Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(11)

But this abandoned child threatened to shift something inside, reminding him of things he hadn’t felt in a long time. Things better left alone.

“Does he have a name?” Dominic inquired as he carefully brushed aside the blanket tucked up around the baby’s chin. Madeline’s lips curved into a soft smile as she gazed at the infant. She looked almost besotted, and for once it had nothing to do with Dominic’s presence.

“Stephen,” Griffin said curtly, unaccountably annoyed.

Glancing up, Dominic’s dark brows lifted with surprise. His gaze, all too perceptive, had Griffin grinding his back molars. Whatever Dominic might think, Griffin had nothing in common with this blasted baby.


“And does Stephen have a last name?” Dominic asked gently.

Griffin stared at him. “Do you think I would have demanded your august presence if I knew that? Haven’t you figured out by now that the situation is a complete bloody enigma?”

Dominic eyed him for a few more seconds and then smiled at Madeline. “Mrs. Reeves, would you see about getting us some coffee? It would appear that it might take some time to work through this interesting little puzzle, and I will obviously need my wits about me.”

Griffin frowned, noticing for the first time how tired Dominic looked. His austere features were pulled tight with strain, and his eyes held a bleak, hollow cast. Griffin couldn’t help wondering what troubled him. Dominic was not the sort of man to show weakness under any circumstances.

Madeline nodded. “Of course. Do you want me to take the baby?”

“You may leave him with me,” Dominic said, deftly taking the bundle and settling it in his arms.

“Never figured you for the paternal sort,” Griffin said after Madeline left the room.

Dominic sat back down, taking care not to jostle the baby. “There are many things you don’t know about me, Griffin.”

“I’m sure, but I’d rather not hear about them today. I’ve got enough on my hands without having to hear another chapter from the life of Dominic Hunter, Spymaster.”

The other man cast him a wry grin, relaxing comfortably into his chair. Outside, the blustery wind rattled the windowpanes and the murky light of a late-January afternoon barely penetrated into the room. But the bleak winter’s day was no match for the warmth of the coal fire burning in the register grate, or the light cast by the cut-glass candlelabra and giltwood wall lights.

After a childhood spent in a grim Yorkshire vicarage and later barely surviving on the streets of London, Griffin cherished both light and heat. Every room in his house reflected that. No cool blues or greens for him. The walls glowed with warm yellows or reds, with lavish gilded moldings and thick velvet draperies tied back with gold tassels. He surrounded himself with beauty and comfort, with the most elegant Sheraton-style furniture mixed with ornate Chippendale, and silk and satinwood chaises in vibrant colors. The exotic, sometimes riotous mix, appealed to him on a primitive level he found deeply satisfying.

Madeline had once told Griffin that he reminded her of a cat—always searching for that slash of sunshine filtering through a window, seeking its warmth. Though he supposed it was true, too many days he felt cold to the marrow of his bones. Perhaps in Italy or Greece, or points farther east, he might find the heat and light he craved. God knew he’d never find it in England. He’d tried long ago, when he’d first set out to find his mother, but he’d eventually left that fruitless quest to Dominic.

For if Griffin was a cat, Dominic was a mastiff. Once he got something between his jaws, he never let go.

“Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?” Dominic prompted.