Puzzled, Justine sank down on the dressing table chair, staring up at the two women. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. I know nothing about Mr. Steele’s uncles or his father. What does their behavior have to do with anything?”
With an internal jolt, Justine realized how little she knew about the man she was about to marry. Aside from the few facts Dominic had revealed on the day of her arrival, she knew nothing about Griffin’s family or his personal history.
Patience’s bright blue eyes went round as marbles. “Lord, you mean you don’t know? Well, you’re in for a shock, miss, and that’s the truth.”
Rose jabbed Patience in the ribs. “If Mr. Griffin didn’t feel fit to tell her, then she don’t need to know, do she? And you can just take yourself off now, since Miss Justine is ready. There’s no need to be standing around telling silly stories about things that don’t concern you.” She hurried over to the bed and started to fold up Justine’s night rail and wrapper, clearly wanting to end the discussion.
Patience cast Rose a puzzled glance, but then nodded and started for the door.
“Wait,” Justine said, now even more curious than before. “Please tell me what you were about to say.”
Patience rolled a worried eye at Rose, who stopped her fussing and studied Justine with a cautious air. With a sense of foreboding straight out of a melodrama, Justine felt prickles of warning dance up her spine.
“If you don’t tell me,” she said, slowly rising to her feet, “I’ll ask Mr. Steele myself.”
A wary exchange of glances between the two women did nothing to calm the accelerated beat of Justine’s heart.
“Do you want me to tell her?” Patience finally asked Rose.
Rose grimaced and carefully set the clothing back on the bed. Clasping her hands in front of her, she came slowly to face Justine.
“Just tell me,” Justine said quietly.
“Oh, miss, it ain’t so bad as that,” Rose exclaimed, giving her a bracing smile. “I’m just not sure if it’s our place to tell.”
Justine grimaced. “Truly, whatever it is, I’d much rather hear it from you.”
Patience eyed her, and then sighed. “Well, Mr. Griffin’s father . . . he’s the Duke of Cumberland.”
Justine’s knees went slack and she thumped down in her seat. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn’t that.
“Cumberland?” she asked faintly.
“Yes, the royal duke,” Rose said carefully.
“And Prinny is Mr. Griffin’s uncle,” Patience added. Clearly deciding it was no longer necessary to leave, she plopped down on the bed, her face shining with the joy of imparting such spectacular news. “It’s ever so exciting, miss. Just think—Prinny himself will be your uncle by marriage.”
“On the wrong side of the blanket,” Rose said drily. “And it’s not like he and Mr. Griffin are bosom bows, especially since Prinny owes him so much money.”
“The Prince Regent owes Mr. Steele money?” Justine echoed. Her reeling mind, for some bizarre reason, latched on to that detail. Perhaps the other news was simply too stupendous to fathom.
Rose nodded eagerly, her inhibitions regarding sharing gossip about her employer seeming to vanish. “Lord, yes. He’s in deep to Mr. Griffin. He used to play at all Mr. Griffin’s clubs before they were sold. So did the Duke of Kent.” She flashed a sudden grin. “And Clarence and York too, for that matter. The lot of them didn’t much like the money they lost to a bastard nephew, but sometimes Mr. Griffin was the only one who would take their vowels. He used to joke that he enjoyed helping his family.”
Justine forced the next question past her cold lips. “And what of the Duke of Cumberland?”
Now that she’d had a few moments to absorb the news, she couldn’t prevent her ire from rising. At some point, either Griffin or Dominic should have mentioned this pertinent piece of information. Not that it would have made a whit of difference to the outcome of events, but the fact that they hadn’t bothered made her feel . . . diminished, for lack of a better word. Had it never occurred to either of them that she would want to know?
Rose looked a little grim. “Mr. Griffin doesn’t speak to his father, Miss Justine, and the duke doesn’t acknowledge him, as far as I know. Cumberland’s a right coldhearted sod, by all accounts. I’ve heard Mr. Griffin say so myself. He wants no truck with him.”
While she’d been speaking, Madeline Reeves had quietly opened the door and entered the room. From the look on her handsome face, she didn’t approve of the current discussion.
“And I would suggest that you have no truck with this topic,” Mrs. Reeves said in a reproving voice. “You know how Mr. Griffin feels about it.”
She placed the long drape of fabric she carried onto Justine’s bed before turning to speak sharply to Patience. “You’ve given Miss Justine more than enough help, my girl. Be off with you now.”
Patience gave Mrs. Reeves a pert sniff before sketching Justine a brief curtsy. “I’m sure I wish you much happiness on your wedding day, miss, and even more on your wedding night.” With a wicked little chuckle, she scurried out of the room.
Mrs. Reeves propped her hands on her hips and scowled at Rose. “I’m surprised at you, telling such Banbury tales. You know how Griffin feels about them.”
“They’re not lies, Mad, and Miss Justine has a right to know the truth,” Rose said rather defiantly.
“Perhaps, but it’s not up to us to make that decision,” Mrs. Reeves responded. “It’s up to Griffin. Speaking of which, he’s waiting downstairs for Miss Justine. I’ll finish up in here and take her down.”
Rose let out a disgruntled snort at being summarily dismissed, then gave Justine a swift embrace. “Good luck, miss. And if you want to talk about anything before tonight, you just find me later.”
She gave Justine a roguish wink, leaving no doubt as to what anything meant.
“I will,” Justine replied. She and Griffin would not be sleeping together, but she couldn’t fault Rose for wanting to help.
“I’m sorry if you found their gossip disturbing,” Mrs. Reeves said after Rose left the room. “I would disregard it if I were you.”
Justine couldn’t help giving her an incredulous glance as she retrieved her gloves and reticule from the dresser. “That would be difficult, under the circumstances. And I suppose I should be grateful that they did tell me, since Mr. Steele apparently didn’t think it necessary.”
Mrs. Reeves hesitated. “He doesn’t like to talk about it, you see,” she finally said. “Not with anybody. Most days, he tries very hard to forget exactly who his father is.”
Justine frowned. Although she could understand that one would have mixed feelings about such a parentage, it didn’t seem the worst of fates. The Duke of Clarence, for instance, was reputed to be very close to his children by Mrs. Jordan, and society in general was quite tolerant of any illegitimate offspring of the royal family. Some had even gone on to marry into the best families in the land.
But if that was the case, why was Griffin apparently such an outcast?
“Why won’t he speak of it?” she asked.
“Because he hates the Duke of Cumberland. He always has and I imagine he always will,” replied Mrs. Reeves. “And if I may give you a bit of advice, my dear, I would suggest you let the matter drop. Griffin rarely shows his anger, but that particular subject never fails to annoy him.”
While Justine digested that blunt warning, Mrs. Reeves deftly switched topics. “Now, enough of that dreary conversation,” she said with a smile. “I’ve brought you something lovely to wear.” She picked up the cloth she’d deposited on the bed, which turned out to be a hooded velvet cloak in a rich shade of hunter green. She held it up, displaying the white silk lining that gleamed in the light of the lamps.
“Griffin has forbidden you to wear your mustard color pelisse, especially on your wedding day,” Mrs. Reeves said with a smile. “So I’m lending you one of my cloaks. The color is perfect for you.”
&nb
sp; Justine reached out a hand and stroked the beautifully soft material, her emotions wavering. It really shouldn’t matter what she wore today, and her pelisse was both warm and serviceable. Still, she had no desire to look like a complete dowd, even if her marriage was a little more than a fraud.
But then she remembered how annoyed she was with Griffin for hoarding so many secrets. “No, thank you,” she said firmly. “My pelisse will do just fine.”
Mrs. Reeves’ gracefully shaped eyebrows marched up her forehead. “My dear Miss Brightmore, I do realize the circumstances of your marriage are rather awkward, and they undoubtedly give you some misgivings. There is, however, no need to face your wedding day looking like an ape leader.”
Justine winced. To Mrs. Reeves, a tall, generously shaped woman who always dressed in the height of style, she supposed she looked little better than a frump. But Justine hadn’t exactly been expecting to get engaged one day and married the next.
“Not that your dress isn’t perfectly acceptable,” the older woman added hastily, “but I do think the cloak will be much more flattering than your pelisse.”
Justine cast a glance down at her dress. It was her best one—a kerseymere gown in a soft gray trimmed with a bit of lace. It was warm and, she thought, gave her short, plump figure a more attractive line. But Mrs. Reeves, it would appear, did not agree.
“Come,” said the other woman in a coaxing voice, “just try it on.”
She swirled the cloak around Justine, tying it shut at the throat. After arranging the hood in a soft fall around Justine’s shoulders, Mrs. Reeves gently turned her to the pier glass.
“See,” she said. “You look lovely in this color.”
Justine stared at her reflection, surprised to conclude that she did look rather pretty, even to her own critical eye. Her cheeks were faintly flushed and her hair seemed to gleam with fire against the rich color of her cloak. And her eyes were big, startlingly blue, and softened by fatigue.
From somewhere deep inside came the errant wish that Griffin would find her pretty, too.
Mrs. Reeves gave Justine’s shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry, my dear,” she said, as if reading her mind. “I’ve seen how Griffin looks at you. Everything is going to be fine.”
“That’s what I always say,” Justine whispered.
Only this time, she didn’t believe it.
Chapter Twelve
The clergyman had finally made his good-byes and was being firmly escorted from the room by Dominic, his declarations of gratitude for Griffin’s generous donation toward the rebuilding of his church roof echoing behind him. Given the man’s tendency to gush, Griffin didn’t trust him to keep quiet about the rushed marriage, but Dominic had assured otherwise. Apparently, the good reverend owed Dominic a favor—as did half of London, it seemed—and had always been discreet in the past.
In any event, Griffin and Justine were now well and truly married, so any details that might leak could be denied as foolish gossip.
Griffin propped his shoulder against the marble surround of the fireplace in Dominic’s drawing room, watching his new bride make conversation with Lady Thornbury and Vivien St. George. There was no going back from this unexpected turn of events and, oddly enough, Griffin had yet to regret that fact. Perhaps that would come later when decisions would have to be made about their futures. But for now he could look forward to the one truly bright note in the entire farce—his wedding night, with his plump little partridge of a bride safely tucked up in his bed.
When he’d taken Justine’s trembling hand and sworn his vows before the minister, he’d been startled by the force of his desire for her. She’d stared up at him, all big blue eyes in a white face, the dusting of red freckles across her nose and cheeks standing out in stark relief. Her anxiety was palpable, manifesting itself in the rapid rise and fall of her generous breasts, prompting all kinds of lascivious thoughts in Griffin’s mind just as the minister delivered a solemn disquisition on the duties of matrimony. He could certainly think of one duty he’d like to perform, sooner rather than later, but he’d also been touched by her vulnerability.
He’d made a silent promise on the spot—one that had more meaning to him than the empty vows they’d just exchanged—that he would do his best never to injure her. Regardless of how long they were fated to be together, he’d never leave her without protection and financial standing. Justine was an innocent, much as his mother had once been before his father ruined her. Griffin could no more cast his new wife aside than he could return to the type of life he’d lived before running off to London all those years ago.
But, for however long they remained under the same roof, Griffin also had every intention of enjoying his bride. While he had never anticipated marriage figuring into his life, he was no fool. By any measure, Justine was a prize worth winning, and Griffin knew more about winning than any man in London.
“And how does it feel to be a married man, Cousin?” queried Aden St. George, strolling up to him with a goblet of champagne in each hand. “Trust you to take the unconventional route, as always. Marrying the daughter of Edward Brightmore—that’s a twist, even for you. I can’t wait to hear what the gossips make of this.” He punctuated his words with a gently mocking smile.
“Oh, that’s rich,” Griffin responded, “given the scandal you and Vivien created when you got married. I wasn’t the one who pummeled a mad Russian prince right in front of the ambassador and half the ton. Compared to that, Justine and I hardly merit a mention.”
Aden’s smile slid into a grin, obviously recalling the wild scene the night he’d rescued Lady Vivien Shaw from a forced engagement to Prince Ivan Khovansky, a wealthy and influential member of a powerful Russian family. Griffin and several of his men had been on hand that night as well, lending aid in the form of muscle. He’d been glad to help because he found Vivien a courageous and admirable woman deserving of a happy life.
But as far as Griffin was concerned, it would have been an enjoyable escapade if for no other reason than he’d helped destroy the reputation of one of the more repugnant versions of a species he most loved to hate—princes. Any time he had the opportunity to stick his thumb in the eye of royalty he was more than willing to do so.
“That’s not what I heard,” Aden replied. “Did the lovely Mrs. Steele really pull a pistol on Mulborne? I’m convinced Dominic had to be exaggerating on that little tidbit.”
Griffin mentally blinked at hearing Justine referred to as Mrs. Steele. That would take some getting used to.
“She did,” he said, plucking a glass from Aden’s hand. “She told me she would have fired it, too. She was that annoyed by the pig’s insulting manner.”
“Ah, so she is her father’s daughter, then. No wonder Dominic trusts her.”
Griffin frowned. He’d met Ned Brightmore a few times and knew from Dominic that he’d been one of the most daring agents in the Service. Some would say daring to the point of recklessness. If anything, Justine struck him as an excessively cautious woman intent on leading a quiet life that allowed her to fade into the background. But he supposed she did have elements of her father in her, given her foolishly courageous decision to protect Patience, destroying her own reputation in the process. That sounded exactly like something Brightmore would have done.
And then there was the impulsive kiss they’d shared last evening in his study. Her response to him at first had been shy and tentative, the kiss of an innocent. But something had quickly flared between them, promising of hidden depths of sensuality and passion. That had startled him as much as he suspected it had her.
His gaze drifted to Justine again. She was smiling now as she talked with Vivien and Lady Thornbury, Aden’s mother. Some of the color had returned to her fair complexion, and her bronze-burnished hair, gathered in a loose coiffure that allowed tempting tendrils to curl around her white neck, glowed in the soft light cast by the lamps. Her close-fitting, simple gray gown beautifully outlined her figure, more than hinting at
the garden of delights encased in a petite but sweetly generous package.
But even more than the delight he took in imagining he was undressing her, Griffin enjoyed watching her face—the play of emotions across her pretty features and the sharp intelligence in her sapphire-blue eyes as they fastened on the other women. Justine had a tendency to keep both her thoughts and words to herself, but he harbored no doubt there was very little that escaped her perceptive gaze.
That pleased him a great deal, because if there was one thing he couldn’t abide, it was stupidity. Unlike many men he knew, he didn’t think a woman’s charms were enhanced by an empty head.
“Did you know her father well?” he asked Aden.
“Some. He was mostly before my time, although our paths did cross during the Peninsular campaign.”
Aden had spent the last several years in the Intelligence Service, after Dominic had recruited him from the Horse Guards. Aden was one of Dominic’s most trusted agents, a brilliant spy lethally effective in the most dangerous situations. He also happened to be the bastard son of the Prince Regent and one of the few relatives Griffin had anything to do with—not that the rest of his relations were lining up to spend time with him, anyway. Not unless they wanted to borrow money from him.
But Aden was different. Even though raised within the highest ranks of the aristocracy, he’d always been an outsider, like Griffin, and never fully accepted by the members of his own family. He’d dealt with the pain of rejection by walking away from his family and giving all his loyalty to Dominic and the Service. He’d lived in the shadows, risking all for King and country, with no intention of ever claiming a real position within polite society.
Until, that is, he’d met and married Lady Vivien Shaw. Now Aden had become so bloody respectable Griffin hardly recognized him.
“What was Brightmore like?” Griffin asked. “Justine hasn’t talked much about him, but I gather he was away from home a great deal.”
Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom Page 16