Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(53)

Lord Mulborne capitulated, the first intelligent thing he’d done since the awful incident had begun. “Oh, very well,” he groused, throwing up his hands in frustration. “I’m sure we can find more convivial company in any number of whorehouses, and your brandy is appalling, Steele, if you want to know the truth.”

“My lord, that is a lie,” Griffin drawled with an aristocratic disdain that could not have been equaled by any man in the Upper Ten Thousand. “If I wasn’t in such a forgiving mood, I might call you to account for that insulting comment.” He punctuated his remark with a smile so cold that Justine couldn’t repress a shiver.


His grip on her arm, although unbreakable, had been strangely gentle, too, and he’d steered her steps with a sure guidance she hated to admit she’d needed. The muscles in her legs had apparently turned to jelly—along with her brain, since she could barely muster a coherent thought—and without his support she would have tripped over her clumsy feet as he ushered her to his office. Mrs. Phelps had been standing outside the kitchen, a worried look on her face when they’d come through, and Griffin had murmured a few quiet orders and instructed that they not be disturbed. Then he had walked her into his office and firmly shut the door.

Now he leaned forward in his chair, forearms braced on his thighs as he subjected her to a narrow inspection. It made Justine’s nerves skip and jump like a waterbug on a pond, despite the calming effect of the brandy.

“Feeling better?” he murmured.

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Steele.”

One corner of his sensual mouth pulled up in a sardonic twist. “Really, Justine, there’s no need to address your husband in such formal terms.”

That cut through the muzzy feeling in her brain. She forced her spine straight and clasped her hands firmly in her lap, adopting a stern stare.

“As to that, Mr. Steele, what in God’s name were you thinking? The situation was difficult enough as it was. I cannot begin to imagine how—”

He leaned forward, his eyes going dark as pitch but cold as ice. Whatever protest she’d been about to make died on her tongue.

“And what in God’s name did you think would happen when you rushed over there like Joan of bloody Arc? Had you not even a thought for your own safety or reputation? Good God, woman! How could you be so foolish?”

Justine had to resist the temptation to shrink back in her chair, or to sheepishly agree that he was right. “What else could I do?” she retorted. “You were nowhere to be found, nor was Deacon or Mrs. Reeves or Joshua. It seems to me that you left your people very much at risk, with only one footman on duty to protect them.”

He flinched. Just a slight jerking of his broad shoulders, but she knew she’d scored a hit.

“I hate to admit it, but you are unfortunately correct,” he said after several fraught moments of silence. “Until now, no one has dared invade my premises. I will be taking immediate precautions, you may be sure.”

When Justine nodded, as if to say I told you so, he leaned in another intimidating inch.

“But that still doesn’t excuse your behavior, Justine, or the fact that you left your charge without protection. Despite your tender regard for my staff, your only responsibility is to the baby. Or have you forgotten that?”

“Of course not,” she snapped. “And Rose was with him the entire time. I only—”

She stopped, sucking in a breath as she thought of the mysterious Count Marzano. “The baby,” she gasped, starting to bolt up from the chair.

Griffin placed his hands on her shoulders and gently pressed her back down. “Stephen and Rose are fine. Mrs. Phelps already checked on them. All was quiet here throughout the entire incident.”