Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(62)

They could start with how he envisioned the daily order of their lives. Their marriage would be a sham, but in the eyes of the law it would be entirely legal. The very idea that the man lounging behind his massive desk, a man looking for all the world like a pirate or highwayman, would soon have control over virtually every aspect of her life made the pit of Justine’s stomach raw with acid.

Griffin was dressed in black again but for the white shirt underneath his black waistcoat. He’d discarded both his jacket and his cravat, and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. The sight of his tanned forearms, corded with muscles and lightly dusted with dark hair, made her poor stomach give an odd little flip.

Griffin’s eyes gleamed with amusement as he rose, but his words were scrupulously polite. “Come in, my dear, and sit before the fire. You look chilled.”

He strolled around the desk, laying a gentle hand on her elbow as he steered her to one of the club chairs in front of the grate. She didn’t fail to notice his swift but searching inspection.

“You’re pale as milk,” he added as she took her seat. “Why didn’t you join me for dinner after I made a point of asking you? You need to eat.” He waved an impatient hand to forestall her answer. “And don’t use the baby as an excuse. You’re not a nursemaid anymore, Justine. It’s time you realized that.” His tone conveyed his disapproval with her small show of defiance about dinner.

Through Phelps, he’d all but ordered her to join him in the dining room. Justine had sent back a politely worded refusal, saying Stephen was fractious and Rose too worn out to watch him. Phelps’ grimace conveyed how little he’d relished the idea of relaying that news to his master, but Justine had no intention of allowing Griffin to impose his will on her. She might, within the next few days, be his wife in truth, but she intended showing him that she would remain her own person.

Besides, she’d been so rattled and sick about the whole business that she’d doubted her ability to keep down a single morsel of food.

“I wasn’t hungry,” she replied. “And Stephen was fractious. You can’t expect Rose to do everything, you know. That’s why you brought me here in the first place.” She gave him what she hoped was a pleasant but disinterested smile that signaled her intention to keep her distance.

His dark brows lifted with elegant disdain. “Matters have changed, Justine. You will soon be mistress of this household, and it would be unseemly for you to act like a common servant.”

“I have neither the intention nor the desire to run your household, and I’m sure you don’t want me to, either,” she fired back.

So much for keeping a polite distance.

His lips thinned with irritation. Pivoting on his boot heel, he crossed to the whatnot behind his desk and pulled down a crystal decanter and a small glass.

“I don’t want any brandy,” she protested. “My stomach is unsettled enough as it is.” Then she winced as she realized what she’d revealed.

He cast her a half smile. “It’s only ratafia, the perfect thing for your stomach and your nerves.”

When he returned with the glass, she accepted it with a resigned sigh. She knew him well enough by now to know better than to refuse.

He stood over her, staring down at her with a brooding but curiously absent gaze. As the seconds ticked by, she had the impulse to fidget, and not even the soothing warmth of the liqueur could counteract it.

“Mr. Steele, are you deliberately trying to make me more anxious than I already am?” she finally asked.

He looked blank for a moment, then shook his head. “Why would I want to do that?”