One Night with a Prince Page 4

  “Never.” Lady Iversley leaned toward Lady Draker confidentially. “I’ve always said he needs someone who would keep him in line.”

  “Exactly. Someone with intelligence, who can match him step for step.”

  “He chooses frivolous women on purpose, you know,” Lady Iversley pointed out. “It makes it easier for him to discard them—”

  “For pity’s sake,” Christabel cut in, “what on earth are you talking about?” Both ladies blinked at her as if the writing table had just up and spoken to them. “My association with Mr. Byrne isn’t what you seem to think—”

  “Oh, please,” Lady Iversley broke in, “we’re not fools. Perhaps you believe your association is about business, but it’s perfectly clear that Byrne intends to—”

  “Yes,” Lady Draker broke in, with a warning glance at her friend. “What Katherine is trying to say is that you should have a care for your reputation. If you are seen going for a drive tête-à-tête with Byrne, society may assume…well…how to put this delicately…”

  “That I’m his mistress?”

  Her candor seemed to shock them, but there was no point in continuing her claims about a business association. Neither of them would believe it now. Besides, they’d hear the gossip soon enough.

  “And what if society does think I’m his mistress?” Christabel said, trying for a nonchalant tone. “I don’t care.”

  Lady Draker’s eyes narrowed. “We merely want to make sure that you know what you’re about.”

  Lady Iversley added, “You don’t seem the type to…”

  “Take a lover?” If she couldn’t convince these ladies, how would she ever convince Lord Stokely? “I suppose you think I’m too short and plain for a man like Mr. Byrne.”

  “Not at all,” Lady Iversley said. “You’re too innocent.”

  “And respectable,” Lady Draker added.

  “You’d never even heard of an aphrodisiac,” Lady Iversley pointed out.

  “I didn’t know the word,” Christabel admitted. “But I’m aware of the idea, having spent my life around soldiers. And as a widow, I have no attachments.”

  She’d thought that would end the discussion. She was wrong.

  “An interesting point,” Lady Iversley told Lady Draker. “Byrne has never shown interest in a widow before. He only likes women he can hand back to their husbands when he’s done.”

  “So you think his interest might be more serious?” Lady Draker asked. “He is taking her for a drive tomorrow, and that’s unusual—”

  “Excuse me,” Christabel said, rising abruptly. Mention of the drive reminded her that she was supposed to order new gowns. But she had no clue where to go for inexpensive attire Mr. Byrne might find suitably fashionable for his mistress.

  She must catch him before he left. Already she could hear him requesting his carriage, and these two ladies clearly didn’t need her here to continue this outrageous discussion. “I forgot to ask Mr. Byrne something. I’ll be back in a moment.” She hurried from the room. From the top of the stairs, she spotted him about to go out the door. “Wait, Mr. Byrne!” she called as she hurried down.

  He halted in the doorway. As she approached, he said dryly, “I thought you were going to call me Byrne.”

  “If you mean to be informal, why not have me call you by your Christian name?”

  A smile touched his lips. “Because only my mother ever called me Gavin.”

  His poor, dead mother. The thought of anyone, even the wicked Mr. Byrne, being all alone in the world saddened her.

  “Did you have something you wanted to ask?” he said.

  “Oh, yes, I forgot. What dressmaker should I use for my new gowns? I have no idea who might specialize in the sort of gowns you…well—”

  “Want my mistresses to wear?” His eyes twinkled. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring a dressmaker tomorrow to consult with you before our drive.”

  “No one too expensive, mind you,” she said.

  He cast her a speculative glance. “I think you’ll be pleased with my choice.” He lifted his hand to finger the high collar of her gown. “And one more thing, Christabel. Don’t wear black tomorrow.”

  Chapter Three

  A mistress must gain as much as she can

  from any liaison, for who knows how long

  her charms will last?

  —Anonymous, Memoirs of a Mistress

  Don’t wear black tomorrow.

  Right. Christabel surveyed the contents of her armoire with a sigh. Black muslin with lace trim, black dimity with braid trim, black fustian with pearl buttons. Even her riding habits were black. A truly dismal selection.

  “I told you, milady,” said Rosa, her Gibraltan lady’s maid, “we dyed all your gowns black. Every one. You ordered it so.”

  “And you listened to me?” Christabel slumped onto the bed. “What were you thinking?”

  Rosa had been with Christabel from the beginning of her marriage, first as a maid-of-all-work, then as a lady’s maid. Since they were nearly the same age, Christabel regarded her less as a servant than a sister. A very opinionated, often annoying, sister.

  “I always listen to you,” Rosa retorted with a toss of her lush black curls. “Especially when you are—how do you say in English—pigheaded. You said you would mourn his lordship forever.”

  Christabel winced. That was when she was still in the throes of grief, before she’d learned what Philip had been doing behind her back. Now another of her rash and impulsive acts had returned to haunt her.

  “Go on, say it.” Christabel lay back to stare at the ceiling. “I was a fool. You disapprove of my not keeping at least one gown undyed.”

  “It is not my place to approve or disapprove,” Rosa said primly.

  Christabel snorted. “And when did this sudden subservience make itself known? Shall I call in a doctor?”

  “Very well, if you must know my opinion, life is too short to spend it mourning a man. Any man.”

  Christabel sat up to hug her knees. “But especially Philip, right?”

  Rosa’s manner softened. “Oh, my lady, he wasn’t worthy of you. You deserve a better husband. Perhaps this Mr. Byrne—”

  Christabel began to laugh hysterically. “No, indeed. He’s not remotely the marrying sort.”

  Rosa frowned. “But good enough to share your bed?”

  Christabel stopped laughing. She hadn’t dared reveal the real reason for her sudden connection to Byrne—even loyal servants like Rosa gossiped, and this must be a masquerade in the truest sense. So she’d told her servant that she’d found a protector.

  But that wasn’t the source of Rosa’s frown; oh no. Rosa believed that a woman should engage in scandalous liaisons whenever possible. It was part of the “life is too short” philosophy she’d embraced after her cheating soldier husband had got himself shot in a French brothel. Rosa was also practical enough to realize that a woman had to do what she must to survive sometimes.

  So something else must be bothering her. “I thought you approved of my taking a lover?”

  “It is not for me to—”

  “Stubble it, Rosa. What’s annoying you now?”

  “I only want to make sure he’s a good man. And men who aren’t ever interested in marriage with anyone are generally…”

  “Scoundrels. I know.” She managed a smile. “Does it help that he’s a charming scoundrel?”

  Rosa eyed her askance.

  “I don’t intend to remarry anyway, so it hardly matters.”

  After this scheme with Byrne, no one of her rank would probably have her. Which was fine. Truly. She would return to traveling with Papa and spending her time with soldiers. What did she want with a lordly husband? She’d be better off with some sergeant who might appreciate her talents with firearms.

  And who would never presume to court a widowed marchioness.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. She might consider remarrying if it meant she could have children. But she was clearly barren—ten yea
rs of marriage with no babes amply demonstrated that. Tears stung her eyes. No man with rank or property or any hopes for the future wanted a woman who couldn’t give him heirs.

  So what difference did it make what she wore for an outing with that devil Byrne? She thrust out her chin. None whatsoever. And if it annoyed him, so be it.

  Brushing away her tears, she left the bed. “All right, let’s get this done. Which of the awful things should I wear?”

  “It matters not. They are all ugly in black.” Rosa shot her a sly glance. “Thank heaven your new lover is purchasing you gowns.”

  “He’s not purchasing me gowns. He’s merely helping me choose them.” She only prayed she didn’t go too deeply into debt while buying them.

  “What?” With another frown, Rosa took down the dimity gown and helped Christabel into it. “Will he expect you to pay for everything? You cannot afford—”

  “We haven’t worked out the financial arrangements yet.” She eyed Rosa askance. “And what happened to ‘it is not my place to approve or disapprove’?”

  Rosa ignored her, refusing to hand Christabel the fichu she generally wore with the gown. “You should at least show your bosoms. He is a man, after all.”

  Christabel sighed. There was no question about Byrne’s manhood. And showing some bosom might allay his annoyance at her. “Very well.” She sat down at the dressing table. “But can you do something more sophisticated with my hair?”

  “I shall try. But you should cut it off and curl it like the other ladies.”

  Christabel bit back her retort. That was easy for Rosa to say—she had natural curls, not Christabel’s straight hair. Christabel wasn’t about to let the feckless Rosa anywhere near curling irons. Or scissors, for that matter.

  By the time Byrne and the dressmaker were announced, Rosa had piled Christabel’s thick, unruly hair rather presentably atop her head. Leaving the room, they headed off down the hall. But when Rosa spotted the man from the top of the stairs, she pulled Christabel aside. “Isn’t that the gambler you shot at last year?”

  Would nobody ever forget that? “I’m afraid so.”

  “Madre de Dios, he is forcing you to be his mistress, isn’t he, because of the shooting? I knew it! You would never take a lover by choice—you are too much the strict Englishwoman for that. But to be forced…no, I will not let him do this. I will march right down and tell that scoundrel—”

  “You will do nothing of the sort.” Christabel grabbed her maid by the arm. “I’m not being forced. Have you ever known me to be forced into anything?”

  When Rosa raised her eyebrows, Christabel added, “All right, so I did let Philip get around me occasionally, but he was my husband. This isn’t the same.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I find Mr. Byrne…interesting, that’s all. And you have been saying that my life needs a change, that it’s too dreary.”

  “Sí, but you should not make the change with a gambler!”

  “He’s a man of property, not a gambler. He owns the Blue Swan.”

  That gave Rosa pause. “Ah, I have heard of it. A very lofty gentlemen’s club. He must be quite rich.” Rosa peered over the edge of the landing, her black eyes assessing Byrne with renewed interest. “I remember now—he’s the one they call Bonny Byrne. Well…he is rather handsome. A fine dresser, too.” The maid frowned. “You really should have kept one of your pretty gowns undyed.”

  “They weren’t all that pretty anyway.” It was hard to have pretty gowns when your husband spent all his money at the tables. “Now come on, let’s go down.”

  “Perhaps the muslin gown would have worked when it was still pink,” Rosa went on as they descended. “But no, a man like him expects something more.”

  Truer words were never spoken. Did he have to look so…so bonny? His auburn hair was wind-tossed from his drive, but the rest of him…Lord help her.

  The perfectly cut riding coat of dun kerseymere showed his chest and broad shoulders to fine advantage, especially since he eschewed the high, pointed collars and elaborate cravats most fine gentlemen seemed to wear. Instead of his chin being lost in a froth of linen, his modest collar and simply knotted cravat accentuated the masculine lines of his square jaw.

  Even from here, she could see the dressmaker, a portly woman twice his age, casting him flirtatious smiles. Who wouldn’t? The man’s doeskin breeches could have been painted on him. Christabel had seen cavalrymen with less muscular calves and thighs—clearly Byrne did more with his days than sit at gaming tables.

  The one thing she could find no trace of in his lean form was His Highness, his supposed father. Then Byrne shifted his gaze to them, and she saw the resemblance. It was in his eyes, the same unearthly blue as the prince’s.

  Eyes that narrowed with disapproval when they spotted her gown. He waited until they’d approached and he’d introduced the dressmaker before saying, “I see you’re still intent on your widow’s weeds.”

  “They suit me,” she lied.

  “No, they don’t.” He added in a huskier tone, “You were made for satins and silks, Christabel.”

  “Satins and silks are expensive, sir,” Rosa cut in.

  As the dressmaker scowled at Rosa’s impertinence, Christabel said through gritted teeth, “Forgive my maid, but she’s foreign and has decided opinions.”

  Byrne’s lips twitched as he turned his unsettling blue gaze on Rosa. “And where do you hail from, miss?”

  “Gibraltar.” She presented it like a badge of honor.

  He said something in a foreign tongue, and Rosa blinked. It was the first time Christabel had ever seen her maid startled.

  “You speak Spanish, sir?” Rosa asked.

  “A bit.” His ingratiating smile took in both of them. “In my business, it pays to know a smattering of other languages.”

  Rosa nodded, though she still looked wary. But when he rattled off more Spanish, she cast him a cautious smile. Her short response, however, must have been saucy, for he burst into laughter. After a second she even joined him.

  Then he said in English, “Rosa, why don’t you show Mrs. Watts where we’ll be doing the fittings for your mistress’s gowns? Her footmen are waiting to bring in bolts of fabric.”

  Before Christabel could stop her, Rosa took the dressmaker off.

  Christabel turned to Byrne with a frown. “I thought this was a consultation.”

  “It’s also a fitting. I want Mrs. Watts to get started on your gowns right away. She’s making it her first priority.”

  “I can’t afford that!”

  “Ah, but I can. And the quickest way for people to learn that you’re my mistress is if they hear I bought you expensive gowns.”

  She considered that a moment, torn between pride and practicality, as footmen marched through the vestibule to the parlor, carrying bolts of muslin and sarcenet. “I suppose you do this all the time,” she grumbled.

  He took that for the acquiescence it was. “Occasionally. Although fortunately, my mistress’s husbands generally pay for their gowns.”

  She stuck out her chin. “Then I’ll pay you for mine later.”

  “I’m getting a barony out of this—that’s payment enough.” He slanted her a glance. “Besides, if I let you pay for them, you’ll probably buy the coarsest linsey and plenty of dimity and fustian.”

  Because that was all she could afford. “That’s practical for the country. And we are going to be in the country, aren’t we?”

  “Trust me, no one at this affair will be dressed in fustian. I mean to see you in gauze and silk and sheer muslin.” He bent close to murmur, “Very sheer muslin.”

  Ignoring the sudden racing of her pulse, she said, “Is that what you said to Rosa in Spanish?”

  “I told her I could afford satins and silks. And I told her I would treat you well.” His eyes gleamed with humor. “She said that if I didn’t, she’d feed me my privates for breakfast.” At Christabel’s groan, he chuckled. “Do you find your servants on the battlefield, for God’s
sake? Do you test them on marksmanship and swordplay before you hire them?”

  “Very funny. Rosa is a soldier’s widow. That taught her to be fierce.”

  “Much like her mistress.” He drew her aside to avoid a footman carrying a particularly large bolt of rose satin. “God help the poor fellow who waylays you two in some dark alley. He’s liable to have his head shot off.”

  She sniffed. “Sometimes a woman has to defend herself.”

  “And sometimes, my sweet, she should allow a man to defend her.”

  “As long as that man isn’t the same one she needs defense from.”

  He shot her a seductive smile. “In which case, there are more effective ways of bringing him to his knees than shooting at him.”

  She fought to ignore the sensual pull of his dark flirtations. “As if you would know—have you ever let a woman bring you to your knees?”

  “I do it in bed all the time.” He scoured her with a wicked gaze, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “I can’t wait to be on my knees with you.”

  A vivid image of him kneeling between her parted thighs rose in her mind, shocking her. “You’ll be waiting an eternity for that,” she shot back, as much to convince herself as him.

  He merely laughed. The audacity of the man! Did he have no intention of holding to their bargain? Or could he simply not help trying to seduce any woman within reach?

  Well, it wouldn’t work with her. She refused to let his flirtations make her imagine what he’d be like in bed. Or wonder if he would be gentle or rough. If he would leave her feeling vaguely dissatisfied afterward the way Philip always had—

  Oh, Lord, how could she even think about such things with her husband freshly in the grave?

  Byrne drew her into the nearby dining room out of the way of the trooping footmen. Glancing around, he caught sight of a portrait over the mantel that she’d brought with her from Rosevine. His eyes narrowed. “Your father?”

  “How did you know?”

  “The uniform.” He smiled. “And the resemblance. You have his fierce green eyes and stubborn chin.”

  “Thank you,” she said, pleased. Most people said she looked nothing like Papa, because he was tall and gaunt, with gray-streaked chestnut curls utterly unlike her long, dark locks.