Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(75)

But then she remembered how annoyed she was with Griffin for hoarding so many secrets. “No, thank you,” she said firmly. “My pelisse will do just fine.”

Mrs. Reeves’ gracefully shaped eyebrows marched up her forehead. “My dear Miss Brightmore, I do realize the circumstances of your marriage are rather awkward, and they undoubtedly give you some misgivings. There is, however, no need to face your wedding day looking like an ape leader.”

Justine winced. To Mrs. Reeves, a tall, generously shaped woman who always dressed in the height of style, she supposed she looked little better than a frump. But Justine hadn’t exactly been expecting to get engaged one day and married the next.

“Not that your dress isn’t perfectly acceptable,” the older woman added hastily, “but I do think the cloak will be much more flattering than your pelisse.”


Justine cast a glance down at her dress. It was her best one—a kerseymere gown in a soft gray trimmed with a bit of lace. It was warm and, she thought, gave her short, plump figure a more attractive line. But Mrs. Reeves, it would appear, did not agree.

“Come,” said the other woman in a coaxing voice, “just try it on.”

She swirled the cloak around Justine, tying it shut at the throat. After arranging the hood in a soft fall around Justine’s shoulders, Mrs. Reeves gently turned her to the pier glass.

“See,” she said. “You look lovely in this color.”

Justine stared at her reflection, surprised to conclude that she did look rather pretty, even to her own critical eye. Her cheeks were faintly flushed and her hair seemed to gleam with fire against the rich color of her cloak. And her eyes were big, startlingly blue, and softened by fatigue.

From somewhere deep inside came the errant wish that Griffin would find her pretty, too.

Mrs. Reeves gave Justine’s shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry, my dear,” she said, as if reading her mind. “I’ve seen how Griffin looks at you. Everything is going to be fine.”

“That’s what I always say,” Justine whispered.

Only this time, she didn’t believe it.





CHAPTER Twelve



The clergyman had finally made his good-byes and was being firmly escorted from the room by Dominic, his declarations of gratitude for Griffin’s generous donation toward the rebuilding of his church roof echoing behind him. Given the man’s tendency to gush, Griffin didn’t trust him to keep quiet about the rushed marriage, but Dominic had assured otherwise. Apparently, the good reverend owed Dominic a favor—as did half of London, it seemed—and had always been discreet in the past.

In any event, Griffin and Justine were now well and truly married, so any details that might leak could be denied as foolish gossip.

Griffin propped his shoulder against the marble surround of the fireplace in Dominic’s drawing room, watching his new bride make conversation with Lady Thornbury and Vivien St. George. There was no going back from this unexpected turn of events and, oddly enough, Griffin had yet to regret that fact. Perhaps that would come later when decisions would have to be made about their futures. But for now he could look forward to the one truly bright note in the entire farce—his wedding night, with his plump little partridge of a bride safely tucked up in his bed.

When he’d taken Justine’s trembling hand and sworn his vows before the minister, he’d been startled by the force of his desire for her. She’d stared up at him, all big blue eyes in a white face, the dusting of red freckles across her nose and cheeks standing out in stark relief. Her anxiety was palpable, manifesting itself in the rapid rise and fall of her generous breasts, prompting all kinds of lascivious thoughts in Griffin’s mind just as the minister delivered a solemn disquisition on the duties of matrimony. He could certainly think of one duty he’d like to perform, sooner rather than later, but he’d also been touched by her vulnerability.