Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(63)

“Well, I have noticed you like to keep everyone around you slightly off balance.” She forced a smile to her lips. “It is an effective method of control, I’ll grant you.”

His low, purring laugh somehow both ruffled and soothed her nerves. “No, I’m not trying to make you anxious. And I have no wish to control you.”

“Except in the matter of forcing me to marry you,” she said, carefully placing the delicate liqueur glass on the circular table between the two armchairs.

His eyes seemed to pinch in the corners, and his lips did their trick of thinning again. “I’m not forcing you to do anything I’m not forcing on myself.”

That unpleasant reminder washed away the false sense of warmth imparted by the ratafia, or by the easiness of his laugh.

“Forgive me,” she said, fighting against the tight sensation in her chest. “In my selfishness, I have forgotten how unpleasant this must be for you, too.”

He rubbed his forehead, as if he were puzzled, and then subsided into the other chair. “Trust me, Justine, marrying you is not the worst thing I’ve ever had to do. Not by a long shot.”

Unexpectedly, he turned and dazzled her with an engaging and, she had to admit it, seductive smile.

“In fact,” he continued, “there appear to be several benefits to the arrangement, so no need to think I’m about to throw myself into the Serpentine.”


She stared at him. “I’m glad to hear that. I think.”

When he laughed again, she found herself relaxing enough to broach the difficult but necessary discussion. He seemed to be taking things with very little fuss, which boded well for their future living arrangements.

“Yes, and along those lines,” she started, “We must reach an understanding of what will happen between us when . . .”

“When we’re married?” he asked in a gently mocking voice.

“Yes.” She realized she was perched on the very edge of the seat, her back ramrod straight. She must look as stiff as a fireplace poker. Taking a deep breath, Justine forced some air into her lungs and tried to force some of the tension out of her body.

“Go on,” he encouraged, relaxing into his usual elegant sprawl.

“Yes, well, I’m sure you’ll have certain expectations, to begin with. I assume I will continue taking care of Stephen to some degree, and doing whatever I can to help Rose.” She paused, suddenly struck with a happy thought. “And I’m hoping for at least one advantage of the changed nature of our situation.”

“And that is?” He looked very much like a sleek black cat about to pounce on a mouse.

“I’ll be able to leave the house. Take the baby to the park and go shopping, if need be. I’m sure Mrs. Phelps is quite run off her feet, what with the extra people in the house, and I would be happy to help alleviate her of some of that burden.”

Griffin slowly sat upright. “You will do no such thing.”

She frowned. “Why ever not? I must do something to earn my keep, at least until this mess is sorted out.”

“We are sorting out the mess by getting married, Justine,” he said with careful emphasis. “And you do not have to earn your keep. You will be my wife, and as such you will be treated with the respect that your change in status deserves.” He leaned forward, his gaze boring into her. “And that means my wife will not be treated like a servant, by me or by anyone else.”

It took a few moments for her to realize her mouth was hanging open. “But . . . but it won’t be a real marriage,” she stammered. “I mean, yes, it will in one sense, but not in the other.”