Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(83)

Justine practically choked. “Rose, I’ve already explained this. Our marriage is one of convenience and nothing more. I’m sure Mr. Griffin doesn’t expect anything of the sort.”

When Rose crossed her arms over her breasts and raised her eyebrows in disbelief, Justine let out an exasperated sigh. “Well, I certainly don’t expect anything of the sort, and I’ve made that very clear to him.”

Rose let out a soft hoot of laughter. “Blimey, wish I could have heard that conversation. How did he take that?”

Justine scrunched up her nose. “Not very well, I think. Actually, I don’t know. I don’t find it easy to decipher his thoughts.”

“That’s Mr. Griffin, all right, keeping his cards close to his vest. Except when he’s right mad with someone.” Rose gave an exaggerated eye roll. “Then you can tell exactly what he’s feeling.”

“I’ve noticed,” Justine said.

She glanced back at the cradle where Stephen was finally sleeping. It had taken her an hour of rocking and pacing to get him to go down, and exhaustion dragged at her bones. More than anything, she wanted to crawl into bed and pull the linens over her head, forgetting that today had ever happened.

But as tired as she was, she suspected there was little chance of such relief.

Rose took her by the shoulders and again steered her to the door. “You look all fagged out, missus, so if Mr. Griffin don’t come knocking on your door tonight, I’m thinking you should get some sleep.”

Justine was about to thank her when Rose cut in with another devilish smile. “Because I’d bet a week’s wages that Mr. Griffin won’t wait much longer to join you in some bed sport, and then you’ll wish you had gotten as much sleep as you could.”

“Thank you for that image, Rose,” Justine responded drily.

She took one more glance in the baby’s direction and then slipped into her room. After quietly closing the door behind her, she leaned against it, trying to let the troubles of the day leach from her body and mind. Usually when life’s cares threatened to overwhelm her, Justine would tell herself that everything would be fine, and then she would mentally list all the reasons why that would be so. But after the last few days, she had neither the energy nor the logic for the customary exercise. In fact, she was having a great deal of trouble even imagining what life was going to look like either in the immediate future or in the weeks and months ahead.

Pushing herself off the door, she made for the bell pull. If she’d been thinking straight, she should have asked Rose to unbutton and unlace her, but she couldn’t bear any more teasing and innuendo. Rose was a good woman, but she seemed convinced that Justine and Griffin should and would eventually engage in marital relations. Not that Rose would ever use such a careful euphemism to describe what Justine’s increasingly unruly imagination insisted on conjuring up.

While she waited for Clara, the Phelps’ daughter and the household’s maid, she sat at her dressing table and began taking down her hair. The nervous excitement that had flushed her cheeks earlier in the day had disappeared, leaving her wan and heavy-eyed. She grimaced at herself in the mirror. No one could look less like a bride than she did right now.

Justine closed her eyes to keep at bay the resurgent emotions that had almost swamped her when Griffin took her hand during the short marriage ceremony. Although his handsome face had seemed cut from granite, showing no expression, his eyes had blazed with a possessiveness that made her shiver with surprise and anxiety. His fingers had tightened and his thumb had brushed across the pulse on the inside of her wrist, sending blood pumping frantically through her veins.