Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(43)

He could practically hear her back molars grinding together. “Because I did not take.”

Griffin stared at her, taking in the stiff set of her shoulders and the defiant set of her jaw. But he suspected her defiance masked a storehouse of unpleasant memories and small humiliations.

“Then they were a pack of blithering idiots,” he said. “Which I suppose shouldn’t surprise me, given what I know about the average male aristocrat.”

Her mouth dropped open a bit, as if that wasn’t the answer she was expecting. “Ah, thank you,” she said.


He shrugged. “No need. I simply tell the truth as I see it. But none of that explains why you feel the need to work for a living. You have your father’s pension, and I imagine that his family—or your mother’s, for that matter—would wish to help you.”

“They would, but I have no wish to be dependent on my uncle, the current viscount. Nor would life in Norwich suit me any better than life in London. As for the pension, that has gone to my brother. He has a wife and child to support and a budding law practice. His need is very much greater than mine.”

“And you didn’t give him much choice in the matter, did you?”

She shrugged, her gaze sliding away from him. Griffin had her mettle, now. Justine was the sort of woman who felt the need to take care of everyone who fell into her orbit—from her father and brother all the way down to Rose and little Stephen. She even tried to take care of him, the last person on earth who needed it.

But who took care of Justine? Dominic obviously tried, but she seemed no more receptive to his interference than Griffin did. In certain ways, he and Justine were much alike in their reluctance to be dependent on anyone. Though she had people who obviously cared for her, Justine was as alone as Griffin.

He frowned, startled by such a thought. Not only did he have nothing in common with a sheltered young woman like Justine, he didn’t much like the notion that something was lacking in his life. Or even more absurd—that he might be lonely.

“What about you, sir?” she inquired, once more capturing his attention.

He narrowed his gaze on her calm, lovely face. Her eyes were a clear, azure blue, like the sky on a hot summer’s day, and they held a world of innocence despite whatever sorrows and travails she might have suffered. No, he had nothing in common with Justine Brightmore, and he’d best remember that.

“I don’t take your meaning,” he responded curtly.

“Well, I’ve told you quite a bit about my life, but I don’t really know anything about you. Uncle Dominic told me you grew up in Yorkshire, but that’s all.” A faint color crept into her cheeks, the blush of a pink rose. “Except for what you do for a living. I know a bit about that, obviously.”

His defenses automatically locked into place. No one ever dared to ask him about his family or his past—no one with a sense of self-preservation, anyway. Griffin had worked damn hard to leave that all behind, and he had no intention of discussing it with anyone, and most especially not with her. The very idea made something dark and ugly twist low in his gut.

After all, what could he say that would not make her feel soiled just to be in his presence?

Her smile faded as a tense silence swelled between them. Although she didn’t shift in her seat or fidget, her shoulders hitched up a bit. Griffin leaned his forearm on the table, pinning her with his gaze.

“A bit is all you need to know, my dear. It’s best not to ask questions about me or my past.” He kept his voice quiet, but he allowed a warning note to enter it. “I would advise you not to quiz the servants, or anyone else, for that matter. I will find out if you do, and I will not be pleased.”