Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom

by Vanessa Kelly

Her groping attempts to understand him dissolved under the pressure of his warm lips, leaving her with a decision to make—to respond or push him away. Though she should be pushing back right this moment, her body seemed to have detached from its connection to her reason and her mind all together. In a queer sort of daze, one as soft and enticing as a kitten’s fur, she watched her hand creep up his sleeve to grasp his shoulder, and felt her mouth open under the coaxing pressure of his.

  When Griffin’s tongue slipped between her lips, teasing her with a taste of brandy and heady desire, Justine’s resistance gave up the ghost. With a whimper of need—Lord, she wanted his arms about her—she let her head tilt gently back as he eased her into the cradle of his embrace.

  With her surrender, his body seemed to surround her and grow hard as iron. But his kiss remained gentle, a tantalizing whisper of lips and tongues that drew her, step by cautious step, farther from her will to resist him.

  Digging her fingers into the fabric of his greatcoat, she parted her lips wide, allowing him full access. The silky heat of his tongue, sliding into her mouth, made everything inside quiver with excitement. He teased her, taking her mouth deeply before briefly retreating to trace the curve of her lips. When he nipped her lower lip, sucking it briefly into his mouth, she jolted in his arms. Warmth sprang to life in the secret places of her body, tempting her to squirm against him.

  Horrified by that unladylike impulse, she felt her eyes pop wide even though she didn’t remember closing them. She stared into his gaze, one that blazed with a dark, all-consuming heat that scorched her. She remembered how she had felt the other night when he kissed her. Her body had flushed, as if he had dipped her into a hot bath. She’d thought then it was mostly nerves.

  Now she knew better.

  “Did you like that, Justine?” he said in a rough voice that made her stomach quiver. “Or did I frighten you?”

  Griffin’s face hovered mere inches away. But he didn’t swoop in to kiss her again as she’d assumed he would. Surely the answer was obvious to him since she’d neither raised a verbal objection nor boxed his ears. He was either very dense, or he genuinely wanted her to respond.

  Mentally, she sighed, reluctant to answer since she would then have to take on a measure of responsibility for what happened. Part of her wished the blasted coach would simply arrive home—he must have told the coachman to take the long way around—and take the matter out of her hands. But that was the coward’s way out. Griffin had promised that he wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want him to do, thus placing both the decision and the responsibility in her hands.

  “You must not be quite as adept at reading women as you think you are,” she said in a voice a shade too tart. “If I hadn’t liked it, I would have made the answer abundantly clear.”

  His body quivered with barely repressed laughter but he adopted an apologetic tone. “Forgive me, my dear. You do seem to have a rather unusual effect on me. I find myself sailing into uncharted waters, perhaps because I’ve never had a wife before.”

  She rested a hand on his chest, searching for the steady heartbeat under the slippery silk of his waistcoat. Even through his clothing, his body heat warmed her.

  “Is that true about the uncharted waters?” she asked, cautiously probing for the truth under the light tone of his jest.

  His other hand came up to cover her fingers. “Yes, Justine. You’re different from any other woman I’ve ever known.” A smile touched the corners of his mouth. “In fact, I don’t quite know what to do with you.”

  The wry but genuine warmth in his voice seemed to tap lightly on the part of her heart that she kept firmly locked away. But despite that light touch, it reverberated through her, making her yearn for things she’d tried for so long to believe didn’t matter. The emotion bubbled up like a stream coming back to life after winter released its icy grip.

  “Well,” she whispered, “you might try kissing me some more, and see how we get on with that.”

  He let out a husky laugh and then his mouth descended on hers once more, and this time with no hesitation, no teasing or retreats. He swept through her like a storm, his mouth devouring her as he tipped her back over his arm.

  Under the passionate onslaught, all she could do was whimper, holding on with a convulsive grip. She clutched at him, taking it all in—the heat, the wet, all-consuming taste of his lips and tongue, the pounding of his heart under her palm. He clouded her mind with a dark longing, and she opened her mouth to him, eager for the feel of his tongue stroking against hers.

  Griffin growled deep in his throat as one hand yanked loose the silken cords of her cloak. When his mouth pulled away she sucked in a huge gasp of air, hoping to manage the excitement that coursed through her veins. But when his lips went to her jaw and then feathered kisses softly over her throat to the tender skin at the base of her neck, she lost her breath again. He pressed his mouth against her madly pounding pulse, splintering what little concentration and control she had left.

  “Griffin,” she moaned as her hands drifted to his tied-back hair. She tunneled her fingers into the thick, soft tail as his mouth dipped lower, his tongue flicking and dancing across her skin. She let her fingers trail from his hair to the back of his neck, coming to rest on his shoulders as she drifted into a delicious haze.

  Never had Justine felt so languid, even as excitement shivered through her. His touch and his lips left her drowning in sweet sensation and, God help her, she wanted so much more.

  As if responding to her unuttered wish, his hand slipped upward to settle just below her breast. Inwardly, she froze, but he simply held her in a soft grip, as if to steady her. Murmuring something indistinguishable but soothing, he moved up to take her mouth again, tasting her in a leisurely but deeply sensual openmouthed kiss. And even though her brain had puddled to mush, Justine finally realized why women were so ready to throw themselves at her husband. Under his hands and mouth, her body seemed to awaken as if from a long slumber, as if she were a princess from an enchanted fairy kingdom.

  At that ridiculous image, she couldn’t help snickering. They were both as far from fairy-tale characters as she could imagine. And what he was doing to her body felt very real, indeed.

  He lifted slightly away from her, his gaze smoky with both desire and a hint of humor. His hand came up to curve around her jaw.

  “Does something about this situation amuse you, my sweet?” he asked sardonically.

  “Do you mean aside from the fact that I seem to have thrown every shred of common sense I possess out the window whilst behaving in an extremely loose manner?”

  He touched a gloved finger to her lips. “Nonsense. There’s nothing inappropriate at all in what you’re doing. You’re my wife.”

  She grinned at him, feeling ridiculously lighthearted. “Actually, that’s the funniest thing of all.”

  He let out a mock growl as his hand slipped down to settle on her breastbone. When his mouth followed, settling on the swell of her breast plumping up over her bodice, she let out a surprised squeak. And what surprised her even more was the way her body responded. As his tongue licked over the tender, exposed skin, her nipples hardened and peaked. She flushed as heat swamped her, and the hidden place between her thighs grew soft and damp.

  When his hand dipped under the lace of her bodice, she started to tremble. Her cautious nature struggled to reassert itself over her rising excitement, and she instinctively grasped his wrist to hold him still.

  His head come up. Her heart skipped a beat at the hard, hungry glitter of his gaze and the taut cast to his features.

  “Do you want me to stop?” he asked.

  “Um, I don’t really know,” she stammered, sounding like a dimwit. She truly didn’t. A war was going on inside her, between her head and . . . well, she wasn’t sure it was her heart, but it was certainly her body. She’d never felt so reckless. Always, she’d been the opposite of reckless, or at least had been until she met Griffin. But she wanted this, wanted him so much
that it almost frightened her.

  Almost.

  “You have to be sure, Justine,” he said. “I cannot make this decision for you.”

  “I know,” she replied in a breathless voice. And even though he’d stopped kissing her, he still held her in an encompassing embrace. Nor had his hand come up from under the trim of her bodice. In fact, his fingers continued to play absently with her, lightly stroking and sending shivers through her body, even as his attention remained on her face.

  “The trouble is,” she said in a rush of candor, “that I don’t want you to stop. I know it’s perfectly demented, but I want this. Is that stupid of me?”

  His hard mouth curved into a rueful smile. “Probably, but why don’t we be stupid together, at least for tonight?”

  She searched his face in the uncertain light, trying to deduce what lay behind the cool, handsome features. He’d pitched her off balance, and she couldn’t help wishing that some little part of him felt the same. But in the shadows of the carriage it was difficult to tell. She couldn’t help worrying that she was making a tremendous mistake, allowing him to push her where she didn’t wish to go.

  But he wasn’t pushing. He simply held her, his fingers barely moving on her, waiting for her decision. And, truthfully, the only place he clearly wanted to take her was exactly where she wanted to be. She’d given up hope long ago that any man would want her in this way. Given up hope that any man could make her feel this way . . . special enough to risk her heart.

  But he did. Griffin Steele, the rake and reprobate who’d treated her with more genuine kindness and consideration than any man she’d ever known.

  She was tired of holding back. For once, she wanted to throw her caution aside and face the consequences later.

  “I do want this,” she said, smiling up at him. “I want it more than anything.”

  His eyelids shuttered for a second, then opened on a dark gaze lit with passion. “Then you shall have it, Justine. Everything I have to give.”

  He pressed his lips tenderly to her mouth for a long, aching moment that spun into a lovely forever. Then he moved, sweeping her into his lap. He barely broke the kiss as he did so, his wiry strength making light work of her weight.

  “Goodness,” she managed. “That was—”

  His mouth swallowed her words, drinking deep as he ravished her. Her cloak had floated outward as he’d plunked her down on his lap. Through her thin gown and chemise she felt the insistent press of his erection under her thighs. Between the wickedness of that tempting length and the return of his confident hand to her breast, Justine thought she just might keel over in a dead faint—if, that is, one could faint from such a wonderful rush of pleasure.

  “God, Justine,” he murmured in a husky growl against her lips. “You’re such a sweet little baggage. I’ve been waiting for much too long to get my hands on you.”

  She blinked at that. No one had ever called her a baggage before—in fact, she defined the opposite of the term. But for some ridiculous reason she found it tremendously flattering. She clapped her gloved hands on his lean cheeks, holding him still so she could kiss him back with all the eagerness swelling within her.

  Griffin showed his approval by tightening his hold on her. His hand moved from her breast to settle on her thigh, his fingers clenching the fabric of her dress and pulling it up her legs in a silken slide. The cool air hit the skin of her thighs just as his gloved fingers did, sending sparks of sensation shuddering across her skin. She whimpered and wrapped her arms around his neck as his fingers began a teasing, circling glide up the inside of her thighs. His touch made her wriggle against him, restless with excitement, and—

  The carriage jolted to a halt. Griffin jerked his head, muttering a curse as his arms tightened around her. Justine knew exactly how he felt. She’d been on the edge of something quite earth-shattering, but their arrival home returned them to reality with a thud.

  Sighing, she tugged her bodice up to its proper position and started to slide off his lap. He resisted.

  “There’s no need to rush, my sweet,” he said, his voice tight with frustration. “Joshua will wait until we’re ready.”

  But a moment later, the carriage rocked as if someone had jumped down to the ground. They heard a rush of hurried voices outside and then Joshua, the coachman, banged on the door.

  “You best come out, Mr. Griffin,” he barked. “There’s trouble.”

  Griffin lifted Justine and deposited her so quickly on the padded bench that she barely had time to blink. He pulled her cape around her and flipped the hood up.

  “Stay here,” he ordered. “Don’t move until someone comes for you.”

  Her heart took a sickening jolt as she thought of Rose and the babies. “Griffin,” she gasped, grabbing his arm. “Stephen, and Rose’s little boy. They’re—”

  He removed his arm from her clutch. “I’ll take care of it.”

  When he opened the door, Justine caught a glimpse of Joshua standing by the carriage with a drawn pistol, his normally stolid expression grim. Griffin slammed the door shut behind him, sealing her in as he ordered Joshua to keep watch over the carriage. In the dim light of the lamps and with the muffled, hurried voices outside, the luxurious interior became suddenly sinister. Only moments ago, she’d been awash with pleasure, lost in a sensual daze in Griffin’s strong arms. But now she felt like she’d been dipped in a bath of ice water. She shivered from a combination of cold night air, nerves, and a pressing desire to take action. Obviously, something was very wrong, and Justine hated that her husband had locked her away like some shrinking, delicate flower. If Stephen was in danger, then Justine needed to be with him.

  The baby was her responsibility now, but it was more than that. He’d come to recognize her, greeting her with sweet smiles and cooings whenever she walked into the room, always eager to come into her arms. The idea that something might have happened to him, and that she hadn’t been there to try to prevent it, made her chest ratchet tight.

  Just as she was about to defy her husband’s orders and get down from the carriage, the door opened. Griffin stood there, holding out his hand to help her down. His features were arranged in a calm mask, but his dark gaze sparked with anger.

  “What is it? Has someone been hurt?” she blurted out.

  “No, everyone’s fine. I promise.” He waved her forward. “Come, Justine. You’ve been sitting in the cold long enough.”

  She took his hand and let him guide her down to the pavement. She cast a glance up and down the street, but she saw only a small group of inebriated young men, loudly carousing as they stumbled their way in the direction of St. James. There was nothing unusual about that, especially at this time of night.

  “Whatever is the matter?” she asked, peering past Griffin at Mr. Deacon standing in the doorway of the house, looking as harsh as a stone gargoyle. A gargoyle holding a pistol, that is.

  “Inside first,” Griffin snapped out as he tugged her under the portico.

  Justine cast him a startled look. She’d seen him when he was angry, she’d seen him at his most seductive, and she’d seen him adopt any number of negligent, sardonic poses. But she’d never seen him so obviously livid. His hand on her elbow gripped her almost to the point of pain as he shoved her into the hall, though she was certain he was unconscious of it. There was an urgency to his movements that signaled how clearly he wanted her safe indoors.

  Only when the heavy oak door had slammed shut behind them did he loosen his hold on her arm. And in the light cast by the lamps in the hallway she could see how tight-lipped he was, the skin around his mouth white with anger.

  “What has happened?” she asked again as she yanked off her cloak and thrust it at Phelps, who had silently appeared from behind Mr. Deacon’s bulky form.

  “Armed men broke into the house,” Griffin replied as he shrugged out of his greatcoat.

  Justine sucked in a shocked breath. “They dared to break into your house? They must have been mad!”
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  No one in London’s criminal underworld—no one in his right mind, at least—would dare to attack Griffin in so foolhardy a manner. There was much she didn’t know about her new husband’s history, but she knew that. How much of his reputation could be put down to rumor or truth was an open question. What was not at issue, however, was that Griffin protected his people, and that anyone who crossed him suffered swift retribution.

  Justine glanced around the hall, finally taking in the disorder. The large pier glass by the door was cracked, as if someone had slammed into it, and the night porter’s chair was tipped sideways. The candlesticks on the narrow table against the wall had been knocked over, dripping wax along the polished mahogany surface to the floorboards.

  “Who would do such a thing?” she asked in disbelief.

  Griffin exchanged a hooded glance with Mr. Deacon. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I intend to find out.”

  Justine’s instincts told her that he was withholding something from her. That same instinct counseled her to hold her fire, for the present.

  “Where are Rose and the babies?” she asked.

  “In the kitchen, Mrs. Steele,” Deacon answered.

  Justine hurried down the hall and below stairs, practically running. Her heart thudding, she thrust open the door to the kitchen. When she saw Rose and Mrs. Phelps, each holding a baby, she sagged against the door frame with relief. “Is everyone all right?”

  Rose, dressed in a blindingly green and purple striped dressing gown, rocked her little boy in her arms. Sammy’s eyes were big and round and he sucked his thumb for all it was worth. Mrs. Phelps, cradling little Stephen, got to her feet and came to Justine.

  “Everything’s fine, missus,” she said in a soothing voice. “Don’t you worry none.” Carefully, she transferred Stephen to Justine.

  The baby gazed up at her, his eyes red and his fat cheeks stained with tears. He was still snuffling and hiccupping, but he gave Justine a watery smile and grabbed for her curls as she transferred him to her shoulder.

  “There, there, my love,” she crooned as she patted his bottom. “No one will hurt you, I promise.”