“I know,” Dominic said. “And I’ll see that he gets it.”
He’d made it one of his missions in life to help men like Aden and Griffin, the bastard sons of the royal princes, the ones who’d been tossed aside by their fathers. Men who’d had to fight for every last scrap of dignity and self-worth, just like Dominic had been forced to do.
Sir Anthony gave a thoughtful nod. “Griffin is a more challenging case, as I’m sure you realize. His loss has been profound.”
The darkness inside Dominic rustled again, a reminder that it would not be forgotten.
“Don’t worry,” he replied in a grim voice. “I have every intention of reuniting him with his mother.” That, in fact, would be a hell of a task since Griffin’s mother had been lost to all of them for twenty-eight long years. “I’ll find her, even if I have to search every corner of England to do it.”
“Do you think he noticed how nervous I was?” Vivien asked, wrinkling her pretty nose in dismay. “I’m afraid I sounded like a complete ninny.”
They watched Aden’s mother steer the rotund figure of the Prince Regent across the cavernous drawing room toward Edmund, Aden’s half brother. Edmund had graciously offered Thornbury House as the setting for their wedding breakfast, especially once he’d been apprised that Prinny would be attending. Aden had winced when his mother had insisted on including his father on the invitation list, but the old fellow had been quite helpful in smoothing over lingering problems with the Russians, outraged that a gently bred Englishwoman and his son had been the target of such a sinister plot. The entire episode had been the biggest scandal of the Season, and only the fact that Aden had claimed the ultimate prize—Vivien’s love—made the subsequent gossip and fuss remotely tolerable.
But with Vivien by his side, Aden could put up with anything.
“My darling,” he said, smoothing his hand along the back of her silky-soft neck, “you’ve met my royal parent several times over the years. Why should today be any different?”
She shivered under his caress even as the expression in her beautiful blue eyes conveyed both laughter and disbelief. “Because today is our wedding day, silly! And the Prince Regent is now my father-in-law. It’s all rather a bit much to take in, don’t you think?”
He shrugged. “I suppose I’ve gotten used to it. Besides, he can’t be any worse than your family, can he?”
Vivien glanced across the room where Cyrus was trying to toady up to the Regent. “I’m sorry we had to invite Cyrus, but I think your mamma was right. It would have generated even more gossip if we’d left him off the list.”
Aden dropped a swift kiss on her rosy mouth, not caring for one moment if anyone saw him do it. Vivien was his wife, now and forever, and he would kiss her wherever and whenever he chose. Besides, she looked so delectable in her gold dress trimmed with lace and cut temptingly low across the bodice, it was a wonder he didn’t carry her off into an empty room and have his way with her.
“You’re not to worry,” he said. “Cyrus and I have come to an understanding.” Namely, that Cyrus was to stay the hell away from Vivien or face Aden’s wrath.
“I’m sure,” she replied in a dry voice. Then she tilted her head, her gaze running over him in a way that made his blood instantly heat.
“What?” he asked, his voice going low and husky.
“I was just thinking of Mr. and Mrs. Parker, and what they would think about all this.”
Aden slid his hand from Vivien’s neck and trailed it down her arm, making her shiver again. He entwined his fingers with hers. “I certainly know what Mr. Parker would be thinking right now.”
“Oh, yes?” she asked, her eyes sparkling with so much love and laughter that Aden could barely contain his own happiness. To know that this woman was his to adore to the end of their days was a joy and a freedom he’d never thought to experience.
“He’d be thinking about their breeding problem, and how best to resolve it,” he said.
“How odd. I believe Mrs. Parker would be thinking the same thing.”
Her lips parted and the tip of her pink tongue touched the corner of her mouth. Aden instantly turned hard, which wasn’t very convenient, under the circumstances.
Vivien’s sapphire gaze turned smoky with desire. “Do you think Mr. and Mrs. Parker might be able to slip away for a few minutes to discuss the problem? Without anyone noticing?”
Aden grinned. “I’m a spy, my love. I do this sort of thing for a living.” He cast a swift glance around the room, sizing up the quickest route of escape as he slipped an arm around her waist. “Just leave everything to me.”
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for reading Secrets for Seducing a Royal Bodyguard, book one in The Renegade Royals series. I enjoyed sharing Aden’s and Vivien’s story with you, along with teasing you with hints about Dominic Hunter’s story, which began in my novella Lost in a Royal Kiss. Dominic will be a consistent thread throughout the series as he helps my heroes secure their rightful places in society.
One character you might also have noticed is Aden’s cousin, Griffin Steele. As soon as he appeared on my computer screen, Griffin was the type of character who took hold and pushed me in some unexpected (and fun!) directions. I’m thrilled that Griffin’s story, called Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom, is coming up next.
Griffin is the illegitimate son of Chloe and Prince Ernest from Lost in a Royal Kiss. He’s the classic Regency reprobate, living his life by his own reckless code, and the heck with what anyone thinks of him. Naturally, given the type of man he is—dangerous, charismatic, and rebellious—I had to give him a heroine with the strength and intelligence to stand up to him.
That’s where Justine Brightmore comes in, and I’m happy to say she’s one of my favorite heroines. When Griffin finds a mysterious baby on his doorstep, he hasn’t a clue what to do with it. But Dominic Hunter does, and he sends the prim and practical Justine to lend a helping hand. Justine thinks Griffin is nothing but trouble, and she firmly intends to keep a safe distance. But Griffin’s convinced that Justine’s starched exterior conceals a passionate and beautiful woman, one he’s determined to reveal—whether she wants him to, or not!
Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom will be released in April 2014. Please read on for an excerpt. You can also stop by my website to keep up with all the news about subsequent books in the series, read more excerpts, and enter my fun contests. You can find me at www.vanessakellyauthor.com.
After seven long years, Griffin Steele was a sinner’s breath away from casting off the millstone around his neck, the one that dragged at the few shreds of decency in his dark soul.
“I trust everything is to your specifications,” said Madeline Reeves in her smoothly seductive tones. “Lizzie, Rebecca, and I went over the terms quite carefully, and I believe we’ve done a more than adequate job of addressing your concerns.” Her full-lipped smile offset any hint of criticism that her words might have conveyed.
Griffin glanced up from the document to the woman who managed his brothel and who had once graced his bed. Madeline was a statuesque beauty, dark-haired and sloe-eyed, with a languid sensuality that masked a keen business mind and a cardsharp’s instincts. She was also, despite her profession, thoroughly decent and one of the few people Griffin had elected to trust in his life.
He responded to her challenge with a nod. “I know the terms seem more demanding than are justified, given our relationship. I also know you see the reason for it.” He allowed the document to settle with a whisper of fluttering parchment onto his desk. “Am I wrong?”
Madeline’s smile tilted up at one corner in wry understanding. “No, you’re not wrong. You’re never wrong, are you?”
Griffin had to repress a bitter laugh, covering the emotion her remark had engendered with a languid smile. “My dear, you flatter me, but I trust you see the reasoning behind my insistence on your ability to meet my terms. At least in this particular instance.”
“I do.” Madeline’s
lovely features shifted ever so slightly, transforming her from one of London’s most sought-after courtesans into a canny businesswoman. “If we could not demonstrate our ability to manage The Golden Tie according to your terms, then we would never be able to maintain our financial independence and treat the girls with a modicum of decency. I know how important that is to you.”
She leaned forward to place a hand on the polished countertop of his Chippendale desk, her burgundy gown, beautifully tailored to showcase her magnificent figure, rustling with the soft slide of expensive silk. “I won’t let anything happen to the girls, Griffin. You have my word.”
“I know I do, and I am grateful to you.”
He was, too. Madeline and her new partners—all women who worked in his brothel—were a key part of his plan to achieve his freedom.
Griffin had long wanted to shed The Golden Tie. He’d only saddled himself with it because he’d been unable to tolerate the brutal treatment meted out to the girls by the brothel’s former owner—a foul excuse for a man named Paulson. The pig had done nothing to protect the girls from disease, pregnancy, and beatings from the customers. The man had, unfortunately, also owned The Cormorant, the first gaming house Griffin had acquired and the foundation of his wealth and influence. Though Griffin had only wanted the gaming house, he’d found himself taking the brothel on, as well.
Not that he was a saint. He’d taken full financial advantage of the opportunity—on his terms, of course—but now he was eager to rid himself of a responsibility he’d never wanted. Too often, in the years since he’d arrived in London, he’d seen the ruination of women, mistreated and then discarded by the sorts of men who frequented establishments like The Golden Tie. His own mother had suffered a similar fate. Griffin’s father had the bluest blood in the land, but to his mind the man was less than a scraping of mud from a bootjack.
“Griffin, is something wrong?” The keen understanding in Madeline’s eyes jogged him even more than her words.
Waving a negligent hand, he rose to his feet to signal an end to their interview. “Not in the least, my dear. I’ll have my solicitor look over the papers later today, but I’m sure everything is in order. We should be able to sign off in a few days.” With a smile, he rounded the desk to offer Madeline his hand. “I wish you the best of luck, Mad. I know you’ll make a go of it.”
She rose with the sinuous grace that had entranced so many. Madeline was tall, enough so that she could almost look him straight in the eye.
“Would you, perhaps, like to celebrate the completion of our deal?” she purred, her velvet-brown gaze glittering with satisfaction and invitation. “Once more for old times’ sake?”
Her voice brushed along his nerves, pleasantly arousing. At one time, Griffin would have responded to that siren call with alacrity. But he’d left Madeline’s bed months ago, as much from a growing ennui as a reluctance to mix business and pleasure. For a moment, he allowed himself to consider the invitation, knowing that Madeline would be more than willing to do all the work. But then that dark, dissatisfied part of him that had been pushing so hard of late, the part driving him to step far away from his current life, reasserted itself. He didn’t have to say a word, either. Madeline, ever sensitive to his emotional nuance, saw the answer on his face.
“Ah, well,” she said, not sounding all that disappointed. “I thought not. Truly, Griffin, you are turning into a monk. And we haven’t seen you next door in three nights. I do hope you don’t intend to take yourself off to some dreary mountaintop in Scotland, or hole up in a ridiculous hermitage on one of your uncles’ estates.” She let her gaze drift down over his body. “That would be such a waste.”
He grinned at her. “Now, you’re simply flattering me, and you know I’m immune to that sort of thing.”
She was about to retort when a quick knock on the door cut her off. Before Griffin could call out permission to enter, Tom Deacon opened the door and barreled into the room.
Griffin raised his eyebrows in a pointed question. His business manager might be several inches taller and outweigh him by three stone, but Tom knew better than to charge into his office without permission. Combined with the scowl on the man’s blunt features, it suggested that something had disturbed his normally unflappable right-hand man.
Tom came to a halt in front of the desk, practically stepping on Griffin’s toes. The space was small enough that Madeline had to sit down in order to avoid getting squashed between the two men.
Griffin’s office, once the room from which he’d managed the gaming hell that had graced this part of Jermyn Street, wasn’t large. He’d closed The Cormorant only a few months ago, converting the building back to its original use as a private dwelling, but he’d seen no point in moving his office to a more spacious room upstairs. From here, Griffin could still monitor the comings and goings in his household and the brothel next door, connected by a small, conveniently placed passageway right outside his office door. Tom’s bulky form and his obvious agitation filled the room, making the walls seem to close in.
Sighing, Griffin moved around to the other side of his desk and waited. Tom was a man of few words to begin with, and it rarely served to push him. But after several seconds of watching Tom’s jaw tick under the impact of some obviously perturbing stimulus, Griffin finally lost his patience.
“Are we going to stand here like a pair of chawbacons, or are you going to tell me why you’re so disturbed?” Griffin asked with some asperity.
Tom’s jaw worked again, as if chewing over a gristly piece of beef, but he finally spit words out. “It’s a baby. A baby in the entrance hall.”
Griffin’s mind blanked for a second. “A baby?” he repeated, sounding rather like a chawbacon after all. “In my house?”
Some of the girls did occasionally succumb to that particular hazard of the profession, but Griffin always set them up off the premises. Babies weren’t exactly good for this sort of business.
Tom unleashed a grim smile. “Aye. And, apparently, it’s yours.”
Griffin strode down the hallway toward the front of the house.
“If there’s one thing you can be sure of,” he snapped over his shoulder at Tom, “it’s that this baby is not mine. I’ve been very careful with that sort of thing, I assure you.” Given his lamentable parentage he’d be damned if he spread his seed around with such careless abandon.
“I’m just telling you what the boy who brought him said,” Tom retorted. “I’m not sayin’ it’s true, am I?”
“I should bloody well hope not,” Griffin muttered. Even so, he couldn’t help counting in his head, thinking of whose bed he’d been warming about nine months ago. A few moments of rapid reflection confirmed what he’d thought. He’d been sleeping with only Madeline back then, and he’d sure as hell had not gotten her with child.
Still, some enterprising or desperate woman might try to pin the charge on him, hoping to squeeze him for money. Griffin’s reputation when it came to matters of a sexual nature was exaggerated. He was more discriminating than anyone gave him credit for, unlike Prinny and some of his other royal uncles who couldn’t seem to resist an attractive bit of tail to save their lives. Griffin also made a point of never sleeping with a woman whilst in his cups. He’d learned early on that losing control of oneself only led to trouble. On the few occasions when he did indulge in drink, he generally did it in private, or with the few people he trusted to have his back.
He pushed through the baize door and into the entrance hall. A moment later he practically skidded to a halt, with Tom almost ramming him in the back.
There was a baby, all right. It was wrapped in a white blanket, resting in a commodious straw basket, which someone had plopped into the middle of the tiled hall. Griffin couldn’t actually see the infant from where he stood, but he could hear its woeful crying. Its thin wail climbed up into a higher register, rapidly transforming into a lusty, keening lament that bounced off the plastered walls to make everyone wince.
“No
thin’ wrong with that set of lungs,” Tom observed in a sour voice.
Griffin resisted the impulse to jam his fingers in his ears as he inspected the other stranger. A small boy of not more than ten years of age, clearly a street urchin, stood by the basket, shifting uncomfortably as he rolled his ratty cap between nervous fingers. Hovering behind the boy with a pained look on his narrow features was Phelps, Griffin’s manservant and factotum.
“What the hell is going on?” Griffin asked in a voice loud enough to be heard over the wailing. “Phelps, why in God’s name would you let these brats into the house?”
“Couldn’t really stop the boy, Mr. Griffin,” Phelps said with a helpless shrug. “He slipped right under my arm before I could say nary a word.”
Griffin turned to the urchin. Despite his scruffy appearance, intelligence gleamed in the lad’s eyes, along with a wary curiosity. Nor could he fail to note the way the child’s gaze jumped from point to point, obviously taking in the highly polished wall sconces and the brass hardware on the doors.
“Don’t even think about it,” Griffin said in a dry voice.
The boy’s eyes widened in an imitation of innocence. “Got no idea what you’re talking about, guv.”
“I’m fairly sure you do. Now, tell me who you are and why you brought this child into my establishment.”
Just then, the baby’s cry kicked up to a deafening level. Tom actually did stuff his fingers in his ears.
“Hellfire and damnation, Phelps,” Griffin exclaimed. “Pick the child up and keep it quiet. I can barely think with that racket going on.”
Phelps, a wiry, capable man who once owned a rough-and-tumble pub in Covent Garden, backed away, putting up his hands as if warding off an attack. “Sorry, sir. I’m afraid I’ll drop it. Never did go in much for babies.”
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