Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom

by Vanessa Kelly

  “Yes, I understand,” she said. “I had no intention of offending you, or suggesting that you didn’t have an appropriate sense of duty.”

  He let out a sardonic snort, half turning from her to stare into the fire. “Yes, that’s me. A slave to duty.”

  The bitter note in his voice tugged at her, making her wish she could touch him, or soothe him somehow. But given what they’d just discussed and her need to keep him at an appropriate distance, to give in to that sort of impulse—especially with a man like him—would be madness.

  “Well, then,” she said, coming to her feet, “it would appear that we have reached some sort of understanding as to how to conduct ourselves. In public, we shall present a united front as husband and wife. And in private . . .” She hesitated, not quite sure how to put it into words.

  He looked over his shoulder at her, the devilish gleam once more lurking in his eyes. “Yes, and in private?”

  Good Lord, the man didn’t know when to stop. Clearly, she had to make her position crystal clear. “In private, we shall live as friends and nothing more,” she replied in a firm voice.

  He turned to face her, crossing his arms and resting his broad shoulders against the mantelpiece. “Ah, but marriage is the truest form of friendship, is it not?” The purring tone of his voice left her in no doubt as to his meaning.

  The man was simply beyond incorrigible.

  “Then brother and sister,” she said.

  “Gawd, that’s an awful thought,” he muttered.

  Despite herself, Justine had to bite back a smile. “If that’s all, please allow me to excuse myself. I need to check on the baby.”

  “Just a moment,” he said, strolling over to her. “Now that we’ve reached an agreement, I think we need to mark it somehow.”

  As he closed in on her, Justine had to tilt up her chin to meet his gaze. The strange, almost taunting look on his face made her pulse skip a bit.

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” she blurted out. “I trust you.”

  “Nonetheless,” he said, reaching down to wrap his long fingers around her hand, “I feel we should salute our agreement.”

  “Oh,” she said weakly as he intertwined his fingers with hers. “Very well. I suppose there’s no harm shaking on it.”

  His other hand tilted her chin up another notch, forcing her to look directly into his midnight eyes. How could something so dark seem to glow with so much fire and heat?

  Her heart lost what was left of its steady rhythm, and a flash of nervous excitement rushed out from the core of her body to her limbs, making her tremble.

  “Come now,” he murmured. “We can do much better than a cool handshake. On such a momentous occasion, a kiss would be a far more appropriate response.”

  When she let out a shocked gasp, he smiled. “A kiss between friends, of course,” he whispered in a dark voice. “Entirely chaste and respectable.”

  “I . . . I . . .”

  He silenced her witless stammering by leaning down a few more inches and sealing the words in her mouth with his warm, firm lips. When her body jerked in surprise, he moved his other hand to her shoulder, taking it in a gentle grip as if to steady her. All the while, his lips gently explored hers, brushing as soft as a feather from one corner of her mouth to the other, tasting her as delicately as a hummingbird sips from a flower. Oddly, his kiss was both soothing and stimulating. Part of her wanted to rest against him, finding shelter in the strength of his embrace, while another part stirred with a growing, restless need, one that urged her to entwine her arms around his shoulders and come up on her toes, plastering every inch of her body against him.

  For several long moments they stood like that—their mouths as the only point of contact other than his hands on her shoulder and chin. Twice, his hand nudged her jaw, adjusting the angle of the kiss so their lips fit perfectly together. Justine shivered under his gentle ministrations as his slow, silky kisses—flowing from one to the other—lured her into resting her hands on his satin waistcoat and leaning ever so slightly into him.

  Never had she felt such delicious warmth, or imagined that a kiss could cast such a transfixing spell over her body. Though her mind reeled in astonishment, she wanted to stand there forever, greedily drawing in his heat and strength. Drawing in the heady taste of him—something wild and masculine and utterly tempting.

  But then his mouth opened and she tasted brandy as his tongue slipped between her lips, demanding entrance. She stiffened in his arms—shocked by his boldness, and astounded by her instinctive desire to open up to him.

  She pressed her hands against his chest and pushed, ready to resist by fighting him if she had to. But to her surprise he immediately drew back, his black eyes unfocused as he blinked down at her. If she didn’t know what kind of man he was, she would have suspected he was just as stunned as she was.

  “That was hardly a friendly kiss,” she said in an accusatory voice as she stepped out of his arms.

  Somewhat to her disappointment—and wasn’t that completely irrational—he made no attempt to retain his hold on her. “Come, Justine,” he said, his face settling into its usual cynical expression. “That was nothing to make a fuss about. I’m sure that more than one lad has tried to kiss you on the terrace at a ball, or lured you into a convenient window alcove.”

  His eyes mocked her, but she heard the low, husky note in his voice. And as he reached to shove back an errant lock that had fallen forward against his cheek, she could have sworn his fingers trembled ever so slightly.

  “I am not making a fuss in the least,” she said in a prim tone, praying he wouldn’t hear the sound of her knees knocking together. “Nor do I sneak off to alcoves or terraces to engage in improper behavior.”

  Not that anyone had ever offered her the opportunity to do so, but he certainly didn’t need to know that.

  “No, I imagine you don’t.” He studied her face, now sober as a judge. Griffin’s moods were as changeable as the weather, and just as unpredictable. “In fact, if I didn’t know better, I would suspect this was your first kiss.”

  Drat the man.

  “Well, if you don’t mind,” she said in a dementedly bright voice, backing her way to the door. “I’ve got to check on—”

  “Yes, the baby. I know. Be off with you, then.”

  She nodded gratefully and turned to open the door, her shaking fingers slipping on the knob. When she finally got it open, his voice, gently sardonic, followed her into the hall.

  “And don’t stay up too late, Justine. Remember—tomorrow is your wedding day.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Rose grimaced at Justine. “Lord, miss, don’t wind your hair into that ugly knot. It makes your face go all tight, as if you have the headache.”

  Justine did have a headache, but she still gave the braid at the back of her neck another twist and shoved some pins through it. “No one will see it, since I’ll be wearing a cap.”

  Patience, the girl she’d helped rescue the other day in the brothel, let loose a dramatic gasp. “You can’t be wearing a cap on your wedding day, Miss Justine. You’ll look a fright.”

  Justine acknowledged that unpleasant truth as she eyed her reflection in the dressing table’s glass. With the dark smudges under her eyes, her pallid complexion, and the taut lines of her mouth and jaw, she was as far from the image of a happy bride as one could imagine. She hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep since stepping foot into Griffin Steele’s benighted house, and now it was to become her home for the foreseeable future—if, that is, her legal lord and master didn’t drag her along with him on his wanderings or deposit her somewhere outside of London. Although at this very moment, the idea of retreating to some isolated bolt hole in the countryside was vastly appealing.

  “What does it matter what my hair looks like?” she grumbled. “I’ll just keep my bonnet on.”

  Rose and Patience exchanged a knowing glance that made Justine grind her teeth. They obviously thought she was nervous a
bout her impending nuptials. She was, but not for the reasons they likely imagined—although she had been doing her best to ignore the kiss she and Griffin had shared last night. That had stemmed from a ridiculous lapse in judgment, a momentary weakness she wouldn’t allow to happen again.

  More pressing than any confusion over her emotional response to her future husband was what loomed before her. For today meant the end of the life she’d carved out for herself with diligent, careful steps. It meant she would once more be at the mercy of a charming but reckless man who thought nothing of the chaos he created in his wake. Like her father, Griffin would keep her at sixes and sevens with all kinds of odd, even scandalous, behavior that she would be expected to manage and whitewash, imposing order where very little existed. The idea of returning to a life of such uncertainty churned her stomach.

  At least in her father’s case, Justine knew how much he had loved his children. And as much as she had resented the way Papa had lived his life, he’d been doing something important—something for the greater good that he believed merited the sacrifices imposed on himself and his family. But no one would ever accuse Griffin Steele of sacrificing himself for the common good or putting his needs before others. He was a dangerous, hardened rake and reprobate who’d earned his fortune in a way that should disgust any respectable person.

  And into the hands of such a man was Justine forced to entrust her fate. It still seemed utterly impossible.

  “Here, miss,” Rose said in a coaxing voice as she picked up the new brush she’d placed carefully on the dressing table. “Let me do it for you. You’ve got such lovely hair. It would be a shame to cover it up, especially today.”

  Sighing, Justine capitulated, too tired to fight over something of no consequence. In fact, as Rose undid the braid, letting the heavy masses of hair fall around Justine’s shoulders, she could barely hold back a pleasurable little moan at the release of tension on her scalp. Like the idiot she was, she’d been punishing herself by pulling her hair back so tightly, jabbing pins into it as if her very life depended on them. Somehow it had seemed important to look exactly as she always did, day in day out, despite the momentous change this day would bring.

  As Rose smoothed the brush through her hair, Justine fiddled with the hand mirror on her dressing table. It was part of the ornate enamel and bronze vanity set Phelps had delivered first thing this morning, a wedding present from the bridegroom. She’d been shocked to receive the expensive gift—any gift at all, for that matter—but Phelps had thrust the box into her hands and retreated down the hall before she’d been able to utter a word.

  Enraptured, Rose and Patience had exclaimed their delight over the beautiful gilding and the exquisite, delicate portraits of Mrs. Siddons and other great actresses of the British theater that ornamented the backs of two hairbrushes, a hand mirror, a dress brush, and a nail buffer. The set was colorful, expensive, and entirely frivolous, and not something Justine would ever think to buy for herself—even if she’d been able to afford it. And although she could appreciate the beauty of the pieces, they seemed so out of keeping with the situation that she hadn’t known how to react.

  Her first impulse had been to reject the gift, but Rose and Patience had shrieked, telling her she couldn’t possibly offend Mr. Griffin. Justine reluctantly saw the sense in that. Since she and her future husband had to pull in harness, there was no point in starting off on a rude footing. And Griffin’s note had reassured her somewhat. Written in a sardonic, light tone, he had simply said that a bridegroom was expected to give his bride a gift, no matter how awkward the circumstances, and he hoped Justine would find the small token both charming and useful, which is how he thought of her.

  That had made her smile, which was a miracle, all things considered. Despite her worries that she was marrying a man whose values differed so greatly from her own, she had to admit that Griffin treated her kindly and was making as great a sacrifice as she to preserve her reputation. Thinking of it in that light, she’d decided it would be churlish and mean-spirited to return his gift, no matter how ill-suited it might be to her tastes. He clearly didn’t understand the first thing about her, but she couldn’t fault him for the well-intended gesture.

  “I’ve never understood why people say they don’t like red hair,” Patience said after she’d peeped into Rose’s room to check on the sleeping babies. “I’d kill to have it. There’s many a gentleman who’ll pay extra for a girl with red hair, especially if it’s natural.”

  “Really?” Justine asked, finding that hard to believe. “Why?”

  “They think if a girl has a red—”

  “That’s enough of that,” Rose interjected in a sharp voice. “Miss Justine doesn’t need you blathering on about such nastiness.”

  “There’s nothing nasty about it if a gent knows what he’s doing down there,” Patience retorted. “In fact, it’s the nicest thing about the whole bloody lot, if you ask me, and don’t happen often enough.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Justine broke in when it looked like the two women were going to fall into an argument. She wasn’t entirely sure what Patience was talking about, but she was quite sure she didn’t want to discuss it, especially with two women who knew everything there was to know about sexual congress. What little Justine knew about the duties of the marriage bed could probably be contained on the back of a calling card. As irrational as it was, she had no desire to expose her ignorance, especially to the experienced Rose and Patience.

  “There,” Rose finally said, admiring her handiwork. “You look as pretty as a picture, you do.”

  Pretty was not a word Justine often heard, but Rose had done a lovely job with her hair. She’d pulled the mass into a loose, full knot on top of her head, with a few soft ringlets curling down the sides of her face and the back of her neck. It made her features seem less strained and angular. Justine thought it made her look younger, too, and somehow more vulnerable. She wasn’t sure she liked that last bit, but she had to admit it was how she felt at the moment.

  She smiled at Rose’s reflection in the mirror. “It’s lovely, Rose. Thank you.”

  “Psh, it’s nothing,” Rose replied. “But it needs a little something else, too.”

  She fished in the pockets of her plain round gown and extracted a few delicate pins topped with dainty flowers made out of silk. “Here, these will finish it off nicely,” she said as she carefully placed the pins in the top knot.

  When Justine started to protest that the decorations were unnecessary, Rose bluntly cut her off. “These are my very own, that my man gave me,” she said. “I want you to wear them today so you’ll feel special. Everything’s been done in so harum-scarum a fashion that we don’t have time to do things up proper for you. And Lord knows you deserve special today.”

  On a sudden surge of gratitude and affection, Justine slid around in her seat and took Rose’s hand, pressing it briefly to her cheek. “Thank you, Rose. You’ve been a true friend, and I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

  “Here, now,” Rose scoffed in a gruff little voice, “no need to turn into a watering pot on account of a few pins. But you’re an out and outer, Miss Justine, and I don’t mind saying so. Most fine ladies wouldn’t give the likes of Patience and me the time of day. Mr. Griffin is a lucky man to be marrying such a fine woman like you.”

  “I doubt he thinks himself very lucky,” Justine said with a sigh. “Nor do I feel particularly like a bride. But I do appreciate the effort you’ve made to make me more presentable.”

  Such preparations, though, made her even more nervous, as if she were about to enter into a real relationship and not some hastily arranged marriage of convenience.

  “That’s the spirit,” said Patience in an encouraging voice. “After all, you don’t want to be disappointing Mr. Griffin, now, do you, miss? He’ll be wanting a pretty young lady coming to his bed tonight, not a spinsterish old tabby.”

  At that unfortunate choice of words, Rose rounde
d on Patience and began to berate her.

  “No, really, it’s fine,” Justine said, coming to her feet. She flapped her hands, cutting Rose off in midscold. “Everything is fine. You’re correct, Patience. I am a spinster, but I think you’ve both misunderstood the situation. My marriage to Mr. Steele is more in the nature of a . . . business arrangement, for lack of a better word. Nothing more.”

  At the startled glance the two women exchanged, Justine clamped her lips together, feeling her cheeks heat up with a flush. Logically, she knew she didn’t have to explain the nature of her relationship with Griffin, but she couldn’t bear the idea of anyone misunderstanding.

  “Really?” Patience asked doubtfully. “That don’t sound like Mr. Griffin. He’s always been one for the ladies, and the ladies for him.”

  Justine’s blood congealed in an odd combination of jealousy and disappointment. “Are you saying,” she said carefully, “that Mr. Steele is, ah, intimate with his girls?”

  She hadn’t thought so, and Griffin had never given any indication that he availed himself of the services of his own bawdy house. But perhaps she was being naïve.

  And stupid to care about it, one way or the other.

  Rose scowled at Patience before giving Justine a reassuring smile. “Oh, no, not a bit, miss. Mr. Griffin would never do something so havey-cavey. He has more respect for us than that.”

  “You’re right, but you must admit he has quite the reputation,” Patience mused. “Not that he’s anywhere near as bad as his father or any of his uncles.” She rolled her eyes. “Lord, that lot will populate half of London with their bastards before they’re under the dirt.”

  “That’s true,” Rose said judiciously. “Whatever his reputation might be—and I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve some of it—Mr. Griffin doesn’t have a patch on his uncles, so no need to worry on that score.”