One Night with a Prince Read online

  He hadn’t realized how much bitterness was in his voice until she laid her hand soothingly on his shoulder. “You loved her, didn’t you?”

  Somehow he managed a shrug. “I was a young idiot. I suppose I fancied myself in love.”

  “And she loved you. She still does. I suspect she regrets letting her family convince her to choose Kingsley over you.”

  “Then she’s a fool.”

  She stared up at him, wide-eyed. “Why?”

  “The world is made for men. Women only succeed by marrying well, and I could never have given her the status she instantly achieved by marrying Kingsley. She would have been Mrs. Byrne, the Irish bastard’s wife. Instead of Lady Kingsley, the Irish peer’s wife.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered,” she persisted. “You loved each other, and a woman should always choose love over other considerations.”

  “That didn’t exactly work well for you, did it?” Her stricken expression made him curse his quick tongue. “I’m sorry, lass, I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Why not? It’s true.” She shifted out of his arms to lie with her back to him on the bed. “I loved Philip, and he trampled on my love. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps a woman should choose a man for more practical reasons, like money or status.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Or how good a lover he is.”

  Yesterday, he would have exulted to hear those words. Now, all he could think was that he’d stolen something valuable from her—her wide-eyed belief in honor and beauty and…yes…love.

  He bit back an oath. He hadn’t stolen it—Haversham had. He was just furthering the education her husband had started.

  That was a depressing thought.

  “Byrne?” she asked.

  He lay down beside her, tugging her body into the lee of his. “Yes, lass?”

  “What happens now?”

  “What do you mean?” he said, pretending not to know.

  “With us.”

  Hardly realizing he did so, he tightened his grip on her. “We enjoy each other,” he said fiercely. “We share a bed, we play whist, and we—”

  “I mean later. After this is over.”

  “Nothing will change. You’ll still be my mistress and share my bed.”

  She was silent a moment. “For how long?”

  Damn her for asking that. Why did women always have to anticipate the end? “For however long we both want.”

  “But Byrne—”

  “Enough,” he broke in, covering her mouth with his hand. “Just let it be what it is for a while, all right? Can’t you do that?”

  She shifted to gaze up at him, her eyes glimmering with tears, but she nodded.

  He let go of her mouth. “Good.” He bent his head to kiss her, but she pressed him back.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, four-thirty. Five. Why?”

  “We should go look for the letters,” she whispered.

  For half a second, he thought she meant his French letters. Then it dawned on him what she was talking about, and a groan escaped his lips.

  He really was far gone, to forget the very thing he’d come here to gain. That’s what came of letting a woman get under one’s skin.

  He glanced at the clock. “It’s nearly 5:00 A.M. The servants will be stirring.”

  “But we could wait until they’ve finished in the public rooms, then still have time to search the study or library while everyone is abed.”

  “I suppose,” he said noncommittally. The truth was, he doubted they would ever find those letters by searching Stokely’s huge mansion. They’d be better off trying to strike a deal with the arse. No, he would be better off striking a deal. He still meant to gain those letters for himself. It shouldn’t matter to her in the long run—after he got what he wanted from Prinny, he would return them.

  But he could only bargain with Stokely if he knew what was in them, knew their worth.

  He pressed his lips to her forehead, then nuzzled her hair. “How many letters are there exactly?” He kissed a path to her ear, which he then caressed with the tip of his tongue until he felt her sigh beneath him. “How large a packet are we looking for?”

  “I don’t…know. Ten…twenty…not large.”

  Covering her lush breast with his hand, he kneaded the nipple until it hardened to a fine point. “Is it bound with anything? Like string or ribbon?”

  “A…a…yellow ribbon. I think.”

  He nibbled her ear. “I assume the letters are from your father to someone. A friend? The prince himself?”

  Stiffening, she pushed him back. “You’re trying to seduce me into telling you what’s in them.”

  Damn her for being too clever—and wary—for him. “I’m trying to seduce you, yes. But I don’t care what you tell me about the letters.”

  “Liar.” She stared at him with an accusing gaze. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Try all you wish—I’m not going to tell you.”

  Not now, anyway. He hovered over her, a faint smile touching his lips. “Does that mean you won’t let me seduce you either?”

  The sudden spark of heat in her was unmistakable. “We should sleep,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction.

  He bent his head to nuzzle her breast, then dragged his tongue over the nipple until she gasped. “We can sleep later,” he said hoarsely. Then he added, “I’ll be right back,” and left the bed to find his French letters.

  But by the time he returned to the bed, her eyes had drifted shut and her slow, even breathing signaled the end to tonight’s lovemaking. He tossed the French letters on the bedside table with a rueful sigh. No matter; there was always morning. And tomorrow night. And the night after that.

  For how long?

  He shoved that question from his mind. But after he climbed into bed beside her, and was drifting off to sleep, it returned to haunt him. For how long?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Do not trust anything your lover’s former

  mistress might tell you. Her motives for

  what she says can never be pure.

  —Anonymous, Memoirs of a Mistress

  On the third morning after Christabel had thrown caution to the winds and become Byrne’s real mistress, she sat at the dressing table in her room, grimacing with every stroke of Rosa’s brush. “Ouch!” she cried when Rosa pulled a bit too hard. “Are you trying to murder me?”

  Rosa clucked her tongue. “These are the sacrifices you make for having a lusty lover.” She cut her eyes slyly at Christabel in the mirror. “He makes love to you all night, no? That is why your hair is so tangled?”

  “Not all night.” But often enough to tangle her hair. And ensnare her heart.

  A sigh broke from her. The trouble with Byrne was that whenever he made love to her, she could almost believe it meant something to him. He lingered over her for hours, bringing her to heights of pleasure beyond her most erotic dreams. After a while, she began to hope that he cared for her more than he let on.

  But when they played whist with the others or when they searched Lord Stokely’s mansion, he was that other Byrne, the frighteningly efficient, calculating, ruthless gambler. And seeing that always plunged her into despair.

  Wrapping a hank of Christabel’s hair about her hand, Rosa briskly worked her brush through the snarled ends. “You are fortunate to be here with Mr. Byrne and not one of those other fools. He’s good in the bedchamber and good at cards. Mr. Byrne will win you a fortune that you can well use.”

  “I don’t know if I like gaining funds that way.”

  “By besting idiots like Lieutenant Markham? That man is an insult to the good name of soldiers everywhere, him and his phaeton and his airs. You should be pleased you and Mr. Byrne won his last pence. And his phaeton.”

  “I suppose.” Last night had been one of the few times she and Byrne had been whist partners. The game had been a most potent illustration of Byrne’s ruthlessness. “Byrne shouldn’t have talked the man into staking his horses
as well. That was unnecessary.”

  “Bah, Markham did not have to wager his horses. He did it because he thought he could win.” Rosa smiled proudly. “He should have realized that you and Mr. Byrne are invincible.”

  Christabel snorted. “Hardly. Though I don’t understand why Byrne was so determined to win his horses. Byrne told the man he ‘liked the diddies on your nags.’ Why would he say such a vulgar thing?”

  Rosa shrugged. “It hardly matters why. The point is he won.”

  “But he should have at least allowed the man to keep his horses,” she persisted. “Lord Stokely had already informed the lieutenant that he would have to leave, now that he’d lost all his funds. So the poor man has no means for returning to London. What will he do?”

  “I heard he walked to Salisbury this morning and pawned his watch for a coach ticket.”

  “Oh no.” But the lieutenant couldn’t appeal to Lady Jenner for help, since her husband was present and unlikely to offer his carriage to his wife’s lover. And no one else would wish to help him.

  This was the sort of people she found herself among, with Byrne their Prince of Sin. Sometimes it disheartened her to think of how far she’d fallen. And for what? A few glorious nights in bed? A man who’d as much as told her he would never marry her and could almost certainly never love her?

  Not that she wanted him to love her, oh no. She was taking no chances with a man who blatantly referred to himself as lacking a soul, a man who’d tried countless times to coax her into telling him what was in Papa’s letters. She was proud she’d held firm, though she wondered if it even mattered anymore.

  Because they couldn’t find the blasted things. Byrne thought they were probably in a hidden safe, but they’d found no safe anywhere after going over every inch of Lord Stokely’s library and study, as well as several other public rooms. Time grew short, and still nothing.

  She hoped to change that today, however. “Are you done yet?” she asked Rosa impatiently.

  “Almost. But what is your hurry? The men have gone out shooting, so it is not as if your Mr. Byrne can spend the day with you.”

  True, but he’d surprised her by suggesting that she use the time to search while Lord Stokely was occupied with the other men. Probably he thought she’d find nothing anyway. Or he was so sure of her that he believed she would tell him if she did find them.

  Whatever the reason, she would take advantage of it and search Lord Stokely’s bedchamber this morning—if the man kept a hidden safe, it might be there. And once she found it, she’d get Byrne to open it.

  Rosa put the final pin in place, and Christabel leaped to her feet. “Thank you, Rosa,” she called as she grabbed her silver fan and left the room. “I’ll see you here again in the morning.”

  She’d been spending her wild nights with Byrne, then creeping back to her room before the other guests stirred. She wasn’t sure why she bothered being discreet, however; no one else seemed to.

  Out in the hall, she glanced both ways, then slid over to Lord Stokely’s door. The downstairs servants would be occupied with serving the early risers breakfast, though it was past noon, and the upstairs maids would be helping those female guests who hadn’t brought their own ladies’ maids. Here in the family wing, the servants were done with the morning’s work, so hopefully she wouldn’t surprise anyone.

  Still, as she reached for the door handle, she prepared a story for why she was walking into Lord Stokely’s bedchamber unannounced.

  The door was locked.

  She couldn’t believe it. She tried the door again, but it didn’t budge.

  Her eyes narrowed. Why would the man keep his door locked with only the two of them in the family wing? Unless he hadn’t gone with the other men to shoot. Just to be sure, she knocked and called out, “Lord Stokely? Are you there?”

  Rosa, curse her, stuck her head out Christabel’s door and frowned. “I saw him leave with the shooting party this morning. And what would you be wanting with him anyway?”

  Christabel glowered at her servant. “I need to ask him a question, not that it’s any of your concern. And aren’t you supposed to be seeing to the laundering of my drawers?”

  Muttering to herself, Rosa closed the door, but Christabel knew the woman would now be listening for her to leave. Sometimes having a nosy servant was quite a nuisance. Tripping the blade on her little fan, she stuck it in the lock and poked around a bit, but her attempts brought her nothing.

  She could think of no reason for Lord Stokely to keep his room locked, unless he was hiding something in his bedchamber. And what else could it be but her letters?

  She would have to bring Byrne up here—if anyone knew how to pick a lock, it would be he. Somehow, they could work out a way to sneak into Lord Stokely’s bedchamber when he wasn’t there.

  Still, in case she was wrong, she’d keep looking elsewhere. There was a private drawing room downstairs that hardly anyone used—it would be easy to search in there.

  She hurried there, but when she walked in, she startled a group of women who were listening intently as Lady Jenner read to them from a slender book.

  “Oh, Lady Haversham, you must join us!” cried Mrs. Talbot. “You will surely find Lady Jenner’s new book as droll as we do.”

  She started to murmur some excuse, but Lady Jenner said, “You can add your store of information to ours.”

  “Information about what?”

  “Lovers, of course,” Lady Hungate put in. “We’re comparing notes.” She gestured to the volume in Lady Jenner’s hand. “Some silly female has published a book of memoirs about her years as ‘mistress to the loftiest of the ton,’ and we’re trying to guess who she might be.”

  Christabel was dying to hear more.

  “You have to join us,” Lady Jenner said. “Except for Lady Kingsley, the rest of us here have all been Byrne’s mistresses at one time or another—we simply have to know if your experience of him is the same as ours.”

  Cursing herself for a fool, Christabel entered and closed the door. She’d been trying to convince herself that she meant more to Byrne than a mere mistress. Listening to his other mistresses would serve as a potent reminder that she was no different to him than the rest of his women. And she needed such a reminder just now.

  “Oh, look and see if the author mentions Byrne!” Mrs. Talbot told Lady Jenner as Christabel took the remaining chair, near the door. “He might be in one of the later chapters.”

  “I doubt that,” Lady Hungate said. “The writer is clearly a courtesan, and Byrne’s mistresses are always married women.”

  “And the occasional widow,” Lady Kingsley said archly.

  Did she know that Christabel knew all about her and Byrne? Probably. Lord Stokely was too much of a gossip—and too intent on stirring trouble—not to have told her.

  “I’ve read the whole of the memoirs,” Lady Jenner said, “and there’s no mention of Byrne.”

  “Perhaps he paid to be kept out of it,” Mrs. Talbot said. “I heard that certain gentlemen received letters offering to keep them out if they paid a particular sum.”

  Lady Hungate laughed. “Byrne pay blackmail? He doesn’t care who knows about his love affairs. Sometimes I think the man actually relishes the gossip about him.”

  “No doubt,” Lady Jenner remarked. “He probably considers it a good thing to be known as the man with the warmest mouth and the coldest heart.”

  “He’s not that bad,” Lady Hungate chided. “And you have to admit that his prowess in bed makes up for any coolness of manner.”

  The women uttered a collective sigh.

  Mrs. Talbot turned to Christabel. “Does he still do that thing with his finger where he—”

  “Mrs. Talbot, really!” Lady Hungate protested. “I don’t think we should discuss specifics.”

  “Why not?” the woman said stoutly. “Who else can we discuss such matters with? And you know very well you loved what he did with his fingers.”

  The fact that Christ
abel knew exactly what the woman was talking about chilled her. Because she loved it, too. Dear Lord, she really was just one of his harem, wasn’t she?

  “Byrne is wonderful, I’ll grant you,” another woman said, “but he’s not the only man who knows what to do in the bedchamber. I once had this lover…”

  The next hour was spent in the most embarrassing and enlightening discussion Christabel had ever heard. Some of the things they talked about, she hadn’t even realized were possible. And some of them were quite intriguing.

  She listened avidly, fascinated by the variety of ways a man could pleasure a woman. And vice versa. Perhaps if she could please Byrne in bed with some of these techniques, she might hold on to him after this was over.

  She groaned. Hold on to him, indeed. Why did she never learn? And she ought to be ashamed of herself, thinking of an impossible future with Byrne when she should be worrying about Papa and his future.

  “Getting back to Byrne,” Lady Jenner said, “I’ll tell you what I don’t miss about the man—his insistence upon using French letters. I like the feel of a man’s flesh inside me, and it’s not as if I’m some whore teeming with disease. If it’s siring children he wants to avoid, why not pull out at the end like the other men?”

  Christabel hid her surprise. It never occurred to her that a man might do that.

  “I like French letters myself,” Mrs. Talbot retorted. “Less messy. Does he still insist upon it, Lady Haversham?”

  Christabel’s cheeks turned scarlet. “I…I…would rather not say.”

  “Look how you’re blushing,” Lady Jenner said snidely. “Do we offend you with our frank talk?”

  “Not at all,” she lied.

  “But you haven’t contributed much to the discussion. What does Byrne do that annoys you?”

  She sought for something less…indelicate to share. “He steals the covers. I always have to steal them back in the middle of the night.”