Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(114)

But that kindness and generosity had led him down paths he had no wish to explore, opening up memories best left buried. He’d recognized the danger almost too late. No matter how much he liked her and wanted to be with her, he couldn’t afford to let her infiltrate his defenses and strip him of his secrets. Secrets revealed made a man vulnerable, and Griffin had no intention of making himself vulnerable to anyone, not even Justine.

Especially not Justine. She might be his wife—and Griffin had every intention of taking advantage of the benefits that went along with the burden—but he could never allow her to control him. For too many years, he had fought to free himself from the chains imposed on him by others. He wanted Justine, and he would take care of her for the rest of her life, but she could never be allowed to trap him or knock him off his chosen course. He would be the master of his own fate, and hers, too. As far as Griffin could see, that was the best and easiest way all around.

Justine would naturally be resistant to that state of affairs but, fortunately, her fascination with him—which he was convinced was primarily of a physical nature—could work to his advantage. As he saw it, getting her into bed was the first step to getting her under control. Once he’d accomplished that, the rest should follow.

Just as the long-case clock out in the hall chimed ten o’clock, the door to the breakfast parlor opened and Phelps entered with a carafe of coffee. After pouring Griffin a fresh cup, Phelps drifted around the pleasant, oak-paneled room, straightening the silverware on the sideboard, brushing away some imaginary crumbs from beneath the toast tray, and twitching aside the curtains another inch to let in what little light there was from the gloomy, overcast sky.

Griffin recognized that behavior. Phelps had deduced he was out of sorts, and had decided Griffin needed a little extra attention.

“Phelps, do stop fussing,” he growled. “I’m absolutely fine, I assure you. Why don’t you go bother somebody else, like your new mistress?”

His factotum adopted the look of wounded dignity he always assumed when Griffin tried to push him away. “Now, Mr. Griffin, there’s no call to be snappish. I know how you gets when you’re feeling like things are at sixes and sevens, but there’s no need to fret. I’m sure Sir Dominic will have things set right in a trice.”

Griffin rolled his eyes but managed to hold his tongue. There was no point berating Phelps for acting like such an old hen. He and Mrs. Phelps had been fussing over him for years as if he was one of their children.

And now that he thought about it, in light of last night’s discussion with Justine, he realized they’d been more like parents to him than anyone else in his life. If it hadn’t been for them, he’d have starved to death on the London streets. From the beginning, they’d treated him with a kindness that had eventually grown into a fierce devotion. And they weren’t the only ones who held him in such high regard—their daughter, Clara, and her husband, Joshua, were equally loyal to him, as were Deacon and Madeline. In a way, all those people were his family and if that notion didn’t stand him on his head, he didn’t know what would. Griffin wasn’t used to thinking in such mawkish terms, and he knew who was to blame for that, too.

“Where is Mrs. Steele, by the way?” Griffin said abruptly. “It’s rather late for her to still be abed.”

Phelps paused in stacking the crockery into a neat tower on the sideboard. “The missus had her breakfast before eight o’clock, and then went to speak with Cook about a poultice for the baby.” Phelps’ brow creased into deep grooves, making him look rather like a basset hound. “She thinks the little one might be coming down with a cold.”