care about you.”

He rolled his eyes at that. “Justine, do not imagine that you’re going to domesticate me. Dominic has tried that more than once and it’s not going to work.”

“No, I suppose not.” She sighed, dropping her gaze as she opened her fingers on his muscled thigh. “But it would be nice if you could at least realize that you’re not as alone in the world as you think you are.”

His hand trapped her fingers, holding them against his thigh. The muscles under her fingertips were as hard as granite. With the edge of his other hand, he tipped up her chin, forcing her to look at him.

“What about you, my wife? How do you feel about me?” he challenged.

His eyes glittered with a fierce, complex emotion she couldn’t read. But he clearly wanted something from her—no, needed something from her—that she suspected had been missing from his life for a long time. He would deny it if she spoke its true name, but that didn’t mean he didn’t yearn for it all the same.

She felt the sting of tears as she stared into his hard, handsome face. He was so proud, so determined to show the world he needed nothing and no one to make his way. But Justine knew his secrets now, and understood something of the boy that had become the man and the boy that lived in him still.

“I care for you, Griffin,” she whispered. Her heart beat so hard she could barely force the words from her throat. “Very much.”

He searched her face, his gaze hot and devouring. He might never be able to declare his love for her—or even recognize the feeling—but she knew that he would protect her and even cherish her because she now belonged to him. Rationally, it made no sense, but it was who he was.


His hand moved from her chin to her cheek, cradling it. “I’m very glad to hear that,” he said in a husky voice.

He bent to her, and his lips whispered across her mouth in a kiss so tender it teased out those incipient tears. She closed her eyelids against them, afraid he would think her a sentimental fool. But what she felt had nothing to do with girlish sentiment and everything to do with love.

With a moan, she opened her mouth to him as she dug her fingers into his muscled thigh. Desire swept through her, making her shake. But before she could move into his embrace, he slipped his hands under her arms and stood up, bringing her with him. Before she knew what was happening, he’d lifted her into his arms.

“What are you doing?” she gasped.

“Since the interrogation has now concluded,” he said, heading for the door, “I’d like very much to make love to my wife.”

“Oh, very well,” she said, flustered. She probably should object, given how unsettled things remained between them, but she found herself unable to come up with any logical reasons to do so.

Griffin glanced down at her and paused at the door. He raised his eyebrows. “We are finished with the questions, are we not?”

“I do have one more,” she said apologetically. “If you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” he said with exaggerated patience as he juggled her briefly to open the door. “Go right ahead, my dear.”

She touched the faint scar running down the side of his face. “How did you get this?”

He looked momentarily blank. “The scar? I fell out of a tree when I was eight. The edge of a branch caught me on the way down and sliced my face.” He strode down the hall, holding her securely against his chest. “Hell of a mess it was, too, although my uncle told me it served me right for climbing trees instead of doing my lessons.”

Justine stared at him, then burst into laughter. All this time she’d been imagining the worst of reasons for his scar, and yet it was nothing more than a simple boyhood accident. It was an ironic counterpoint to the harsh tale he’d just told, and endearing in its normality.

“You wouldn’t have laughed if it had happened to you,” he said with a wry smile.

“I’m sure you’re right,” she said, stretching up to kiss him. His arms tightened around her.

“Griffin, where are we going?” she said as he turned into the other wing of the house.

“My bedroom.” He’d lengthened his stride. “I suspect it’s the only place in the house where we won’t be interrupted. Besides the stable, that is.”

She snuggled against him. “That sounds nice.”

More than nice. It sounded like heaven, especially after the tensions of the last few days. It might only be a temporary respite from the troubles confronting them, but at least for a little while Justine could find refuge in her husband’s strong arms.

But when she heard a quick step behind them she mentally sighed.

“Mr. Griffin, wait.”

Cursing under his breath, Griffin turned to glower at Phelps, who hurried toward them.

“What is it?” he snapped.

“A message from Sir Dominic,” Phelps said. “The wee one’s family has been found.”