Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(87)

He smiled. “I know, but I’m enjoying our conversation. And it is our wedding night, after all. You can at least talk to me.”


When she eyed him suspiciously, he held his hands up, palms out. “No tricks, I promise.”

She shrugged, taking him at his word. After all, what could be the harm? She had no intention of throwing herself at him, at least not tonight.

That errant thought had her stumbling over her feet. Where in heaven’s name had that come from?

Flustered, she hurried behind the screen and began yanking off her dress. It took an enormous effort to ignore the blood pounding through her veins in a mix of trepidation and excitement, and to ignore her heightened awareness of the man on the other side of the screen—a man with the reputation as a rake of the first order.

A man who was now her husband.

But as she slipped her stays from her body, she reminded herself that she’d not seen any indication of rakish behavior on his part, not since she’d arrived in his household. The opposite, in fact. True, he delighted in saying outrageous things, and he had kissed her. And then there was that late-night encounter in the kitchen. But he’d made no real effort to seduce her and had done everything in his power to protect her—as he clearly protected all the females under his care. If anything, his conduct had been both disciplined and restrained.

As she carefully folded her gown and placed it in the small trunk behind the screen, Justine forced herself to consider the strong possibility that Griffin’s reputation had been exaggerated. Why then, did he make no effort to refute all the rumors and whisperings about him, letting everyone think the worst? It was an interesting question, but not one she had either the wit or energy to parse tonight.

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?” came Griffin’s sardonic voice from the other side of the screen.

“Certainly not,” she said, hastily divesting herself of the rest of her clothing. “I’ll be right out.”

“Don’t rush. Perhaps you can tell me about your family while I wait.”

Clutching her wrapper to her chest, she peeked around the corner of the screen. Griffin was wandering around the room casually inspecting her meager belongings, reaching out a hand to absently stroke the soft wool of a shawl she’d left over the back of a chair, then picking up a book from the small pile on the table by her bed, reading the title. There was a quiet sense of possessiveness to his actions, and an intimacy that robbed her of breath.

She retreated behind the screen. “What do you wish to know?”

“Did you always live in London?”

“Mostly, but my brother and I did spend a good deal of the summer in the country at my grandfather’s estate, especially when Papa was away.”

She smiled, remembering the fun she’d had with her cousins, especially the boys. She’d had no trouble keeping up with them, roaming through the woods for hours on end, or learning to ride. “I enjoyed that very much, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I often cried when I had to return to London.”

“Despite your proper and surely disapproving grandfather?”

She slipped on her wrapper, knotting it firmly about her waist.

“Grandpapa never disapproved of me,” she said as she came out from behind the screen. “I used to spend all sorts of time with him in the library helping him with his translations. He was a rather good scholar, you see,” she explained as Griffin drifted across the room to her. “In fact, he used to say that I was the cleverest of his grandchildren. Only to me, of course. It wouldn’t be proper to say that sort of thing to the others.”