Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(133)

Adventures.

That word brought her thudding down to earth. That’s what Papa had always called it when he had to go away on a mission—adventures. But his last adventure had killed him.

Griffin must have sensed the change in her because he pulled back, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

Before she could answer, the door opened and Phelps hurried into the room. Griffin cursed under his breath and stood.

“What is it, Phelps?” he asked curtly.

The factotum looked at Justine and grimaced. “The wee one ain’t doing so well. Rose says you’d better send for the doctor.”





CHAPTER Twenty-One



Justine walked through the connecting door from the nursery into her bedroom, quietly shutting the door. But Griffin wasn’t fooled. His pretty bride was spitting mad—the snap in her blue eyes and the flush in her cheeks told him that. When she saw him standing by the window, she marched up to him, looking ready to brawl.

“Before you fire up at me,” he said, “I want you to sit down and have something to eat. Then you can rip at me to your heart’s desire.”


She eyed him with a smoldering gaze before looking at the heavily laden tea tray Cook had rolled in on the occasional table. Justine had to be famished and exhausted. She’d barely slept the last two days as she tended to the sick baby, and she hadn’t eaten since early this morning. Since it was now going on six o’clock in the evening, it was a wonder she hadn’t keeled over in a dead faint.

He steered her to the armchair he’d pulled up to the table. “You know that Cook is entirely capable of helping Rose until the surgeon arrives.”

“So she just informed me when she threw me out of the room,” Justine groused. “It’s ridiculous. I’m absolutely fine.”

She wasn’t fine. Despite the angry flush in her cheeks, she looked pale and heavy-eyed, her normally clear brow creased with worry. He knew she hated leaving the baby for even a second, and he’d been forced to call in the heavy artillery in the form of Mrs. Moore, Dominic’s formidable cook and a woman he’d come to appreciate these last few days. Moore and Phelps had kept the house running so Griffin could devote his attention to Justine and the baby.

He hadn’t been able to do much, of course. He knew little of babies and sickrooms. But he’d done what he could to ease the burden on Justine by forcing her to eat and snatch a few hours of sleep when he could persuade her to do so. He’d only been able to do that by promising to assist Rose, with a promise to call Justine if necessary.

He’d been little better than a lump of coal while he kept vigil with Rose, who cared for the baby with kindness and competence. And thank God for that, because it had wrung what little heart Griffin had left to see the poor mite too miserable to do more than whimper. Rose had assured him that Stephen would soon be “as right as rain,” but Justine’s worries were far from unreasonable. Small children and babies were particularly vulnerable to illness and fever, as Griffin’s grim experiences in the London stews had taught him.

“There is nothing to be gained by your refusal to eat,” Griffin said to his wife. “You’ll fall ill yourself, and then the household will have another patient to care for.”

She blew out an exasperated breath. “I hate it when you’re so reasonable.”

“I’m always reasonable, love.” He pulled up a chair on the opposite side of the table. “Any change for the better?” he asked as he poured her a cup of tea.

“Rose and I think he’s better, although I’m almost afraid to say it out loud.” She ladled some thick clotted cream on top of a scone. “I’m hoping the surgeon will be able to provide a more accurate assessment.”