Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(35)

“There you go, miss. Just give that kettle a few minutes and you’ll be all set.”

She started to thank him but he held up a hand to stop her, cocking his head like a watchdog snapping to alert.


“Is something wrong?” she asked quietly. She heard nothing, but he obviously did.

He shook his head. “Nay. Just Mr. Griffin come from next door.”

Justine peered at the clock on the closest dresser. Well past four in the morning. “Goodness, he’s late.”

“Not him, miss. Master don’t need much sleep, neither.”

He pushed out the door, leaving Justine to the stillness of the deep night. Like most people, she supposed, she found it a lonely time to be awake. When her father was still alive, she’d spent many a night tossing and turning, especially when he was assigned to perform God-only-knew what dangerous task on behalf of the Crown. Or, just as often, she would snap awake in a cold sweat from terrifying, heart-pounding dreams. For a long stretch of years, one particularly gruesome dream would repeat itself—her father, struggling through a dark landscape, trying to escape something horrible. It always ended the same way—a pistol shot ringing out and Papa collapsing, alone and helpless while his life’s blood drained away. Justine would call for him over and over, desperate but unable to reach him, but he never responded.

And in the end, he’d died as she’d so often dreamed—from a gunshot wound at the hands of the enemy.

When the baby wriggled, his rosebud mouth gaping open in a wide yawn, she came back to herself with a jerk. The slight movement startled him. His eyes snapped open and he began a mewling little fuss.

“No, my little darling, don’t fuss. Hush, hush, hush,” she soothed.

She rose to her feet and began rocking him, slowly moving toward the range where the kettle was just starting to whistle. As she reached for a cloth to wrap around the brass handle, she heard the kitchen door swing open on its hinges. She glanced over her shoulder and froze, staring at the man coming down the shallow flight of steps.

“Oh, ah, Mr. Steele,” she stuttered. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

She clutched Stephen to her chest, flushing at the picture she must present to him in her nightclothes and with her hair pulled back in a loose braid. She held the baby tight, as if he somehow gave her an extra layer of protection. Steele came to halt on the other side of the table, letting his gaze wander from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, and then back to her face. An amused smile softened the corners of his hard mouth.

Not that he had any business laughing at her—not the way he was dressed. He wore a flamboyantly blue and white striped dressing gown lined with red silk, a tiny floral pattern embroidered on the stripes. It was belted loosely around his waist, gaping to expose his neck—a smooth expanse of lightly bronzed, naked skin. Fortunately, he still wore breeches and boots, which made his attire slightly more respectable, although no less exotic. In fact, he somehow looked twice as dangerous as usual, and he always looked dangerous to Justine.

His smile slid into an out-and-out grin when he took in her hair. With a mental jolt, Justine realized she’d forgotten to put on her nightcap when going to bed. Her blasted hair was revealed in a red, tangled mess.

“And I certainly wasn’t expecting to run into you, Miss Brightmore,” he said in a purring tone that seemed to slip under her skin. “What a pleasant surprise. And how encouraging to see you without yet another one of your endless supply of gruesome caps. I must say, I certainly prefer to see your hair uncovered in all its riotous glory.”