Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(55)

And for possibly the tenth time in that same half hour, Griffin pulled out his pocket watch and checked it even though the ornate ormolu clock on the drawing room mantelpiece confirmed each quarter hour that the minutes were crawling by. He did his best to throttle back his anger with himself, and his annoyance with Dominic for taking so long to respond to the urgent missive he’d sent. Griffin had no desire to rattle Justine any more than she already was.

For despite putting on a brave face, she was obviously completely unnerved. The strain showed in the paleness of her skin that made the spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks stand out in high relief, and in the sharp set to her jaw that pulled her rosy lips tight. Her world as she knew it had just come to an end with a spectacular crash. Justine could no more return to her quiet life as a companion to Lady Somebody-or-other than she could run away and join a troupe of acrobats.


Rising from his chair in the bay window, Griffin finally gave in to the urge to move, pacing the length of the drawing room. He’d no doubt wear a path into the thick pile of the Aubusson carpet by the time this day was through, but if he did, he would simply buy another one. That was how he dealt with most of the problems in his life. He threw money at them or he employed another sort of power. He had many means at his disposal for achieving his ends, but money had proven to be the most effective and cleanest.

Fortunately, his need to utilize violence had faded over the years as his reputation grew along with his power and influence. Most days, merely invoking some vague threat was enough to achieve the desired result, and for that he was thankful. He’d never been squeamish—not after the life he’d led—but violence and intimidation had a way of coming back full circle, dragging a lot of unpleasantness along with them.

But in this particular situation, neither money, nor threats, nor violence, nor any bald exercise of power could save Justine or him from the parson’s trap. Griffin had made a truly fatal mistake—he’d grown arrogant and careless, and for that Justine would pay the price. The only thing he could do now was salvage the situation as best he could, and hope that marriage would ultimately prove less of a scandal for her than suffering with a permanently soiled reputation.

“Must you keep doing that?” she snapped, breaking into his ruminations.

He stopped in front of her. “Doing what?”

She sucked in a deep, exasperated breath, which drew his attention to her magnificent bosom. That was a consolation, at least, and a considerable one. He’d finally get the girl into his bed, where he’d wanted her almost from the moment he’d met her.

“Pacing back and forth like a caged animal,” she gritted out. “It’s annoying.”

Well, perhaps at some point in the future he’d get her into his bed, but if the pinched look on her face and the frosty glint in her eyes was any indication, it wouldn’t be anytime soon.

“No doubt you’re feeling peckish,” he said. “Why don’t you try to eat something? I’m sure you’ll feel better if you do.”

She stared at him like he was capering about the room in a dunce’s cap and then returned to her needlework, muttering under her breath. She’d been doing that on and off since she’d stalked into the drawing room and taken a seat by the fire, completely ignoring the generous tea Mrs. Phelps had laid on. Griffin had even poured her a cup, but she hadn’t touched it.

“When do you think Uncle Dominic will get here?” she asked when he resumed his pacing. “It’s been forever since you sent the note.”

“It’s only been an hour, Justine. And if there’s one thing we both know, it’s that Dominic answers on his own timetable. But I’m sure he’ll be here soon enough.”