Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(86)

At least she told herself it was nerves.

“True, but my aunt wasn’t much better,” she said in a rush, trying to ignore the prickly sensations that shivered across her skin. “She was artistic, and quite radical in her politics.” Justine thought back to the noisy, lively salons her aunt used to host, ones stuffed full of artists and writers and everyone her grandfather used to call the wrong sorts of people. “Not that Aunt Elizabeth wasn’t a lovely and kind person, but she wasn’t always comfortable to live with.”

She met Griffin’s eyes in the mirror as he tied the ribbon at the end of her braid, and gave him a self-deprecating smile. “I know it makes me sound missish, but I used to live in terror that she would say something outrageous on the occasions when we were in polite company. She used to make my grandfather positively demented.”

“Ah, that would be your father’s father.”

She nodded. “Yes. Grandpapa hated gossip, and even the slightest hint of scandalous behavior. My uncle—the current viscount—also takes a rather dim view of that sort of thing,” she said with a sigh. “Not that I really blame him with several children to marry off.”

Uncle William would surely see her marriage to Griffin as a terrible misalliance that would reflect poorly on the family. Justine didn’t even want to think about the conversation she would surely have with him on that topic. He would be apoplectic.

Griffin rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Then I imagine your uncle will simply be enchanted to know you married me.”

Justine tried not to look too morose. “It’s not your fault, of course, but no, he won’t be very happy about it.”

“What a coil, to be sure, but not one that requires unraveling tonight. Come, up with you.”

His hands slipped to her waist. With one swift movement, he lifted her to her feet, leaving her blinking. Griffin was neither a brawny nor an excessively muscled man, but he possessed a lean masculinity. She was no lightweight, though, so he was obviously a great deal stronger than he appeared.

When his hands went to the back of her dress, she jumped, twisting around to bat at him. “What in God’s name are you doing?”

“I’m unbuttoning your dress, and then I’m going to loosen your stays,” he said with exaggerated patience. “Someone has to do it, unless you want to sleep in your clothes.” He turned her back around. “Now, stop putting up a fuss. Anyone would think you’re a silly chit instead of the mature, sober woman I know you to be.”

Justine couldn’t help it. She stuck her tongue out at his reflection in the mirror.

“Very mature,” he added.

She stood still while he swiftly unbuttoned her gown and loosened her stays. He didn’t linger or make a production out of it, and she found herself relaxing in his expert hands. For a man who could make her nerves skitter and dance with a simple touch or look, he was an oddly comforting person to be around. That didn’t make much sense, except for the fact that she knew she could say anything to him and he wouldn’t judge it amiss. And aside from wanting her in his bed—which she suspected was largely an automatic reaction to any woman under the age of fifty—he didn’t seem to expect much from her, either. If anything, he wanted to take care of her, and that was a novel sensation, indeed.

“There,” he said, giving her a little shove in the direction of the ornate Chinese screen in the corner. “Go put on your night rail and robe, and then I’ll tuck you into bed.”

She peered over her shoulder at him. “That won’t be necessary.”