Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom(89)

He slowly uncoiled from his relaxed pose. Too late, she remembered Mrs. Reeves’ pointed warning not to broach this very subject. Still, she told herself, she had every right to know. After all, they were married now.


“Just what did they tell you about my father?” he asked in a dangerously quiet voice that had her questioning her certainty of a moment before.

“That he’s a prince, Ernest, Duke of Cumberland.” Even saying it now, it seemed so impossible. “They didn’t say who your mother was.”

“That’s because she didn’t matter to anyone. My mother was a fourteen-year-old girl who my father”—the word sounded like brimstone on his tongue—“seduced and tossed aside, never again to be acknowledged. Not that I suppose she had any desire for him to acknowledge her. God knows I don’t want it from him.”

“Not that you suppose? You mean you don’t know what your mother wanted?” she asked cautiously.

When he crossed his arms over his chest, the silk gaped at the throat to reveal a gryphon’s claw, seeming to cruelly dig into his bronzed flesh. “How should I? She abandoned me when I was an infant. I never knew her.”

He tossed the words at her like they were rocks. Her heart clenched at the bitterness shooting through each syllable. Clearly, there was so much left unspoken, a man’s entire history hidden behind a wall she suspected few if any had ever breached. No wonder he guarded himself with such determination.

“I’m sorry,” she said, wishing she’d bitten her tongue before exposing him to such painful memories. “I didn’t know.”

His eyebrows arched with an uncannily aristocratic disdain. “If you had known that I was the by-blow of a man known for the worst sort of vices and a woman who lacked all decent feeling, would you have married me, Justine? Or would you have preferred the censure and scorn of the world rather than soil yourself with my name? With my touch?”

Her eyes widened with horror. How could he think that about her? “Of course not! We are not responsible for the actions of our parents. And you didn’t even know them. Their faults are not your faults.”

His mouth pulled into a hard, disbelieving line. She took a few steps closer, desperate to convince him . . . to comfort him.

“It was never my intention to insult you, my dear sir,” she said, investing as much sympathy as she could into her voice. She itched to touch him, to stroke his silken-clad shoulders, letting her fingers drift down to settle on his warm skin. The desire was so strong and unnerving that she clenched her fingers by her side.

“You’ve been nothing but kind to me,” she said, “and I will always be—”

He seemed to leap across the space between them, one hand landing on her shoulder and the other taking her chin, forcing her to look up at him. She swallowed hard at the sight of his cold, flat gaze, chilling in its lack of emotion. But even though his black eyes looked implacable and merciless, his touch was gentle. Even in his anger, she knew he could never injure her.

“Kind?” he barked out in a harsh voice. “Don’t mistake indulgence for kindness, Justine. I never fall prey to that emotion. In that, I am just like my father.”

“I don’t believe it.” She refused to shrink before him. “You are nothing like your father or your uncles. I’m sure of it.”

He snorted his contempt for that notion as his hands dropped from her. “I am just like them. And the sooner you realize that, my dear wife, the better for both of us.”

On those discouraging words, he turned on his heel and stalked from the room.