Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(69)

Never had she felt such delicious warmth, or imagined that a kiss could cast such a transfixing spell over her body. Though her mind reeled in astonishment, she wanted to stand there forever, greedily drawing in his heat and strength. Drawing in the heady taste of him—something wild and masculine and utterly tempting.

But then his mouth opened and she tasted brandy as his tongue slipped between her lips, demanding entrance. She stiffened in his arms—shocked by his boldness, and astounded by her instinctive desire to open up to him.

She pressed her hands against his chest and pushed, ready to resist by fighting him if she had to. But to her surprise he immediately drew back, his black eyes unfocused as he blinked down at her. If she didn’t know what kind of man he was, she would have suspected he was just as stunned as she was.

“That was hardly a friendly kiss,” she said in an accusatory voice as she stepped out of his arms.

Somewhat to her disappointment—and wasn’t that completely irrational—he made no attempt to retain his hold on her. “Come, Justine,” he said, his face settling into its usual cynical expression. “That was nothing to make a fuss about. I’m sure that more than one lad has tried to kiss you on the terrace at a ball, or lured you into a convenient window alcove.”

His eyes mocked her, but she heard the low, husky note in his voice. And as he reached to shove back an errant lock that had fallen forward against his cheek, she could have sworn his fingers trembled ever so slightly.


“I am not making a fuss in the least,” she said in a prim tone, praying he wouldn’t hear the sound of her knees knocking together. “Nor do I sneak off to alcoves or terraces to engage in improper behavior.”

Not that anyone had ever offered her the opportunity to do so, but he certainly didn’t need to know that.

“No, I imagine you don’t.” He studied her face, now sober as a judge. Griffin’s moods were as changeable as the weather, and just as unpredictable. “In fact, if I didn’t know better, I would suspect this was your first kiss.”

Drat the man.

“Well, if you don’t mind,” she said in a dementedly bright voice, backing her way to the door. “I’ve got to check on—”

“Yes, the baby. I know. Be off with you, then.”

She nodded gratefully and turned to open the door, her shaking fingers slipping on the knob. When she finally got it open, his voice, gently sardonic, followed her into the hall.

“And don’t stay up too late, Justine. Remember—tomorrow is your wedding day.”





CHAPTER Eleven



Rose grimaced at Justine. “Lord, miss, don’t wind your hair into that ugly knot. It makes your face go all tight, as if you have the headache.”

Justine did have a headache, but she still gave the braid at the back of her neck another twist and shoved some pins through it. “No one will see it, since I’ll be wearing a cap.”

Patience, the girl she’d helped rescue the other day in the brothel, let loose a dramatic gasp. “You can’t be wearing a cap on your wedding day, Miss Justine. You’ll look a fright.”

Justine acknowledged that unpleasant truth as she eyed her reflection in the dressing table’s glass. With the dark smudges under her eyes, her pallid complexion, and the taut lines of her mouth and jaw, she was as far from the image of a happy bride as one could imagine. She hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep since stepping foot into Griffin Steele’s benighted house, and now it was to become her home for the foreseeable future—if, that is, her legal lord and master didn’t drag her along with him on his wanderings or deposit her somewhere outside of London. Although at this very moment, the idea of retreating to some isolated bolt hole in the countryside was vastly appealing.