Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(112)

The tickling sensation moved down to her chest, then back into her throat. She swallowed, trying to keep it down, but a few strangled giggles escaped.

“It was the music, you see,” he said, obviously feeling he had to explain. “I thought something that beautiful couldn’t be all bad, even though Uncle Bartholomew and his sermons were immensely dreary. And I quite liked the Book of Common Prayer, too.”

Justine had just been managing to get herself under control but that last comment undid her, dissolving her into helpless laughter.

When Griffin’s eyes narrowed on her, she couldn’t help thinking that he did look rather stern and clerical, especially all dressed in black. Unfortunately, that thought did nothing to stem her hilarity.

“Really, Justine,” he said. “It’s not that amusing. You probably had all kinds of silly ideas when you were a child, too.”

“You’re right,” she said, pressing her fingertips to her damp eyes as she tried to contain herself. “It’s not that amusing.” But it was no good. The idea that Griffin, one of the most notorious men in London, grew up wanting to be a vicar was simply too absurd to contemplate. “It’s hilarious.”

This time, when she went off into whoops, he unleashed a reluctant, almost embarrassed grin. It was so charming and self-deprecating, and so unexpectedly vulnerable, that she wanted nothing more than to kiss him.

That alarming thought effectively curtailed much of her amusement. She hiccupped a few times and then brought herself under control.

“I’m sure you would have made a fine vicar,” she said. “After all, you do look very handsome in black, and you can certainly be stern and frightening when you put your mind to it.”

“Thank you, I think,” he replied in mocking echo of her earlier remark.

Justine reached for her glass and took a sip of brandy. Then she put it down and smoothed her hands over her skirts. “How did you end up in London, then, so far from everything you knew?”

His smile faded and his gaze fell to brooding once more, latching on to some point above the mantel. “When I was fourteen, my uncle died. After that, there was nothing to keep me in Yorkshire.”

She waited for several moments, sensing that he had more to say. But he didn’t say a word, his profile a grim line in the dancing glow of the firelight.

“You must have missed him,” she finally ventured.

A dark laugh greeted that observation. “Hardly, love. My uncle was a coldhearted prig if there ever was one. Never spared the rod nor spoiled the child, as far as I was concerned. He was afraid I would go the evil way of my parents and was determined to prevent such a horrific fate by any means, fair or foul.”

He turned his head to look at her, and her chest pulled tight to see the pain lurking behind his cynical reprobate’s gaze.

“Oh, the irony of that,” he finished in a voice no less sardonic for its quiet tones.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

She wanted to kick herself for letting her curiosity get the better of her, broaching topics so clearly painful to him. But what had she expected? His life was complicated. He was complicated, and often difficult and dangerous to deal with. Could such a man truly have been the product of a loving and peaceful childhood? She should have known it unlikely.

He drained his glass before answering her. “Don’t be sorry. He took me in when no one else would. He made sure I was properly fed, clothed, kept safe, and given a sound education. If he didn’t love me, well, God knows I didn’t love him, either.”