One Night with a Prince Page 13

  “Of course you do,” he snapped. “Drama is your stock-in-trade.”

  But there was a bit of humor in his tone now, as if he, too, recognized that he was overreacting.

  She let out a breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding. “So we’re…in agreement? About my not sharing your bed?”

  “We will never be in agreement about that.” He raked her with a long, heated glance that turned her knees wobbly. “But I’m not one to force a woman to my bed. I can wait until she goes there willingly.” A devilish smile tipped up his lips. “Because that day will come. It always does.”

  And with that arrogant statement, he left.

  Only then did she let out a breath. But even after she heard his cabriolet pulling away, she couldn’t relax. She felt bereft, adrift. Restless. Roaming the room, she picked up a stocking here, a garter there, hardly distinguishing between his and hers as she piled them on a chair and prayed she could get them upstairs without the servants seeing.

  She picked up his waistcoat, and his scent wafted to her again, a strangely male blend of sweet and musky. Holding the embroidered fabric to her cheek, she felt tears prick her eyes. How familiar this seemed—picking up a man’s discarded clothes. Before Philip had ascended to the title and hired a fancy valet, she’d been the one to gather up his clothes after he returned from a long night out. But Philip’s clothes had reeked of brandy; Byrne’s reeked of him. And if she’d wanted—

  No, she’d been right to refuse what he offered. Tempting as the man might be and much as she’d secretly love to experience the delights of sharing his bed, she would surely regret it in the end.

  She sank into a chair with a sigh. Then why, oh why, did it feel as if she’d made an enormous mistake?

  After a moment of driving in nothing but his overcoat, Gavin began to wish he’d accepted his drawers when Christabel had offered them. In early autumn, nights in London were plenty cool and damp. The fog seeped under his coat, chilling him to the bone. Damn Christabel for tossing him out when he could have been lying warm and cozy in her bed, making love to her with slow, easy thrusts—

  “Bloody hell,” he growled, as his cock stirred once more. The woman would be the death of him.

  He reached for his watch, then realized she had it. But it couldn’t be that late. He could always go to one of the better brothels to satisfy his lust. Though he rarely frequented whores, sometimes it was necessary.

  Yet the idea was so unappealing at the moment that it silenced the clamoring of his wayward cock. Odd, that. The whole situation was odd. No woman who clearly wanted him—who aroused him, too—had ever refused him his satisfaction.

  That must be the trouble—he hadn’t had Christabel, so no other woman held any appeal. But that would end soon. He would have her, and when he did, it would be all the more worth it for the waiting. Unlike that idiot Haversham, he knew how to savor the anticipation of bedding a woman. He only hoped he didn’t have to savor it too much longer.

  At least one good thing had come of tonight. He now knew that his strategy would work. As she’d said, she wasn’t like his other women. Which meant that once he seduced her—and he would, eventually—it would be easier to get everything he wanted from her, including the truth about her “property.”

  Of course, there were other risks involved. First, the obvious one—that he might get her with child. He’d always relied on the husbands of his mistresses to claim any child that might occur despite his preventive measures. Still, he’d been glad it had never happened. It would have unsettled him to know that some child of his was being raised as another man’s.

  But if he somehow got Christabel with child, there would be no husband to claim the babe. So he’d have to be extra cautious. They would both take measures to prevent it—there were sponges a woman could use. She couldn’t possibly have any more desire to bear a bastard than he did to sire one.

  So that left the second risk—that Christabel would become exactly the kind of mistress she claimed. That she’d turn into a jealous, unpredictable, possessive harpy. He chuckled as a sudden image leaped into his mind, of her dragging out her rifle to take shots at any other woman who demanded his attentions.

  When he realized that the idea appealed to him, his humor faded abruptly. No self-respecting rakehell wanted a woman waiting impatiently for his arrival every night, hanging on his every word, gazing at him with a longing so profound that it—

  He cursed under his breath. This was what came of dallying with respectable women. They put ideas in a man’s head that he would never entertain otherwise.

  He liked his life precisely as it was. He’d make her his mistress because he desired her, but he would teach her not to expect more of him than that. Surely even the indomitable Widow Haversham could be made to accept the way of the world eventually.

  And if it meant that the light in her eyes and the passion in her heart were extinguished?

  With an oath, he flicked the reins to speed the horses. That sort of thinking was what had led him to be a fool about Anna Bingham. Never again would he succumb to such dangerous sentimental nonsense. Never again.

  Minutes later, he reached his town house in fashionable Mayfair. Before he even halted, a groom hurried out to meet him, and his youngish butler appeared in the window. Gavin paid well for such attention late at night—his hours were odd, and he didn’t like to bother with rousing a servant. His entire household operated on the supposition that morning was night and night was morning.

  In fact, this was early for him; his dire need for clothes had prevented him from going to the club straight from Christabel’s. He halted his rig, handed the reins to his groom, and climbed down, cursing the lack of his boots when his feet hit gravel.

  His butler came outside. “Sir, do you need assistance?”

  “No, I can manage.” Gavin gingerly took the few steps to the stone entrance staircase, then shook the stones from beneath his toes.

  His butler said naught about Gavin’s bootless, stockingless state; he knew better. But as Gavin climbed the steps, the servant hurried down to meet him instead of waiting at the top as usual. “I thought you’d want to know, sir—you’ve received a message from Bath. The messenger is waiting inside for your reply. I had just sent a footboy to the club for you when you drove up.”

  Bath. He tensed. “Thank you, Jenkins.”

  He took the remaining steps two at a time. A summons from Bath was never good. The messenger from Bath met him at the top and wordlessly handed him a sealed missive. Gavin groaned. Sealed missives were never good either.

  He tore it open, then scanned the message swiftly. Though the tension left him, it didn’t change what he must do. “Jenkins, as soon as that footboy returns, send him to the livery to have them ready my coach. I mean to leave in an hour. And bring me some paper and a pen. I have to write a note or two before I leave.”

  Jenkins nodded. “I’ll take care of it at once, sir.”

  Gavin’s jaunt to the theater with Christabel tomorrow night would have to wait. But he’d make it up to her. He’d find some bauble in Bath before he returned.

  It shouldn’t be too long. The message said the situation wasn’t as dire as it could be. He’d go tonight, spend the day consulting with the doctor to make sure everything was indeed all right, stay there tomorrow night, and come back the day after next.

  He’d only lose a day or two of preparing Christabel for Stokely’s party. That shouldn’t affect matters. It might even work to his advantage to have her stew a bit. She might be more eager to reveal the truth about her property if she thought he was losing interest in helping her.

  His eyes narrowed. Come to think of it, Rosevine wasn’t far off the road between London and Bath. Perhaps he should stop near there on the way back. A few guineas to the right gossipy villager might afford him a bit more information about her and her family. At the very least, he could learn something about the steward who’d broken into her strongbox. Plenty of lords kept on the prev
ious title-holder’s more experienced servants, so the steward might even still live at Rosevine.

  It was time to start pursuing this from other angles, just to hedge his bets. Because whether Christabel knew it or not, he meant to discover the truth. One way or another.

  Chapter Ten

  If you require faithfulness, buy a cocker

  spaniel. No mistress ever gains it from

  her lover.

  —Anonymous, Memoirs of a Mistress

  Christabel awakened alone after a tempestuous night of erotic dreams. Byrne—curse his soul—figured prominently in every one, him and his searing kisses and stealthy caresses.

  How would she make it through the next few weeks? Or, for that matter, a week at Lord Stokely’s, where everyone would expect them to behave as if they were intimate? Byrne would certainly take advantage of that situation—kissing and touching her at will, rousing her passions at every opportunity.

  Turning onto her side, she crumpled her pillow into a ball that she cradled against her breasts…her too-sensitive breasts that ached—

  Lord help her! What was she doing? What secret potion had the man given her to make her so aware of her body? She never wanted to touch herself wickedly before, yet last night she’d actually stuck her hand under the covers to stroke herself down there.

  Worse yet, she’d liked it. Weren’t respectable women supposed to dislike such things? She’d always known she wasn’t like other women, but she’d never guessed she was secretly a wanton. Not until Byrne came along.

  With a sigh, she pressed her flaming cheek to the pillow. Perhaps she should simply let matters go where they would. The important thing was getting the letters, and wouldn’t it be easier if she didn’t have to fend him off constantly?

  She groaned. Oh, Lord, it was already happening. She was already letting him persuade her into lowering her guard. Next she’d be confiding in him about Papa and His Highness and that fateful day twenty-two years ago…

  A shudder wracked her. She mustn’t let that Prince of Sin sway her with kisses and caresses, no matter how enticing. It was too dangerous. She would lay down some firm rules. No physical contact except when absolutely necessary. Their whist lessons would take place with the doors of the parlor open. He couldn’t continue his seductions even if—

  A tap at the door prefaced the arrival of Rosa with a breakfast tray. “Good morning!” the maid said cheerily as she set the tray down and went to open the curtains. “I do hope the extra sleep did you good.”

  Christabel shot up in bed. “Extra sleep—what time is it?”

  “Nearly noon.”

  “Oh, blast,” she muttered as she threw the covers aside. “He’ll be here any minute, him and the dressmaker! I have to get ready.”

  She dared not let him guess what a restless night she’d spent. A rogue like him would know exactly why she’d overslept. And what—who—had consumed her dreams.

  “If you are speaking of your Mr. Byrne,” Rosa said, “a message came for you from him early this morning.”

  Christabel glanced at the tray, where a sealed note was indeed propped up between the coffee she couldn’t live without and the plate containing the buttered scones that she ought to live without, but never did.

  Why had he written a note? He’d be here himself in a few moments.

  The note got right to the point:

  My dearest Christabel,

  I regret that I will be unable to accompany you to the theater tonight. Urgent business calls me to Bath. I am uncertain of how long I will be gone, but I will call on you directly upon my return. In the meantime, you may wish to read the books about whist that I am sending along. You may also wish to practice your Patience.

  Sincerely,

  Byrne

  She gaped at the note, then balled it up in her fist. Of all the arrogant, presumptuous—They’d made a bargain, blast it, and now he’d trotted off to Bath without even considering her lessons!

  Lessons. “Rosa? Were there books included with the note?”

  “I believe so. The footman has them.” Smiling to herself, Rosa gathered up the clothing Christabel had tossed onto a chair the night before. “So what does your Mr. Byrne have to say?”

  “He’s had to go to Bath on business.” She tossed Byrne’s note aside. “Lord only knows when he’ll return.”

  “It will not be long, I wager, not when he left these behind.” With a smirk, Rosa held up a pair of obviously male drawers. “Shall I have them cleaned and kept for his future visits?”

  A blush rose in her cheeks. “You can burn them as far as I’m concerned.” Leaping from the bed, Christabel paced the room. “I won them from him in a card game last night.”

  “You bested the gambler?”

  “Yes, for all the good it did me.”

  Rosa started to smile.

  “What are you smiling about?” Christabel said peevishly.

  “Nothing.” Rosa folded the waistcoat very carefully. “It is just…curious that you would win. Perhaps he was distracted?”

  He’d been distracted, all right—with plotting how to get her out of her clothes and into his arms. And when that hadn’t brought quite the success he’d expected, he’d rushed off to Bath without one whit of concern for the fact that Lord Stokely’s party was less than two weeks away.

  Had he done it because she’d refused to share his bed? Horrible thought. Could his passions be so powerful that one denial would send him off in a temper?

  Somehow, that didn’t sound like the controlled Byrne she knew.

  “Do you wish to dress?” Rosa asked.

  “Yes, of course.” No matter what Byrne did, she still had to continue with their plan. And that meant meeting the dressmaker.

  As Rosa helped her don another ugly mourning gown, Christabel’s mind wandered back to Byrne’s defection. What was in Bath that he might consider “business”? She’d never heard of his owning a club there. So if it didn’t have to do with his gambling affairs—

  She paled. What if it concerned a woman? He might very well have a mistress hidden away there, one who wouldn’t hesitate to satisfy the urges Christabel had refused to satisfy exactly as he’d wished.

  She waited impatiently as Rosa did up her buttons. So help her, if Byrne had a mistress in Bath—

  And if he did? She had no hold on him. She’d never said he couldn’t be with other women. He’d never protested Lady Jenner’s claim that he was incapable of fidelity. So why should she assume that just because he’d kissed and caressed her, it meant anything?

  Blast him! This was precisely why she hadn’t wanted him to touch her. She’d known exactly how it would affect her foolish heart.

  No, not her heart. Just her pride and sense of fairness. How dared he run off to Bath in the middle of their bargain? Practice her Patience indeed—when he returned, she would give him a piece of her mind, she would. The audacity of the man—to preach patience to her when he was ignoring their agreement!

  A knock at the door jerked her from her thoughts. “My lady,” said one of the lower maids, “the dressmaker is here.”

  “Tell her I’ll be there shortly,” Christabel called out.

  Rosa forced her to a chair so she could put her hair into some semblance of respectability. As the brush flew through Christabel’s tangles too swiftly for comfort, she tried to calm her irritation with Byrne. At least she could have a sensible discussion with the dressmaker today, without having to deal with the man’s searing glances that said he wanted to fondle and kiss every inch—

  She let out an oath as her knees went weak. Blast him for turning her into this silly female, capable of falling into a faint just because he smiled at her. Philip had never done that to her.

  “There,” Rosa said. “Good enough for the dressmaker, is it not?”

  “Yes. And you should probably stay out of her way. She doesn’t like having ladies’ maids around.” Before Rosa could protest, Christabel jumped up and hurried from the room.


  Today Mrs. Watts had an assistant with her, a pretty young woman with riotous brown curls who dropped into a deep curtsy as Christabel entered the parlor. That was something Christabel would never get used to—the courtesies that came to her because of her now lofty station. She didn’t really feel like a marchioness. She felt more like a general’s daughter—his wayward daughter who had let him down. Certainly not deserving of any curtsies.

  “My lady,” the dressmaker said, “I’ve brought the gown Mr. Byrne wanted for tonight. Do you still need it now that he’s had to rush from town on business?”

  Did Mrs. Watts mean the altered mourning gown? But wasn’t that supposed to be ready for today? Not that it mattered, with Byrne gone. “No, I don’t suppose I need it for tonight.”

  “Because I can have it ready if you require it. After you try it on, we can make the necessary adjustments before we leave. Indeed, that’s why I brought Lydia—she’s quickest with a needle.”

  The name Lydia teased Christabel’s memory. “It’s fine, really. I don’t intend to go out tonight.”

  “As you wish,” Mrs. Watts said deferentially. “Then we shall just see how they fit. Move aside, Lydia, so her ladyship can see the evening gown.”

  Evening gown?

  Lydia moved and Christabel spotted what was behind her, draped over the settee. It was the beautiful rose satin, done up in the most stunning gown imaginable.

  “Dear Lord,” Christabel whispered.

  Mrs. Watts stiffened. “Does it not meet with my lady’s approval?”

  “No…I mean, yes…It’s lovely. Just lovely.”

  The dressmaker relaxed. “Mr. Byrne will be pleased, then. He was most intent upon having it ready for tonight.”

  Their trip to the theater. He’d planned the gown for that.

  Despite herself, she turned to mush. He’d probably paid an exorbitant amount to have it ready quickly, just because she’d admired it.

  Tears filled her eyes. Just when she wanted to hate him, he went and did something like that.