Make Me Yours. Betina Krahn
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his knees might not bend, Jack waved Marchant to the seat on the bench beside her while he stood nearby.
“We bring sincerest greetings from the Prince of Wales,” Marchant declared with a smile. “No doubt you recognized him during his recent stay at your fine inn.”
“Of course,” she said, obviously still nettled.
“He has asked us to convey to you how impressed he was with your hospitality, your ingenuity and the warmth of your person,” the baron continued. “He was quite taken with you, Mrs. Eller. And he has entrusted to us a somewhat delicate—”
“Are you going to sit, Mr. St. Lawrence?” She pinned Jack with a look, her tone peppery.
God, they were making a hash of it, he thought.
“Certainly.” He sat down on the opposite bench, as far from her as he could get and still have stone beneath his bum cheeks. “As the baron has said, the prince was quite taken with you. It is rare, I can tell you, for His Highness to be so…so…”
He found himself staring into big blue eyes filled with questions and suspicions and not a little indignation. He struggled to recall the persuasions he’d practiced in his mind on the way down from Scotland.
“…so relaxed in the presence of a lady…um…”
“A lady with whom he has not established relations,” the baron supplied smoothly. “To come to the point, Mrs. Eller, the prince wishes to see you again.” He studied the puzzlement in her face and came right out with it. “He wishes to establish personal relations with you, Mrs. Eller. Very close…personal…relations. St. Lawrence and I are here to make the necessary arrangements.”
She blinked and looked from the baron to Jack.
“Relations? He wishes to have close…oh…oh, my Lord…relations with me?” Her shock was too artless not to be genuine.
Jack had the urge to knock the smirk from Marchant’s face. In the seconds it took him to master that shocking impulse, she shot to her feet.
“That is absurd. What would the prince want with a simple widow who—” She stiffened, reddening. “Take your ugly little joke back to your friends and tell them that their insult found its mark and was keenly felt.”
“Mrs. Eller!” The baron was on his feet before her, alarmed now. “This is no jest, I assure you. We have come at the behest of the Prince of Wales himself.” From the breast pocket of his coat he produced a letter as evidence. “If you doubt the authenticity of our mission, let the prince himself reassure you. You must surely see that this is not a matter he is free to undertake on his own behalf. He has entrusted both his desire and his honor to us in this matter. I assure you, we are faithful to that trust.”
She stood for a moment, regarding the letter as if it were a snake. Then with a fierce look at Jack, she took it from the baron and inspected the royal seal before breaking it open. The trembling of the paper was the only sign that what was penned on the vellum made any impact on her.
“I believe, gentlemen,” she said, sounding as if her mouth were dry, “that the events of a week ago may have given His Highness a mistaken notion of my character.”
The baron’s eyes narrowed and his oily smile appeared.
“I believe the prince knows precisely what conclusions to draw about a woman who drinks men under her table, flaunts her availability before half a dozen men at a time, and then hauls the heir to the throne into bed with her.” He tilted his head to look down his nose. “The prince has already tasted the nature of your character, madam. And you are fortunate indeed that he has found the flavor to his liking.”
“Tasted my…but…the prince…” She looked to Jack in disbelief.
He scowled pointedly at her, then looked away…hoping she would see what had to be seen…that he hadn’t disabused the prince of the idea that something had happened between him and the widow.
“This is a surprise for you, clearly,” Jack said emphatically to mask his discomfort. “But I would counsel that you think well before rejecting such an opportunity. The prince’s fancy does not usually dwell for long in one place…and yet the honor and the benefit to you may be such that you will be well-fixed for life. The prince is very generous to his friends.”
“So he is, our beloved prince,” the baron added. “Most generous.”
“An honor?” she said. “To serve as a paramour to a married man?”
“To our future monarch,” the baron corrected. “Make no mistake, madam. Ladies who serve the prince in such a personal capacity are not regarded as mere courtesans or ‘paramours.’ These ladies, great and small, serve both crown and country and are regarded with utmost respect.”
Her hand tightened visibly on the letter. She seemed to have difficulty getting her breath.
Jack scowled. She must surely understand that she had been selected for a singular honor, one that dukes of the realm actively encouraged their lady wives to seek, knowing that with fancy came favor. However, she had not been bred to the class that sought advancement above all else. The turmoil in her was disconcerting. If she truly had some moral objection—
He caught himself. Not hardly. She was hot enough for a man’s touch—even a man she had hardly met. His ears heated at the thought of how he knew that. And she was a widow, after all. It wasn’t as if she had vows to observe or a maiden-head to hoard. If she had a brain in her head she would come around quickly and take Bertie’s offer.
“Perhaps you need time to think it through,” Jack said. “To see the advantage to all sides in this arrangement.”
“Of course.” The baron leaned closer. “And while you are thinking, madam, be sure to consider the sizeable debts you have incurred on behalf of your quaint establishment. One word from the prince and your thousand-pound loan can be paid and stricken from both ledger and memory. A different word, however, could bring the note due this very day. You are surely clever enough to see the advantage in allying yourself to such power.”
“I believe she has the idea,” Jack said, stepping back and pulling the baron out of her way. “Shall we call for your answer, say, at four-thirty?”
Rigid with control, she picked up her garden tools, set them in a nearby wheelbarrow, then stalked off down the path to the house. The shush of pea gravel under her feet sounded uncannily like the swish of silk petticoats. Jack felt a curious clutch in his chest at the thought.
When she disappeared into the house, he came to his senses and found Marchant wearing a smug expression.
“What are you smiling about?” he asked the wily baron.
“She’s a hot one, all right.” The baron thumped his arm. “But I can’t say I envy Bertie the trouble she’ll be.”
“If she agrees.” He stuck his hat on his head and struck off down the path to the inn.
“Oh, she’ll agree,” the baron said with a wicked chuckle, falling in beside him. “Her eyes lit like Fawkes’ Night bonfires when I said the word debts. Take a lesson, Jack my boy. Money trumps morality every time.”
3
“I WANT a fire, a brandy and a bath,” Mariah declared as she burst into the kitchen and ripped off her jacket, muffler and rubber boots. “Now.”
The household staff—cook, butler, housemaid and kitchen boy—stared in confusion at her and then at each other. Brandy? At noon?
Robert, her stoop-shouldered butler, who more closely resembled a question mark with each passing year, shuffled off mumbling and squinting as he thrust his keys to arm’s length to fish for the one that opened the liquor cabinet. Her rotund maid-of-all-work, Mercy, trudged up the stairs to light the boiler in the bathing room, pausing to rub her back along the way so that her mistress would see how the extra work