Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom

CHAPTER Six



Justine came reluctantly awake. When her eyes finally blinked open, the dark-shrouded silence in the house was so profound she instinctively knew it was the deepest hour of the night.

Something had awakened her, some sound penetrating the veil of fatigue that had settled over her at the end of another long day. Perhaps the master of the house had returned from his duties next door and his footfalls had jolted her from sleep. But Steele moved as quietly as a cat. When she’d heard him come home before, she’d already been awake, tending to the baby or helping Rose with her son.

Sighing, she rolled to her side, hugging the pillow against her chest and hoping she could drift off again. Despite her exhaustion, it had taken her forever to fall asleep. The scene this afternoon in the drawing room had consumed her, along with the revelations about Stephen’s possible heritage. That mystery should be what concerned her most greatly, because the sooner they discovered the child’s identity, the sooner Justine could get back to her life.

But again and again her thoughts returned to the disconcerting struggle between her host and her godparent. It wasn’t so much what they’d said to each other, but what they hadn’t said. The history between them was obviously of more import than Justine had assumed. Though she’d asked Dominic about it, of course, he’d simply said he’d known Griffin Steele for years and found him to be a useful source of information. She knew now there was more to it than that, although she was quite certain Dominic would refuse to elaborate even if she did probe further.

Nor did she expect her host to provide any additional information, either. After Dominic had stormed out of the room, Justine had turned to Steele with no attempt to hide her astonishment. But after his almost offhand comment about secrets, he’d excused himself and strolled from the room as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. She’d been tempted to follow and demand an explanation, but a moment’s reflection had told her how absurd that was. Steele would be just as closed-lipped as Dominic and, really, it was none of her business. Her only business was to take care of the baby and stay out of the way. Justine excelled at that sort of thing, which was why Dominic had asked her to perform this task in the first place. She’d always known when to ask questions and when to keep her mouth shut.

Clearly, this was a situation where the latter strategy was appropriate.

With a determined effort of will, she cleared her mind and allowed her bone-deep fatigue to pull her toward sleep. But then something intruded, jerking her awake once more.

With a smothered exclamation, she sat up, glaring into the darkness. But this time, she saw the faint glow of candlelight in the gap under Rose’s adjoining door. Then she heard the muffled sound of a fussy baby, followed by the padding of bare feet pacing the floor.

Throwing off her bed linens, Justine pushed aside the curtain on the four-poster and climbed out of bed. She shivered in the cold and hurried to pull on her dressing gown while feeling around with her feet for her slippers. Dragging her long braid out from under the robe’s collar, she hurried into the next room.

Looking heavy-eyed and frustrated, Rose paced the carpeted floor of the small but comfortably appointed bedroom, her voluminous linen shift billowing around her legs each time she made a turn. She carried little Stephen in her arms who, unfortunately, stared up at her, wide-eyed.


“Oh, dear,” Justine whispered as she gently closed the door behind her. “Is he colicky again?”

Rose blew out an exasperated breath. “No, he just won’t sleep. I know he’s not hungry, neither. Just fed him a half hour ago.” She scrunched her face up and touched her nose to the baby’s. “You’re going to be the death of me, you little bugger, aren’t you?”

Stephen chortled with baby glee, clearly delighted to be up with his nurse in the middle of the night.

Justine glanced over at the bed, where Rose slept with her son. Sammy, thank goodness, was deep in slumber, his little arms flung out wide with innocent abandon.

“Have you tried putting him down in his cradle?” Justine asked. “I can’t believe he’s not asleep, since he was awake for most of the day.”

Rose shook her head. “He fusses like anything when I put him down, miss. Normally I don’t mind, but Sammy kept me up the first half of the night, and now this one is like to do it for the second half.”

Justine glanced at the rocking cradle positioned in front of the fireplace. She could always sit in the comfortable armchair right next to it and try to coax the baby back to sleep, but that would hardly be conducive to Rose getting much-needed rest.

“Here,” she said. “I’ll take him. If you don’t get some sleep, you’re going to fall flat on your face.”

Rose handed the baby over with some reluctance. “Are you sure, Miss Justine? The fire must be out in your room and it’s a powerful cold tonight. I don’t want either of you catching your death.”

Justine settled Stephen in her arms, smiling down into his rosy-cheeked face. “I’ll take him downstairs to the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea. That way, we’ll both stay warm, and when he falls asleep I’ll bring him back up and put him in his cradle.” She dropped a soft kiss on the baby’s forehead. “How does that sound, Master Stephen?”

The baby responded with another chortle as he managed to snake one arm out from under his blanket, grasping the lace collar of her wrapper in his tiny grip.

“I would be ever so grateful,” Rose said with a mighty yawn. “I’m starting to think that the only way I’ll get some shut-eye is to go back to work next door.” She gave Justine a sleepy grin. “At least I’m flat on my back when I’m working over there.”

“Yes, well, don’t worry,” Justine said, eager to cut short that particular line of conversation. “I’ll make sure Stephen is well asleep before I bring him back up.”

With another yawn, Rose went back to bed while Justine hefted the baby more comfortably over her shoulder and opened the door into the hallway. As usual, a lamp was burning on a side table in the hall. There always seemed to be someone awake in the Steele household, regardless of the hour. Not that it ever kept her awake or seemed to disturb anyone else. She’d learned early on that the master, as unconventional as he was, ran an orderly household. For a man reputed to be a crime lord, he certainly seemed to prefer peace and quiet, at least when it came to his living arrangements. There was little about him that wasn’t dramatic and, yes, fascinating, but she’d quickly discovered that he was a highly disciplined and organized man who demanded the same qualities in his staff.

Cradling the baby, she carefully went down the stairs, holding on to the banister. She followed the hallway toward the back of the house, pushed through the baize door, and descended a set of shallow steps to the kitchen. When she stepped inside, her slippers whispering on the flagstone floor, she wasn’t surprised to see Phelps checking the door to the yard behind the house, making sure it was bolted. As far as she could tell, he seemed to exist on only a few hours of sleep, and was always close by and ready to respond whenever needed.

Phelps glanced over his shoulder, his eyes going wide for a moment as he took in her state of undress. Then he looked at the baby in her arms and shook his head. “Little mite at it again, eh? Is it the colic?”

“No, thank goodness, but he is fussy and Rose needs her sleep. I thought I’d come down to the kitchen since it’s warmer for the baby, and make myself a cup of tea.”

Phelps pointed to one of the rush-bottomed chairs around the large kitchen table. “You sit yourself down, miss, and I’ll make it for you before I heads off to bed.”

Justine winced. “I hate to keep you from your rest, Phelps. You must be exhausted after such a long day.”

The wiry little man scoffed as he retrieved the kettle from the hob. “Not me, miss. You know what they say—I’ll sleep when I’m on the other side of the dirt.”

That did seem to be his prevailing philosophy, and he seemed to have a boundless supply of energy. She’d come to learn that Phelps functioned in a number of roles, including butler, valet, and general factotum.

There were other servants, of course. Mr. Phelps’ wife was cook and Tom Deacon, a rough and ready but intelligent man, was Steele’s business manager. There was also Clara Lewis, the Phelps’ daughter, and her husband, Joshua. Clara served as maid and Joshua was both groom and stableman.

Given Steele’s wealth, he could certainly afford more staff, but Justine had learned that he valued loyalty and privacy above all else. His staff had been with him for years, and they were slavishly devoted to him. Although not anything like the servants Justine was used to—they all spoke as if they’d been plucked from the stews around Covent Garden—they managed his house with quiet efficiency. And, thankfully, they had accepted Justine into the establishment with nary a shrug. They didn’t seem to care that she was a well-bred spinster living in rather scandalous conditions. As far as they were concerned, their master had approved her presence and that was all that mattered.

In this house, Steele’s word was gospel.

Justine settled into the chair, trying not to jolt little Stephen. His eyelids were starting to droop, but any noise or quick movement would startle him awake.

As Phelps bustled into the scullery to fetch water, Justine allowed herself to relax into the warmth of the cozy room. She sat at a long pine table, scrubbed and sanded to a high state of cleanliness, across from the fireplace and the cast-iron range. Two large dressers held pots, crockery, and dishes, one of them beneath a high window looking out to the yard that during the day let in a fair amount of light. The altogether tidy and straightforward kitchen appealed to Justine’s domestic soul. She supposed that revealed a sad lack of imagination on her part, but she truly preferred it to most of the other rooms in the house, despite their luxury and sybaritic comfort.

Of course, she could appreciate luxury as much as the next person, but she’d always preferred a simpler approach to life. But simple and uncomplicated would certainly not describe either Griffin Steele or his business dealings and way of life.

Phelps returned from the scullery to place the kettle on the hob before he stoked up the coals in the grate. He prepared the teapot and placed it on the table in front of her, along with a sturdy mug from a shelf, the sugar bowl, and a small pitcher of milk.

“There you go, miss. Just give that kettle a few minutes and you’ll be all set.”

She started to thank him but he held up a hand to stop her, cocking his head like a watchdog snapping to alert.


“Is something wrong?” she asked quietly. She heard nothing, but he obviously did.

He shook his head. “Nay. Just Mr. Griffin come from next door.”

Justine peered at the clock on the closest dresser. Well past four in the morning. “Goodness, he’s late.”

“Not him, miss. Master don’t need much sleep, neither.”

He pushed out the door, leaving Justine to the stillness of the deep night. Like most people, she supposed, she found it a lonely time to be awake. When her father was still alive, she’d spent many a night tossing and turning, especially when he was assigned to perform God-only-knew what dangerous task on behalf of the Crown. Or, just as often, she would snap awake in a cold sweat from terrifying, heart-pounding dreams. For a long stretch of years, one particularly gruesome dream would repeat itself—her father, struggling through a dark landscape, trying to escape something horrible. It always ended the same way—a pistol shot ringing out and Papa collapsing, alone and helpless while his life’s blood drained away. Justine would call for him over and over, desperate but unable to reach him, but he never responded.

And in the end, he’d died as she’d so often dreamed—from a gunshot wound at the hands of the enemy.

When the baby wriggled, his rosebud mouth gaping open in a wide yawn, she came back to herself with a jerk. The slight movement startled him. His eyes snapped open and he began a mewling little fuss.

“No, my little darling, don’t fuss. Hush, hush, hush,” she soothed.

She rose to her feet and began rocking him, slowly moving toward the range where the kettle was just starting to whistle. As she reached for a cloth to wrap around the brass handle, she heard the kitchen door swing open on its hinges. She glanced over her shoulder and froze, staring at the man coming down the shallow flight of steps.

“Oh, ah, Mr. Steele,” she stuttered. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

She clutched Stephen to her chest, flushing at the picture she must present to him in her nightclothes and with her hair pulled back in a loose braid. She held the baby tight, as if he somehow gave her an extra layer of protection. Steele came to halt on the other side of the table, letting his gaze wander from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, and then back to her face. An amused smile softened the corners of his hard mouth.

Not that he had any business laughing at her—not the way he was dressed. He wore a flamboyantly blue and white striped dressing gown lined with red silk, a tiny floral pattern embroidered on the stripes. It was belted loosely around his waist, gaping to expose his neck—a smooth expanse of lightly bronzed, naked skin. Fortunately, he still wore breeches and boots, which made his attire slightly more respectable, although no less exotic. In fact, he somehow looked twice as dangerous as usual, and he always looked dangerous to Justine.

His smile slid into an out-and-out grin when he took in her hair. With a mental jolt, Justine realized she’d forgotten to put on her nightcap when going to bed. Her blasted hair was revealed in a red, tangled mess.

“And I certainly wasn’t expecting to run into you, Miss Brightmore,” he said in a purring tone that seemed to slip under her skin. “What a pleasant surprise. And how encouraging to see you without yet another one of your endless supply of gruesome caps. I must say, I certainly prefer to see your hair uncovered in all its riotous glory.”

She bit back a groan, although there was nothing she could do to prevent the hot blush crawling up her cheeks. If there was one thing Justine knew for sure, it was that blushes and red hair did not sit well together.

Ridiculously agitated, she clutched Stephen a bit too tightly, prompting a startled wail from the bundle in her arms. The kettle, unfortunately, chose that exact moment to blow its high-pitched screech, and that prodded the baby into a full-throated cry. Sighing, Justine hitched him up on her shoulder and tried to reach for the kettle to pull it off the hob.

“Christ, you daft woman! Let me do that,” Steele exclaimed, striding around the table. “You’ll burn yourself.”

Justine scowled at him. “I’m perfectly capable of taking a kettle off the hob, thank you, and without burning myself.”

Nonetheless, she stepped aside to let him go by. As he brushed past her, his scent teased her nostrils, something smoky and satisfying, with a hint of leather and brandy. She stood there like an idiot, breathing it all in and not quite sure what to do with herself.

“Miss Brightmore, go sit down while I prepare your tea,” he ordered as he lifted the kettle from the hob.

She blinked in surprise, but then gave him a hesitant smile before moving back to her chair. The answering gleam in his eyes, dark and knowing, made her stomach jump, and she had to resist the urge to scurry from the room. Which was silly since this was far from the first time she’d had to deal with strange men in the middle of the night. When Papa was alive, he’d frequently had late-night visits from informers or other agents, and she’d often been the one to serve them coffee or bring them food. But none had been like Griffin Steele, and none had made her feel so wretchedly unsure of herself.

“I take it little Stephen is the reason for this sojourn in the dead of night?” he asked while he deftly prepared her tea.

Justine would not have thought him the domestic sort, but he seemed just as comfortable in the homey kitchen as he did in his elegant drawing room. “Yes, Mr. Steele. He was keeping Rose up, so I hoped if I brought him down here and rocked him a bit, he might fall off to sleep.”

He moved closer, and her breath caught in her throat. But he simply reached out a hand and cradled the baby’s head for a second. The gentle, affectionate touch from so hard a man triggered a swift stab of emotion that felt almost like melancholy.

“How shocking,” he said. “This little fellow keeping the entire house up at night? One could hardly believe it.”

“Hardly the entire house, Mr. Steele,” she replied. “Besides, I heard you return home just a short time ago.”

His dark brows lifted in an elegant arch. “You really are Dominic’s godchild, aren’t you?” His eyes held a wicked glint. “I hope you’re not writing up a report for him. I suspect I would fare badly in your estimate.”

Justine couldn’t help bristling—again. It was starting to be tiresome how easily he could ruffle her temper.

“Nothing of the sort,” she said stiffly. She probably should take the baby and go back upstairs, but she didn’t want him to think he’d chased her out. “I think you know how ridiculous a notion that is, sir.”

“Not when you look at me in so disapproving a fashion, or call me sir or Mr. Steele in that particular tone.”

Unexpectedly, he unleashed a smile so dazzling that Justine only just managed to keep her jaw from sagging open. She knew from Rose that women found him handsome, and even she could admit he was attractive in a rakish sort of way. But when he smiled like that . . . well, she could begin to understand why the girls at The Golden Tie vied so competitively for his attention.

“Ah, much better,” he said in a smoothly dark voice that reached around her to send prickles down her spine.

Justine peered at him, confused. “What’s better?” She must be more fatigued than she thought if a smile from a handsome man could empty her head of all rational thought, however briefly.


He studied her with a shadow of that soul-stealing smile playing about his mouth. “Never mind. But I do take objection to your formality. You should call me Griffin. Everyone else does, including Dominic.”

“No, they don’t. The servants call you Mr. Griffin, or sir. It would hardly be proper for me to address you by your given name.”

“You’re not one of the servants, Justine.” He said her name with deliberate emphasis. “You’re a guest in my house, and the godchild of Dominic Hunter. Considering how close I am to him and how odd these circumstances are, it seems foolish for us to be formal with each other.”

Justine hadn’t the faintest clue how to answer him. Of course, it wasn’t proper to address him so intimately, but since they were sitting together in the kitchen in the middle of the night, and in their dressing gowns, quibbling over what to call each other seemed unnecessarily fastidious. Still, despite her unconventional background as the daughter of a spy, she’d never found herself in quite so bizarre a situation.

Steele filled her mug with tea and dumped in a lump of sugar and a splash of milk. He set it in front of her and pulled out a chair, sitting across from her.

“Come, Justine,” he said in a gently mocking tone. “I hardly think the walls of Jericho will fall if you call me by my given name.” He cast a pointed glance around the room. “The odd circumstances do seem to warrant a degree of informality, don’t you think? Besides, who will ever know except the inhabitants of this house? And you can be sure they won’t be tattling tales to the beau monde.”

She stared at him while her brain did battle with her instincts. The latter told her that he meant her no harm. But the former insisted on falling back on all the precepts and formalities she normally found so comforting.

Steele relaxed in his chair, extending his muscular legs and propping his intertwined hands on his flat stomach. He regarded her with an easy half smile, as if ready to wait her out the entire night.

Perhaps it was the strange intimacy of the situation or the peace of the house so late at night in the cozy warmth of the kitchen. Or perhaps it was fatigue. But whatever it was she couldn’t seem to muster one convincing argument why she should keep him at such a distance.

And, as he said, what difference would it make? No one would ever know of her time in his house, and when she left, she’d never see him again.

“Very well,” she said, suddenly disconcerted to discover that she didn’t relish the idea of never seeing him again.





Griffin battled to hide his satisfaction at her wary capitulation, knowing his reaction was disproportionate to the size of the victory. But he’d never met such a tempting example of prim femininity as Justine Brightmore. Something inside him yearned to ruffle her, finding its way past her rigid exterior to the warm, lush woman buried deep under ridiculous caps and ugly gowns.

But she wasn’t looking prim tonight, even though her ghastly gray dressing gown did nothing to showcase what he now knew were tempting, generous curves. With her fiery curls tumbling out of a haphazard braid, and her gorgeous blue eyes slumberous with fatigue, she looked eminently worthy of seduction. As soon as he’d fixed her tea, he’d been forced to take a seat to conceal the burgeoning erection that pushed against the fall of his breeches.

“Very well what, Justine?” he prompted, giving in to his darker angels.

He usually gave in to his darker angels, but somehow it felt all the sweeter with her. Damned if he knew why, because he had no intention of seducing her. Despite her innate sensuality, Justine was an innocent and a vulnerable one at that. Griffin had no doubt that with time and patience he could seduce her. The idea of that had a far greater pull on him than it should. But he had a policy of never interfering with innocents or women vulnerable to any sort of predation. Not to mention that he had no intention of ever falling into the parson’s trap, the sure consequence of an affair with Justine Brightmore. His fitful conscience would see to that, as would Dominic Hunter, who would drag him to the altar at gunpoint—after a right proper thrashing, he had no doubt.

Justine Brightmore was thus forbidden fruit. That did not mean, however, that he couldn’t enjoy playing with her, just a little bit.

She gave him an adorable little grimace. “Very well, Griffin, but only on the rare occasions we find each other in private, or with Uncle Dominic. It might be confusing to address each other so informally in front of the servants.”

Griffin didn’t give a damn what the servants thought, but there was no point in pushing her. She’d only go into retreat and he didn’t want that. In fact, he wanted to know a great deal more about her than he already did, and that meant he’d have to get her to trust him.

As to why he wanted to know more about a bluestocking spinster, he chalked it up to simple curiosity and his need to know everything he could about people who came into his orbit. Never mind that his pulse had started hammering when he pushed through the kitchen door and beheld her, her eyes widening and her lush, pink mouth dropping open in surprise. Never mind that her creamy cheeks had flushed and that her gaze had then dropped shyly to her feet, drawing his most aggressive sexual instincts to the surface. Good thing, in fact, that she’d held the baby in her arms. If she’d been down here on her own, he would have been hard-pressed not to seize her in his arms, deposit her on the table, and push her legs wide to reveal the luscious secrets of her body.

He was not going to think about that, because the idea of making love to Justine Brightmore, as appealing as it was in the abstract, bordered on insanity—especially since she was no more beautiful than any number of women he knew, most of whom expended a considerable amount of energy trying to bed him.

Well, though he wouldn’t be bedding Justine Brightmore, he did want to know her. She intrigued him, and the cynic in him proposed that her difference from most of the people in his life was the key to her attraction. Griffin supposed that was as good an explanation as any.

She rocked the sleepy baby in her arms, regarding Griffin with a hint of suspicion. “Forgive my curiosity, but why did you come to the kitchen this late?” She held up one hand while maintaining a competent grip on the child. “And don’t tell me it’s because Stephen woke you up. I know that’s not true.”

“You’re right. Not this time,” he said. When she clucked disapprovingly under her breath, he was hard-pressed to hold back a grin. “I neglected to find supper tonight, so I thought I’d rummage around in the larder.”

She frowned. “You shouldn’t skip meals like that. It’s not good for your health.”

“I’m not exactly a feeble old man, Justine. I won’t keel over in a dead faint simply because I missed a meal.” Still, he found it rather charming that she worried about him.

She surprised him again when she rose. “Here,” she said, coming around the table. “You hold Stephen while I find you something to eat.”

“That is entirely unnecessary, Miss Br—I mean, Justine,” he started to protest. But she was right in front of him, handing him the baby before he could articulate further objections.

“Don’t worry,” she said quietly. “He’s finally drifted off. Sit and rest with him for a few minutes. I’m sure you don’t eat or sleep nearly as well as you should.”


He sighed and opened his arms, accepting the soft weight of the baby.

As Justine gently relinquished her little bundle, Griffin took a moment to enjoy the swell of her generous breasts, just inches from his face, under the woolen wrapper. The garment was ugly as sin, and he couldn’t help speculating how delectable she would look dressed in a silk and lace peignoir, her curves amply displayed.

It took him several seconds to realize that she’d frozen, half-bent over him. He lifted his gaze to see her staring at his chest, her eyes round and stunned. He followed the angle of her gaze to see that his dressing robe had gaped open while he was settling the baby onto his lap.

He flicked a glance back up. Justine stared at his chest with clear if reluctant fascination, gnawing on her plump lower lip.

“I take it you’ve never seen a tattoo,” he commented in a sardonic voice.

She abruptly straightened, looking flustered. “Ah, no. I thought only sailors and criminals did such things to themselves.” She winced when she realized what she’d just implied.

“Very true,” Griffin said, enjoying the rosy color staining her cheeks.

But then she surprised him by peering directly at the half-exposed markings on his skin. “Is that a gryphon?”

“It is. Rather obvious symbolism, but it seemed appropriate at the time.”

“How old were you when you had it done?”

“Seventeen.”

“Did it hurt?”

He shook his head, thinking of how foolish and reckless he’d been back then. “You can’t imagine.”

She nodded absently and swayed a fraction closer. He felt the path of her gaze over his skin, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

“Still, it’s quite beautiful,” she breathed. She raised a hand, as if to touch it. “I didn’t know they could be drawn with such artistry.”

“Most are fairly crude, but this one was inked by a Japanese artist who for some godforsaken reason has chosen to live in London. Tattoo masters from the Orient are renowned for their skill. There are a few other Japanese and Chinese artists outside of London, in the port towns where business is brisk. But Sakoda, who inked mine, is reputed to be the best.”

He reached a careful hand from under the baby and tugged aside the silk lapel of his robe. “Would you like a closer look, Justine?” he asked, letting his voice fall into a deep, purring note.

She startled and then practically leapt back, almost tripping over her feet.

“No, no,” she exclaimed, flapping her hands. “Just sit there and I’ll get you something to eat.” She scurried into the larder, talking in a voice several notes higher than her usual honeyed tones. “I’m sure there’s some cold meat and cheese, and Mrs. Phelps made a lovely plum cake.”

He smiled. He’d wanted to ruffle her, but he had no desire to frighten her off. What would be the fun in that? Much more enjoyable to push her by slight degrees and see how she reacted. She’d surprised him with her curiosity, although on previous occasions he’d seen flashes of what he suspected was an innately inquisitive nature. But she’d always repressed it, determined to keep on the narrow course she’d prescribed for herself. That was a good part of the reason Justine intrigued him. She had a lively mind, a sound education, and came from a good family.

And she was beautiful, too. But with all those qualities, she chose to hide away in the corners, like a fusty maiden aunt well past her prime. Justine was self-effacing to the point of fading into the background, which he supposed one might expect in the daughter of a spy. But unlike her father, she had no real need to hide her true nature. Yet she did, and Griffin was honest enough to admit that he’d like to know why.

He listened to her bustle about the larder, rattling crockery and keeping up an uncharacteristic chatter. She talked about the baby, about Rose and Sammy, and all the little domestic things he supposed women enjoyed talking about. Griffin had always considered most such things a bore, but with her he found them oddly soothing, especially after spending the night going over contracts with Madeline and meeting with his business manager. Griffin had twisted his brain with the details of his plans to leave England, and Justine’s quiet stream of words washed over him in a gentle flow.

“Here we are,” she said, returning with a tray piled high with food. She set it down carefully in front of him as she glanced anxiously at the baby.

“Don’t worry,” Griffin said. “He’s still sound asleep.”

“Thank God,” she muttered as she prepared him a plate.

“Justine,” he said, as she mounded several slices of cold ham. “There’s enough food here to feed all the patrons of The Golden Tie for a week.”

She paused in the act of slicing him a generous piece of cheddar. “You mean they actually eat while they are, ah, visiting?”

Griffin thought of the various ways he could tease her with his answer, but decided to retract his claws—slightly. “Well, one does build up an appetite.”

Her lips pursed in disapproval, just like the Miss Prim and Proper he’d come to know and enjoy. “I wouldn’t know. Why don’t you give me the baby so you can eat?”

He stood, transferring Stephen into her arms, and then crossed to the dresser to pull a mug from the shelves. Justine watched him, as if not sure what to do with herself.

“Well,” she said, “I suppose I’d better go back upstairs.”

“In a moment. Finish your tea first.”

She hesitated, clearly torn, which he found interesting.

“Sit,” he ordered.

Somewhat to his surprise, she did, giving him a hesitant smile. “I shouldn’t really. I’ll be a wreck tomorrow, but for some reason I’m wide awake.”

“You can sleep in tomorrow. I’ll make sure Rose takes care of the baby.” He sat down and poured himself tea.

“Thank you,” she said.

Her smile was so sweet and shy that it tugged hard, somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. He didn’t like that. Curiosity, even lust, was one thing. Emotions were quite another, and he had no intention of developing any of them for her. He might have under other circumstances, perhaps, and he could even wish they might be friends. But their worlds were too far apart, and after she left his house he would never see her again.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said, more abruptly than he intended. “Have you always lived in the country? You seem rather intent on convincing everyone that you’re nothing but a little country mouse.”

Her russet eyebrows snapped downward in two elegant lines. “Possibly because I am a country mouse,” she said, her faintly haughty tone unconsciously belying her statement. “Although I spent a good deal of my youth living in London, I prefer the country.”

“Why is that? I can imagine few things more boring than burying oneself in some backwater village,” he said with a faint shudder.

Though Griffin owned a manor house in Somerset—he’d won it in a card game a few years ago—he rarely took the time to visit. He’d kept it in good condition primarily because he intended to sell it before he left England. For too many years he’d been buried away in the dreariest Yorkshire village that one could imagine, and had endured enough of that existence to last him a lifetime. “And aren’t you a companion to a fusty old dowager? God, woman, no one could accuse you of living a life of drama and excitement.”


“No, and for that I am profoundly grateful,” she said tartly. “I’ve had quite enough drama in my life, thank you very much.”

Griffin layered some ham between two thick slices of bread. “Ah, yes, I forgot. I expect that Ned Brightmore’s life would provide enough drama for anyone.”

He took a bite, savoring the dense texture of the bread and the saltiness of the ham while watching Justine’s face. A melancholy expression came over her pretty features.

“Well, it was to be expected, given what he did,” she said with a weary sigh that made him want to pull her into his lap. “But he wasn’t the only reason that our life was rather unsettled.”

Griffin raised his eyebrows. “Unsettled? And here I thought you’d led a life of order and routine. What other secrets are you hiding from me? Were you a member of a traveling circus in your dissipated youth?”

As he’d hoped, that teased a smile from her lips.

“Nothing nearly so exciting,” she said. “My brother, Matthew, and I spent most of the year in London. Since Papa was away a great deal of the time, Aunt Elizabeth cared for us.”

“What happened to your mother?” he asked.

“She died when I was three years old, less than a year after my brother was born.”

Griffin felt the rustling of an old sorrow in his chest. For a moment, it even made it hard to speak. “That must have been difficult.”

She thought about it for a few moments. “Not in the way you’d expect, since I barely remember her. But I don’t think my father ever recovered from the blow. If she had lived I suspect he would not have chosen the life he did.” She fell silent, as if pondering what that other life might have been like.

“What happened after your mother died?” he prompted.

“Aunt Elizabeth, my mother’s older sister, came to live with us. She had been widowed at an early age and had no children, so she took over the raising of us.” Justine gave a wry smile. “Aunt Elizabeth was an unconventional woman, to say the least.”

Griffin leaned back in his chair, drank some tea, and prepared to settle in. “In what way?”

“My mother’s family was from Norwich, wealthy cloth merchants.” She wrinkled her nose in a comical look. “They were quite radical in their politics, as many of the merchant class are in that city. Naturally, that horrified my father’s family. And they were Unitarians, if you can imagine such a thing.”

“I’m reeling at the very idea,” he said drily.

“I assure you, my father’s family was completely horrified. Grandpapa was High Church and very proper.”

“That was the late Viscount Curtis, I take it. You must resemble him,” Griffin said, unable to resist the little jab.

Unexpectedly, she flashed a brief grin. “I do, I’m happy to say.”

“Then why didn’t you move in with him after your mother’s death?”

“Oh, Papa didn’t want that. He and my grandfather had quarreled dreadfully over his marriage to Mamma, and then again when he decided to join the Intelligence Service. Papa used to let us spend part of the summer at Mildenhall, at Grandfather’s estate, but he wanted us in London when he was home.”

She gave Griffin a misty-eyed smile. “Papa did his best to spend time with us, and he was the kindest of men, if rather restless. Of course, there were always a lot of comings and goings and a great deal of work to be done. As I got older, I helped keep his accounts and notes in order, and he would often dictate his reports to me. Aunt Elizabeth wanted to send me away to school, but Papa wouldn’t allow it. He said he couldn’t do without my help.”

There. Griffin heard it again, the wistful longing in her voice as if she regretted the missed opportunities to have a more conventional life. She probably failed to realize how much more interesting—and less restricted—her life had been compared to the average girl of her social standing.

“I suppose that’s why Dominic places such faith in your discretion,” he said, nodding at the baby.

“Oh, yes,” she said, finally throwing off her little melancholy. “I’ve known Uncle Dominic for as long as I can remember. Whenever Papa was away, he always made sure that Matthew and I—and Aunt Elizabeth, of course—had everything we needed.”

“And did your brother stay at home, as well?”

“No. Papa said Matthew needed to go to school and learn a profession since we couldn’t depend on Grandfather Curtis to support us. Matthew went to Eton and Oxford, and then studied the law. He recently moved back to Norwich with his wife and little boy to set up a practice there.”

Griffin absently shoved his plate aside. He’d barely made a dent in the enormous amount of food she’d piled on the plate, but he’d had more than enough. “But surely your father was compensated for his work. Did you not receive at least a portion of his pension on his death? I can’t believe that Dominic would be so careless as to leave that to bureaucratic whim.”

She grimaced and shifted the baby on her lap, as if he was growing too heavy for her. He lifted an eyebrow, silently asking if she wanted him to take the boy, but she shook her head.

“You’re quite right,” she replied. “Uncle Dominic made sure that almost the full pension came to us.”

“Then why are you now buried away with a dotty old woman?” he demanded. “Why aren’t you living in London with your aunt, enjoying yourself as other young ladies do?”

Listening to her admittedly brief account of her life had convinced Griffin that Justine had seen more than her share of sorrows. Surely she deserved more from Dominic than to spend her days as little better than a servant.

“Lady Belgrave is not a dotty old woman,” she retorted, “and I’m not the least bit unhappy. I did have almost two full Seasons, you know. I’m not entirely a country bumpkin.”

“I imagine that you were gay to the point of dissipation,” he replied sarcastically. “But then why the devil aren’t you properly married instead of mouldering away in the country?”

Given her beauty and breeding and fine character, he couldn’t understand why she hadn’t been snapped up immediately. Christ knew that if he’d been allowed to walk in the hallowed halls of the ton, he would have ridden roughshod over everyone to get close to a girl like Justine.

She narrowed her eyes at him, as if debating whether to deliver a lecture on the evils of swearing. Apparently, she thought better of it. “I wish you would rid yourself of the notion, Mr. Steele—”

He held up a hand. “Griffin.”

“—Griffin, that I am mouldering away in the country. And the reason I’m not married is that no one has asked me.”

He frowned. “And why not?”

He could practically hear her back molars grinding together. “Because I did not take.”

Griffin stared at her, taking in the stiff set of her shoulders and the defiant set of her jaw. But he suspected her defiance masked a storehouse of unpleasant memories and small humiliations.

“Then they were a pack of blithering idiots,” he said. “Which I suppose shouldn’t surprise me, given what I know about the average male aristocrat.”

Her mouth dropped open a bit, as if that wasn’t the answer she was expecting. “Ah, thank you,” she said.


He shrugged. “No need. I simply tell the truth as I see it. But none of that explains why you feel the need to work for a living. You have your father’s pension, and I imagine that his family—or your mother’s, for that matter—would wish to help you.”

“They would, but I have no wish to be dependent on my uncle, the current viscount. Nor would life in Norwich suit me any better than life in London. As for the pension, that has gone to my brother. He has a wife and child to support and a budding law practice. His need is very much greater than mine.”

“And you didn’t give him much choice in the matter, did you?”

She shrugged, her gaze sliding away from him. Griffin had her mettle, now. Justine was the sort of woman who felt the need to take care of everyone who fell into her orbit—from her father and brother all the way down to Rose and little Stephen. She even tried to take care of him, the last person on earth who needed it.

But who took care of Justine? Dominic obviously tried, but she seemed no more receptive to his interference than Griffin did. In certain ways, he and Justine were much alike in their reluctance to be dependent on anyone. Though she had people who obviously cared for her, Justine was as alone as Griffin.

He frowned, startled by such a thought. Not only did he have nothing in common with a sheltered young woman like Justine, he didn’t much like the notion that something was lacking in his life. Or even more absurd—that he might be lonely.

“What about you, sir?” she inquired, once more capturing his attention.

He narrowed his gaze on her calm, lovely face. Her eyes were a clear, azure blue, like the sky on a hot summer’s day, and they held a world of innocence despite whatever sorrows and travails she might have suffered. No, he had nothing in common with Justine Brightmore, and he’d best remember that.

“I don’t take your meaning,” he responded curtly.

“Well, I’ve told you quite a bit about my life, but I don’t really know anything about you. Uncle Dominic told me you grew up in Yorkshire, but that’s all.” A faint color crept into her cheeks, the blush of a pink rose. “Except for what you do for a living. I know a bit about that, obviously.”

His defenses automatically locked into place. No one ever dared to ask him about his family or his past—no one with a sense of self-preservation, anyway. Griffin had worked damn hard to leave that all behind, and he had no intention of discussing it with anyone, and most especially not with her. The very idea made something dark and ugly twist low in his gut.

After all, what could he say that would not make her feel soiled just to be in his presence?

Her smile faded as a tense silence swelled between them. Although she didn’t shift in her seat or fidget, her shoulders hitched up a bit. Griffin leaned his forearm on the table, pinning her with his gaze.

“A bit is all you need to know, my dear. It’s best not to ask questions about me or my past.” He kept his voice quiet, but he allowed a warning note to enter it. “I would advise you not to quiz the servants, or anyone else, for that matter. I will find out if you do, and I will not be pleased.”

Her face went blank, but something flashed in her eyes—something wounded and vulnerable. An answering guilt rustled within him, as if he’d damaged a fragile piece of beautiful crystal.

Ruthlessly, he quashed the feeling. He’d enjoyed their conversation, and had enjoyed teasing her even more. But that was enough. No good could come of a friendship between them, and since he couldn’t take her to bed, there was no point in encouraging any further interest on her part.

Finally, she gave a curt nod and rose from her chair, skillfully hefting the dead weight of the baby onto her shoulder. Griffin resisted the instinct to stand, instead crossing his arms over his chest and letting a sardonic smile curve his lips.

“Of course, Mr. Steele,” she replied. “Thank you for the cup of tea. I will bid you good night.”

A sharp pang echoed through his chest at her formal address, but he forced himself to ignore it.

“Good night, Justine,” he called after her as she quickly made her way from the room.