Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(22)

If one liked one’s courtesans short, which Griffin did not. Still, it rather worked in her favor, enhancing her generous curves. Combined with what he could see of her titian-hued locks, her cornflower blue eyes, and creamy complexion with its sprinkling of freckles. Miss Brightmore had the appearance of a Dresden figurine from the previous century. The kind that looked amenable to seduction behind the nearest sheltering hedge, he couldn’t help noting. She enticed him a great deal more than she should, especially since she would be residing in his house.

But tempting or not, Miss Brightmore was the last sort of woman he could have anything to do with. Griffin had no desire to marry or engage in a romantic relationship of any kind, especially now with his long-sought plan to leave England so close to fruition.

Fortunately, whatever temptation Miss Brightmore’s face and body might pose was offset by the fact that she regarded him with suspicion. In fact, he suspected she’d taken an active dislike to him, and she certainly didn’t trust him. The tense set of her shoulders and the way she perched on the edge of her seat—like she was ready to bolt—told him that. But she was safe enough with him, and Dominic clearly knew that. Griffin protected all those under his care, and Miss Brightmore was now, unfortunately for both of them, under his protection.

She set down her cup and fixed her gaze on him, her blue eyes guarded and wary. Still, she tried for a polite smile. “Mr. Steele, are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of tea? It would seem that it’s taking rather a long time to fetch the baby.”

He studied her earnest expression, and then gave in to the temptation to ruffle her. “That’s because Phelps had to fetch Rose from next door. Who knows if she’s even dressed at this time of the day?”

Rose had, in fact, slept in, and he couldn’t blame her for that. She’d only risen a short time ago and had gone over to the brothel to fetch some of her things, leaving the sleepy baby under the watchful eye of one of the other girls.

Miss Brightmore pursed her lips into an enticing little pucker. Until that moment, Griffin hadn’t noticed how pink and lush they actually were.

“Who is Rose?” she asked.

“Oh, she’s one of the whores,” Griffin replied with a careless wave of the hand. “She’s been nursing the baby until other arrangements can be made.”

Dominic muttered something unflattering under his breath, but held his fire. Griffin glanced over to see him regarding Miss Brightmore with an expression of calm expectancy.

Miss Brightmore’s face went blank. “The baby is at the brothel. With one of the women.”

Griffin slowly sat up and leaned forward to catch her gaze. “Who else would be taking care of him? Rose is in the process of weaning her own child, and graciously offered to play wet nurse to our unexpected guest.” He let a note of sarcasm enter his voice. “Surely you realize that whores do fall pregnant, despite the best precautions.”

Miss Brightmore’s cheeks flushed almost as pink as her mouth. It made her look even younger and rather more enchanting than Griffin expected, since blushing maidens usually bored him out of his skull.

But then he caught the expression in her eyes, blazing with a cold blue flame that would have chilled him were they not so clearly full of heat.

“I know prostitutes fall pregnant, Mr. Steele. Despite what you might think, I am not an idiot.”

“Then you object to the fact that one of my girls is nursing him? Do you think her milk will contaminate the baby with moral decay?”

The question, meant to be teasing, came out more harshly than he intended. But something about the conversation struck a distant chord in his memory, one that carried the tone of his uncle’s harsh recriminations against Griffin’s mother. Ruthlessly, he squashed it down, as he so often did with those echoes from his past.