Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(102)

“I promise to wake you when he arrives,” he’d said, turning her to the door and giving her another little shove. “Now go.”

She’d given him a sleepy smile, touched by his concern for her, and stumbled her way up to bed. After kicking off her shoes—taking off her dress had defeated her—she’d crawled onto the high mattress. Her last conscious thought had been how thoroughly Griffin had taken control of the situation, handling everything with a masterful calm while reestablishing order over his domain. Only her confidence in him—and she had hazily realized how much confidence she did have in him—allowed her to drift off to sleep.

“What time is it?” she asked Mrs. Reeves as she dragged herself to her dressing table.

“Going on seven o’clock. Sir Dominic arrived a short time ago, and he and Griffin are having breakfast.” The other woman pulled a gown from Justine’s wardrobe and placed it on the bed. “Griffin said to dress warmly and be prepared for travel.”

Justine stared at herself in the mirror, disgusted by her pallid complexion and the state of her beautiful evening gown. It had been demolished by her restless sleep. But at Madeline’s words, she pulled her attention away from her unfortunate reflection.

“Travel? Did Griffin say where? Will the baby come with me?”

“There’s no point in asking me. I’m sure he’ll explain everything to you when you get downstairs. Hurry, now. You must get changed and then I have to awaken Rose.”

Justine bit back the myriad questions on the tip of her tongue. She’d learned there was little point in pressing Griffin’s people for information. His establishment struck her as something akin to a feudal household, where the master demanded total loyalty and offered protection and security in return. In some ways he reminded her of her grandfather, imperious to a fault but utterly responsible and committed to all who fell under his care.

In other words, Griffin was a typical, old-fashioned nobleman. Despite his disreputable background, he was a man who displayed a fundamental decency and honesty she’d found lacking in many other members of the breed.

She pondered that irony while she washed, hurrying through her toilette as Mrs. Reeves slipped into the other room to wake Rose. After the madam returned to button her up, Justine made her way downstairs, carefully holding onto the polished oak banister. In her muzzy-headed state, she could easily take a misstep and go tumbling down in a heap.

The hall was lit by one spirit lamp on the narrow table by the door. The shattered mirror from last night had been taken away, the blank spot on the wall now the only visible sign of last night’s disturbance. Through the fan light over the door, another gray-smudged London morning struggled to penetrate the interior gloom.

And like a wraith in that gloom, Phelps appeared from the back of the house. He was neatly dressed and wide-awake, even though Justine suspected he’d not been to sleep, either.

She murmured her thanks as he opened the door to the breakfast parlor. Unlike the hall, the cheerful room, decorated in canary yellow with pale blue trim, glowed with light and warmth even though the yellow and blue striped curtains were shut firmly against the encroaching day. But all the wall sconces and lamps were lit, as were several branches of candles scattered on the sideboards and on the rosewood circular breakfast table.

“Good morning, Justine,” said Griffin, rising from his chair and crossing to her. His brow wore a slight frown but his dark eyes sparked with knowing interest as he took her hand.

All but certain he was remembering the intimate scene between them last night, Justine barely mustered up a smile that felt just short of a wince. But she couldn’t even hold on to that expression when he lifted her hand to his mouth for a brief kiss. It forced her to focus her energies in keeping her weak-willed knees from going out beneath her.