Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(40)

And she was beautiful, too. But with all those qualities, she chose to hide away in the corners, like a fusty maiden aunt well past her prime. Justine was self-effacing to the point of fading into the background, which he supposed one might expect in the daughter of a spy. But unlike her father, she had no real need to hide her true nature. Yet she did, and Griffin was honest enough to admit that he’d like to know why.

He listened to her bustle about the larder, rattling crockery and keeping up an uncharacteristic chatter. She talked about the baby, about Rose and Sammy, and all the little domestic things he supposed women enjoyed talking about. Griffin had always considered most such things a bore, but with her he found them oddly soothing, especially after spending the night going over contracts with Madeline and meeting with his business manager. Griffin had twisted his brain with the details of his plans to leave England, and Justine’s quiet stream of words washed over him in a gentle flow.

“Here we are,” she said, returning with a tray piled high with food. She set it down carefully in front of him as she glanced anxiously at the baby.

“Don’t worry,” Griffin said. “He’s still sound asleep.”

“Thank God,” she muttered as she prepared him a plate.

“Justine,” he said, as she mounded several slices of cold ham. “There’s enough food here to feed all the patrons of The Golden Tie for a week.”

She paused in the act of slicing him a generous piece of cheddar. “You mean they actually eat while they are, ah, visiting?”

Griffin thought of the various ways he could tease her with his answer, but decided to retract his claws—slightly. “Well, one does build up an appetite.”

Her lips pursed in disapproval, just like the Miss Prim and Proper he’d come to know and enjoy. “I wouldn’t know. Why don’t you give me the baby so you can eat?”

He stood, transferring Stephen into her arms, and then crossed to the dresser to pull a mug from the shelves. Justine watched him, as if not sure what to do with herself.

“Well,” she said, “I suppose I’d better go back upstairs.”

“In a moment. Finish your tea first.”

She hesitated, clearly torn, which he found interesting.

“Sit,” he ordered.

Somewhat to his surprise, she did, giving him a hesitant smile. “I shouldn’t really. I’ll be a wreck tomorrow, but for some reason I’m wide awake.”

“You can sleep in tomorrow. I’ll make sure Rose takes care of the baby.” He sat down and poured himself tea.

“Thank you,” she said.

Her smile was so sweet and shy that it tugged hard, somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. He didn’t like that. Curiosity, even lust, was one thing. Emotions were quite another, and he had no intention of developing any of them for her. He might have under other circumstances, perhaps, and he could even wish they might be friends. But their worlds were too far apart, and after she left his house he would never see her again.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said, more abruptly than he intended. “Have you always lived in the country? You seem rather intent on convincing everyone that you’re nothing but a little country mouse.”

Her russet eyebrows snapped downward in two elegant lines. “Possibly because I am a country mouse,” she said, her faintly haughty tone unconsciously belying her statement. “Although I spent a good deal of my youth living in London, I prefer the country.”

“Why is that? I can imagine few things more boring than burying oneself in some backwater village,” he said with a faint shudder.