One Night with a Prince Read online

  What the bloody hell could this mysterious property of hers be? “At least tell me what you wish to steal and why.”

  She stiffened. “I can’t do that. And if you insist upon it, I shall have to ask someone else to help me.”

  “Fine. If I can’t get you into that party, though, no one else can.”

  An expression of sheer incredulity spread over her pretty features. “Didn’t they tell you that you’ll gain a barony out of it?”

  “I’ve succeeded very well until now without one, so that’s not much of an inducement.”

  “What if I said that helping me would be a service to your country?”

  He laughed. “That’s even less of an inducement. What has my country ever done for me that I should put myself out for it?”

  She looked exasperated. “It’s not as if it would be much trouble for you. You merely need to convince Lord Stokely to invite me to his house party. Just tell him I’m your whist partner or something.”

  “Do you play whist with any competence?”

  She stuck out her chin. “I can manage well enough.”

  The chit was lying again. Badly. “Stokely is always my partner.” Gavin dragged hard on his cigar. “Besides, his house party includes a very scandalous set—his friends would shock you.”

  “I’m not that easy to shock. Remember, I spent many years abroad. I’ve seen more than the average Englishwoman.”

  He’d wager she’d never seen anything like Stokely’s party. “All the same, it can’t be done. Stokely only invites longtime gamblers whose playing he knows.”

  She frowned. “Other people on the guest list don’t fit that description—like Captain Jones.”

  “True, but his mistress, Lady Hungate, does. That’s also why Lord Hungate and his mistress will be there. You only get an invitation to Stokely’s by being a serious gambler or a serious gambler’s lover, spouse, or mistress.”

  Her face brightened. “Why didn’t you say so? You can get me invited as your mistress!”

  He stared at her. Few people could astonish him; the hot-headed Lady Haversham had done so twice. This was the most novel invitation he’d ever received.

  And oddly enough, the most intriguing.

  He trailed his gaze down her body, lingering over her ample bosom and the black fabric that hid what he’d discovered was a trim waist and nicely plump arse.

  When she blushed, he nearly laughed aloud. The woman screamed innocence, so why the devil was she offering him this?

  Dropping her gaze from his blatant one, she said, “You’re not taking a mistress to the affair already, are you? I know that you and Lady Jenner—”

  “Not anymore.” He stubbed out his cigar. “I’m between mistresses at present. But you can’t be serious about this.”

  “Why not? I realize I’m not the sort of female you generally prefer—”

  “You mean, the sort who don’t shoot at me?”

  She scowled. “I mean, the statuesque, blond, shameless sort rumored to hang on your arm at every social event.”

  “You seem to know a great deal more about me than I know about you.”

  “Your preference for a certain type of female is legendary. I can’t alter my height and my coloring—or the fact that I get what I want using my brain, not my bosom—but I believe that with some tutoring, I could make a convincing enough mistress.”

  “You’d require more than tutoring.” Taking her by surprise, he snatched out the demure black fichu tucked into the bodice of her gown. “You’d have to shed these abysmal widow’s weeds, for one thing. No one would ever believe I’d go about with a woman dressed like a crow.”

  Her gaze locked with his, fiercely defiant. “And I suppose you’ll expect me to cut off my unfashionably long hair and torture it into silly curls—”

  “No, nothing so drastic.” He liked long hair and he couldn’t wait to take hers down. “But you could use the services of a lady’s maid to dress it better.”

  She stiffened. “I have a lady’s maid. She’s just not that good with hair.”

  “A lady’s maid who doesn’t dress hair. Of course.” He ran one finger along the too-high line of her bodice. Her nicely filled bodice. “And I assume she’s also responsible for your prim gowns.”

  She thrust his hand aside. “I can acquire more fashionable gowns if necessary.”

  A smug smile touched his lips. “Ah, but can you learn to tolerate my lascivious touch?”

  “I’m sure I could play the fawning female well enough. How hard could it be to act the role?”

  His smile vanished. “You’re suggesting that you pretend to be my mistress?”

  She blinked. “Of course. What else?”

  His disappointment surprised him. “If you’re willing to risk scandal by pretending to be my mistress, you might as well be my real one.”

  She looked alarmed by the very idea. “Why would I want to do that?”

  “The obvious reasons—entertainment, companionship…pleasure. It’s not as if you have to protect your virtue. Widows can do as they wish.” Just how far would she go to gain her “property”?

  He bent close and caught a whiff of her scent—exotic, unfamiliar, and more spicy than sweet. Amazing. He would have expected the chit to bathe in lye. That glimpse of the real woman further intrigued him.

  “Having you as my mistress is the one thing that might induce me to help you,” he said in his best seductive whisper.

  To his surprise, she burst into laughter. “You don’t even like me.”

  “Not when you’re shooting at me.” He skimmed his finger along her jaw, exulting when her breath quickened. “But if you were to focus all that fierce energy on pleasing a man in bed—”

  “As if I know anything about that.” She pushed his hand away with another laugh, but this one was strained. “I’m a respectable woman, for pity’s sake.”

  “My mistresses generally are. That doesn’t mean they can’t enjoy themselves in the bedchamber.”

  Her amusement vanished. “May I be frank, Mr. Byrne?”

  He bit back a smile. “When have you ever not been?”

  “I would prefer to be your pretend mistress. If you don’t mind.”

  “Ah, but I don’t need a pretend mistress. I can have a real one whenever I wish.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Are you saying you won’t help me unless I become your mistress in truth?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.” It was less a bluff than he’d like. The idea of making Lady Haversham his mistress had begun to hold a certain appeal.

  Take care, man, he cautioned himself. It was fine to desire the woman, but her usefulness lay in the property that Prinny seemed so eager to have her regain. Gavin meant to get more than a barony out of this. He would settle for nothing less than Prinny’s public confession of how he’d wronged Gavin’s mother.

  Never mind that it might cause a scandal that Prinny could ill afford these days. Gavin wanted the record set straight. But he needed leverage for that, which Lady Haversham might provide—if he didn’t let his lust for the woman run away with him.

  A long sigh escaped her. “Oh, all right. I suppose I can endure having you lie atop me and do your business if I must.”

  That brought him up short. “Lie atop you and—”

  “I endured it well enough with my husband, so a few encounters of the sort with you won’t hurt me.”

  Her heavy sigh alerted him. She was calling his bluff, but doing it in a way designed to put him off, the clever chit.

  “Ah, but if you shared my bed, it would be—”

  “Yes, yes, it would be sheer bliss with you. Of course.”

  Her sarcasm didn’t fool him, either. “Then we’re agreed.”

  She stiffened. “I don’t think it’s quite fair for you to ask an additional payment for your services when His Highness has already offered you a barony.” When his eyes narrowed, she added hastily, “But I’ll meet your price if I must.”

  No
w she was trying to reduce his seduction to a mercenary act. But her shaking hands gave her away—this was all bluster. Damn, but this must be important to her—and to Prinny.

  He ought to keep pressing her to see how far she’d go, but the truth was, he liked his women willing. What pleasure would there be in taking a woman to bed who didn’t want to be there? If he agreed to her scheme, though, he’d have plenty of time to bring her round. And that would make the pleasure even sweeter in the end.

  When he said nothing, she added, “Shall we seal the deal now? You gentlemen are usually quick with your swiving, so I could throw up my skirts, and you could take care of matters before anyone guesses—”

  “Enough, madam, you’ve made your point.” Not the point she thought she’d made, but an effective one nonetheless. “Where did you learn a word like swiving, anyway?”

  She eyed him coolly. “I’ve spent most of my life in the company of soldiers. My father is a general, remember?”

  “Right.” Which was why, when pressed to the wall, she had tried to outmaneuver him. Little did she know that it would take an army of general’s daughters to outmaneuver him.

  “Very well,” he said smoothly. “I agree to keep this a masquerade only.” The relief in her eyes at not having to share his bed pricked his pride. “For the moment.”

  “Are you sure?” she snapped. “Because I could still—”

  “Watch it, my sweet,” he said in that soft, deadly tone that men knew to beware. “Best to stop while you’re holding the winning hand.” He dropped his gaze to her trembling mouth. “You won’t get another.”

  He walked to the door and opened it. “Now run along like a good little girl and let the men talk. My agreement with you is conditional upon whether His Highness will agree to certain terms of mine. And they don’t concern you.”

  Though she bristled at his insulting dismissal, she nodded and headed toward the open door. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Byrne.”

  “No need to be formal. If we’re pretending to be lovers, call me Byrne as everyone else does.” He arched one eyebrow. “Or feel free to call me ‘darling.’”

  An inelegant snort escaped her. “Feel free to call me Christabel.”

  “For God’s sake, how did a general’s daughter get such a fanciful name?”

  “I had a mother, too, you know.” With that she stalked out, her lovely hips swinging.

  As heat rose in the wrong places, he marveled at the perverse intensity of his attraction to her. She had a mother, did she? Then it must be some Amazon or fairy queen or succubus from hell. No mere Englishwoman could possibly have spawned that whirling dervish of a female.

  A whirling dervish who thought to put him off by implying that his lovemaking would be a chore, or worse yet, a business transaction. But that wouldn’t last long. He would have the Widow Haversham begging for him to take her if it was the last thing he did.

  He’d built a fortune on his ability to mix business with pleasure, so he would play her game for now, but in the end he’d have it all—her mysterious property, his revenge upon Prinny, and a willing Christabel in his bed.

  “Well?”

  Iversley’s voice snapped him out of his reverie. He looked up to find his brothers approaching. After they entered the room, he shut the door. “I’ll do it.”

  “Excellent,” Draker said.

  “But I have an additional condition. I want a private audience with Prinny when it’s done.”

  “Why?” Draker asked.

  “I have my reasons.”

  Draker eyed him intently, then sighed. “I’ll see if he’ll agree to that.”

  “He’d better if he wants me to help Christabel.”

  “Christabel?” Iversley said.

  Might as well tell them the plan. They’d hear of it soon enough. “Stokely will only invite the good widow if she’s my mistress. So she will be.”

  Draker drew himself up. “I hope you did not coerce that poor woman—”

  “Did I mention that she’ll be my pretend mistress? We’re perpetrating a deception like the one you and Regina perpetrated with your pretend courtship.”

  “It may have started out as a pretend courtship,” Draker retorted, “but it didn’t stay one for long.”

  A smile curved Gavin’s lips. “Exactly.”

  “I thought you didn’t like Lady Haversham,” Draker snapped.

  Gavin thought of Christabel’s soft, curvy body pressed to his, of the quickening of her breath when he’d touched her—of the stubborn will that he would greatly enjoy bending to his own. “She grows on a man.”

  The overly moral Draker frowned, but Iversley burst into laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” Gavin asked.

  “Draker’s pretense with Regina eventually led to marriage,” Iversley said slyly. “Or had you forgotten?”

  When Draker began to chuckle, too, Gavin retorted, “Don’t worry. I have no interest in marriage.” Only once had he even considered it, as a green lad of twenty-two. But Anna Bingham had cured him of that nonsense.

  “Women have a way of changing a man’s mind,” Iversley said.

  “Not bloody likely.” His idiot brothers’ sly winks and knowing glances annoyed him. “Besides, Lady Haversham appears quite happy with her current situation.”

  Draker lifted one eyebrow. “That could change, too.”

  “For God’s sake, you’re as bad as your wife, with her talk of connubial bliss and falling in love. Contrary to what Regina seems to think, some bachelors actually have no interest in love.”

  The disaster with Anna had taught him that there were lines even “love” didn’t cross, that his preference for sophisticated women could only be assuaged in illicit physical liaisons. No respectable woman would marry him unless she was after his money, and he had no desire to endure such a hypocrisy of a marriage.

  Besides, the more adulterous affairs he engaged in, the more cynical he became about marriage, his brothers’ happy unions notwithstanding. Any woman worth her salt married for financial or social advantage. Would Katherine or Regina have married his brothers if they hadn’t had titles?

  He didn’t explore that question further, for it made him uncomfortably aware of the main difference between him and his half brothers. Their mothers’ husbands had claimed each of them as legitimate sons. Gavin’s mother hadn’t had that choice, which was why he would be Byblow Byrne until he died.

  Unless he became the Baron Byrne. He certainly liked that idea. Especially if forcing Prinny to set matters straight and acquiring the intriguing Christabel as his real mistress were part of the bargain.

  “So it’s settled,” he said, ready to change the subject. “I’ll get Christabel onto Stokely’s guest list, and our sire will hand me a barony.”

  “Yes, it’s settled,” Draker said.

  “We’re glad you agreed to this,” Iversley added. “It’s time you got something more from our alliance than entertainment.”

  “Don’t worry. When this is done, I intend to get a great deal more than entertainment from it.” When Iversley looked speculative, Gavin added quickly, “This calls for a toast.” He poured brandy all round, then lifted his glass. “To the Royal Brotherhood of Bastards.”

  They all echoed the usual toast, then drank. When he went to refill Draker’s glass for the second toast, his half brother shook his head. Gavin glanced to Iversley, who was clearly toying with his glass to avoid having it refilled.

  “You two really have gone soft,” Gavin muttered, then refilled his own glass and raised it defiantly. “To our noble sire,” he said loudly. “May he rot in hell.”

  Chapter Two

  Men are sneaky devils; never let them

  convince you otherwise.

  —Anonymous, Memoirs of a Mistress

  What an insane bargain! As Christabel gazed round Lord Draker’s dinner table, she wondered if she’d made an enormous mistake. Play Mr. Byrne’s mistress? At a house party with sophisticated sorts like these
ladies and gentlemen? She must have been mad to suggest it.

  Though truly, she’d been fortunate Mr. Byrne hadn’t called her bluff and demanded that she be his real mistress. What would she have done?

  She choked back a hysterical laugh. As if she could please a man of his scandalous tastes. If she were capable of that, her beloved Philip would never have taken a mistress.

  The usual low ache began in the pit of her belly, and she stifled an oath. It didn’t matter now, did it? Compared to Philip’s other betrayal, it was nothing. So why couldn’t she stop thinking about it?

  Because of that Mr. Byrne with his flirtations. He’d stirred up all sorts of…naughty feelings that should have stayed buried with her husband.

  And Mr. Byrne probably didn’t even mean his flirting! It was merely his nature, which meant he must have some other motive for agreeing to her plan. He was just that sort of devious scoundrel. Nothing she’d seen this evening had changed her initial opinion of him one whit. He was the Prince of Darkness himself—polished, more handsome than she remembered, and possessed of an Irishman’s glib tongue. She didn’t trust him. She didn’t approve of him.

  She found him utterly fascinating.

  Of course. She always found the wrong sort of men fascinating. That’s why she’d ended up here in the first place.

  “Do try some of the galantine, Lady Haversham,” Lady Draker said from her post at the end of the dinner table. “Our cook is famous for it.”

  Christabel blinked at the fair-haired viscountess. Which of the dishes before her was a galantine? That’s why she hated coming into society. She always floundered in the morass of rules and French words. Not to mention the expectation that she—a mere general’s daughter—knew how to behave as a proper marchioness.

  “If I may,” Mr. Byrne said, and offered her a dish.

  Oh, the aspic-covered thing. “It does look delicious,” she lied as she took some. She ventured a bite, relieved to find it edible. She only prayed that Lord Stokely didn’t have a French cook, or she’d never make it through his meals.

  Perhaps Mr. Byrne could help with that, too. For a notorious owner of a gaming club, he seemed perfectly adept at navigating the treacherous social waters, perfectly at ease in this august company.