Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(18)

But by the time she was sixteen, Justine had learned that certain information would always be withheld from her. Her father had often apologized for that, but she had never minded. Although she did whatever she could to help Papa, Justine hated the life he led—hated that he would disappear for long stretches of time, with no guarantee that he would return home to her and her younger brother, Matthew. She’d learned long ago that the best way to manage worry and fear—and life—was to avoid asking questions and pretend that everything was as peaceful and orderly as a Sunday church service in the country.

But she had to admit she was growing curious about Griffin Steele. Unfortunately, before she could extract more information from Dominic, the door opened and a man—obviously the master of the house—strolled into the room, and every coherent thought fled. His gaze, dark and glittering as an Egyptian obelisk, fastened right on her. It pulled a heated flush up her neck and to her cheeks, and she had to clamp down hard on the skittering that danced along her nerves.

As Mr. Steele strolled leisurely forward, Justine tried not to stare. She failed miserably, but since the man was eyeing her without the least attempt to veil his curiosity, she decided she might as well return the favor.

Although not as tall or as broad as Dominic, Steele conveyed a sense of presence that dominated the room—and considering the riot of colors and textures in the drawing room that was quite a remarkable feat. He was dressed in black breeches, highly polished boots, and a black coat and waistcoat. The dark garb was relieved only by the white linen of his shirt. Justine’s pulses jumped when she realized he wasn’t wearing a proper cravat, only a white cloth tied casually around his throat. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen a gentleman without proper neckwear, not even on her uncle’s estate in the country, where she often spent the summer months.

His features were aristocratic and arrogantly handsome, with an expressive, well-shaped mouth, high cheekbones, and a sharply cut, determined jaw. For all those sharp angles, however, there was something rather sleek about him. In fact, he moved with a lithe grace that put her in mind of a cat. A black and rather feral cat, quite evidently up to no good.

But it was his hair, gleaming blue black like a raven’s wing, which made her blink. Swept back from a widow’s peak, it was long, flowing down to his back, and pulled into a semblance of order by a narrow leather band. With his black garb and leather boots it gave him the appearance of a buccaneer from another century. That impression was enhanced by a thin, faint scar running down from his left temple to below his cheekbone.

Griffin Steele looked altogether exotic and disreputable, and he set her teeth on edge the closer he got to her. One would have to be blind not to perceive the sense of danger inherent in the man, and Justine was far from blind.

Steele was judging her, too. From the surprised lift of his eyebrows and the slight, sneering curl of his mouth, he was as little impressed with her as she was with him.

Dominic came to his feet with what Justine could swear was a slightly taunting smile. “Ah, Griffin, there you are. Allow me to introduce Miss Justine Brightmore. She’ll be looking after Stephen for the next while. I’m sure the two of you will get along splendidly.”

Oh, yes. Her godparent was definitely taunting Steele.

She filed that knowledge away and dipped into a respectful curtsy. Her host might be a reprobate and a rake, but that was no excuse for poor manners. “Good morning, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

His dark brows arched with an elegant disdain she suspected was the habitual response to situations not to his liking.

“Permit me to express my doubt on that score, Miss Brightmore,” he drawled. “Not that I can entirely blame you, given the circumstances.”