Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(37)

“Ah, much better,” he said in a smoothly dark voice that reached around her to send prickles down her spine.

Justine peered at him, confused. “What’s better?” She must be more fatigued than she thought if a smile from a handsome man could empty her head of all rational thought, however briefly.


He studied her with a shadow of that soul-stealing smile playing about his mouth. “Never mind. But I do take objection to your formality. You should call me Griffin. Everyone else does, including Dominic.”

“No, they don’t. The servants call you Mr. Griffin, or sir. It would hardly be proper for me to address you by your given name.”

“You’re not one of the servants, Justine.” He said her name with deliberate emphasis. “You’re a guest in my house, and the godchild of Dominic Hunter. Considering how close I am to him and how odd these circumstances are, it seems foolish for us to be formal with each other.”

Justine hadn’t the faintest clue how to answer him. Of course, it wasn’t proper to address him so intimately, but since they were sitting together in the kitchen in the middle of the night, and in their dressing gowns, quibbling over what to call each other seemed unnecessarily fastidious. Still, despite her unconventional background as the daughter of a spy, she’d never found herself in quite so bizarre a situation.

Steele filled her mug with tea and dumped in a lump of sugar and a splash of milk. He set it in front of her and pulled out a chair, sitting across from her.

“Come, Justine,” he said in a gently mocking tone. “I hardly think the walls of Jericho will fall if you call me by my given name.” He cast a pointed glance around the room. “The odd circumstances do seem to warrant a degree of informality, don’t you think? Besides, who will ever know except the inhabitants of this house? And you can be sure they won’t be tattling tales to the beau monde.”

She stared at him while her brain did battle with her instincts. The latter told her that he meant her no harm. But the former insisted on falling back on all the precepts and formalities she normally found so comforting.

Steele relaxed in his chair, extending his muscular legs and propping his intertwined hands on his flat stomach. He regarded her with an easy half smile, as if ready to wait her out the entire night.

Perhaps it was the strange intimacy of the situation or the peace of the house so late at night in the cozy warmth of the kitchen. Or perhaps it was fatigue. But whatever it was she couldn’t seem to muster one convincing argument why she should keep him at such a distance.

And, as he said, what difference would it make? No one would ever know of her time in his house, and when she left, she’d never see him again.

“Very well,” she said, suddenly disconcerted to discover that she didn’t relish the idea of never seeing him again.





Griffin battled to hide his satisfaction at her wary capitulation, knowing his reaction was disproportionate to the size of the victory. But he’d never met such a tempting example of prim femininity as Justine Brightmore. Something inside him yearned to ruffle her, finding its way past her rigid exterior to the warm, lush woman buried deep under ridiculous caps and ugly gowns.

But she wasn’t looking prim tonight, even though her ghastly gray dressing gown did nothing to showcase what he now knew were tempting, generous curves. With her fiery curls tumbling out of a haphazard braid, and her gorgeous blue eyes slumberous with fatigue, she looked eminently worthy of seduction. As soon as he’d fixed her tea, he’d been forced to take a seat to conceal the burgeoning erection that pushed against the fall of his breeches.