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 cal
l 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.
Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom Page 8