One Night with a Prince Read online

  “Ah. That point.” He tugged on her earlobe with his teeth, then pressed an openmouthed kiss to her neck.

  “So you can…stop now. I got your point.”

  “And I got yours—that you don’t mind my taking certain liberties.”

  The truth of it didn’t make it any less insulting. She jerked back. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.” His smugly masculine smile roused her ire, especially when he followed it with a sweeping, proprietary caress of his hand from her ribs to her hip. “I dare say if I took you to bed right now, you wouldn’t protest.”

  His arrogant assumption drove her over the edge. Reaching down, she grabbed his privates and squeezed, just enough to warn him. “I don’t take kindly to threats either, you randy Irishman. We made a bargain. You agreed to the terms, which didn’t include kissing or anything else. So if you try that again—”

  “You’ll what? Maim me?” His voice held nothing but sarcasm.

  She blinked. Most men retreated when faced with serious bodily harm.

  But of course Byrne wasn’t most men, as evidenced by his erection, growing harder and thicker and heavier in her hand by the moment. Nor did his angular features show even an ounce of concern for his precarious position.

  He actually leaned closer, shoving his…thing into her hand. “Go ahead. I dare you.” His eyes were steely bright as he lowered his voice to a menacing whisper. “See how far you get.”

  Her mouth went dry. Dear Lord, what now?

  She was saved by the door opening, and the dressmaker saying cheerfully, “I think we’ve found two gowns that will—Oh, dear. I-I’m sorry, I’ll come back.”

  “No, stay,” Christabel called out, grateful that Byrne’s back was to the door. Releasing his privates, she started to withdraw her hand, but he gripped it before she could.

  When her gaze flew to his, he hissed, “Next time you touch my cock, it had better be under much more enjoyable circumstances. Understood?” Only then did he let go.

  As he turned to face the dressmaker and Rosa, cool as you please, it was all Christabel could do not to throw something at him. He was in for a surprise if he thought that she’d ever touch his cock in that way. He’d just reminded her of the dangerous devil who lay beneath the smooth, charming façade, and there was no way she was ever sharing a bed with that man.

  Chapter Four

  I learned early on to guard my secrets. A

  man will keep them faithfully as long as

  he’s sharing your bed, but once he discards

  you, all his loyalty is lost.

  —Anonymous, Memoirs of a Mistress

  The warmongering female had actually threatened to unman him! Shaking his head, Gavin settled back in a chair to watch as Mrs. Watts marked one of Christabel’s black monstrosities for alteration.

  Christabel pretended to ignore him. The bloody chit was a real piece of work. One minute she responded to his kiss with all the fervor of a dockside tart, and the next she loosed that fiery temper of hers.

  He’d infuriated many a mistress, but none had ever dared to grab him by the ballocks and vow to maim him. Even the boldest ones knew better than to tempt fate with him.

  But not Colonel Christabel, oh, no. She made a habit of tempting fate. And every time she did, it only stoked his desire higher. If she continued it, he’d soon be walking around with a bloody Maypole in his trousers.

  Careful, Gavin. You’ve got bigger matters at stake than some female, no matter how pretty.

  “Tighten the bodice, too, would you, Mrs. Watts?” he called out, venting his annoyance at himself by annoying Christabel. “Make it nice and snug.”

  “I’ll try, sir, but it will take time. The trim makes it impossible to simply double the fabric. It would make the seams too thick.”

  “Like Mr. Byrne’s skull,” Christabel grumbled.

  Gavin waited until she looked at him for his response, then said, “It’s not my skull that’s thick right now, lass.”

  With her cheeks flaming, she jerked her gaze from his. Good. Let her be uncomfortable for a change.

  This arousal was bloody inconvenient. He ought to be trying to unearth her secrets, instead of dwelling on the sheer pleasure of kissing her.

  But the woman had quite a talent for kissing, whether she knew it or not. There’d been none of those coy female tricks he was used to from his mistresses—no false air of innocence or fake shyness or pretense of propriety, all meant to stimulate his jaded palate, though they usually served only to irritate him. Even if people weren’t honest anywhere else, they should at least be honest in bed.

  Like Christabel’s kisses. In their honesty, they’d been more erotic than those of any sophisticated courtesan. Her mouth had tasted of currants and cinnamon, like a Christmas pudding, sweet and warm and generous. It was nothing like the perfumed mouths of the practiced society women, who only gave enough to get what they wanted—a pleasant romp with a man who wouldn’t interfere in their marriages or expect anything of them other than enjoyment.

  Christabel didn’t want a pleasant romp from him. Nor was she willing to buy what she wanted with kisses. And the fact that she’d still responded to his kiss with such generosity of feeling intoxicated him. Made him want more. A great deal more. And soon.

  He couldn’t wait to take down her “unfashionable” hair, wrap it about his hand, and feel it tumbling over his chest, his belly, his cock.

  “Mr. Byrne!” said a sharp voice.

  He snapped to attention. Damn, there he went again. He looked up to find that Mrs. Watts had started unbuttoning the marked-up gown to remove it.

  And Christabel was glowering at him. “If you don’t mind—”

  “I don’t.” There was no way he’d let the chit throw him out now. The more unsettled he kept her, the more likely she was to let something important slip. “I’ve already seen you in your corset, my sweet.”

  She stayed Mrs. Watts’s hand. “But I still prefer to have privacy.”

  “And I still prefer to watch.” He motioned to Mrs. Watts to continue, then added, “Besides, your chemise and that long corset are so prim and proper, you might as well be wearing armor.”

  She looked skeptical, as well she should. Armor it might be, but it highlighted her figure so temptingly that Gavin’s blood pounded in his temples as Mrs. Watts slipped the gown off her.

  It still astonished him to find such a lush form hidden under the voluminous fabric of her widow’s weeds. He liked women with some flesh to them, and she was built as if made for him, with plump breasts, full hips, and a rounded belly reminiscent of that painting of Venus rising from the sea. Christabel might be short, but she wasn’t short on curves. He itched to touch them, to taste every inch of that sweetly abundant flesh.

  A pity she had to don her damned ugly gown again. She seemed to think so, too, for after she was dressed, and he was speaking to Mrs. Watts about a few final matters, he noticed the widow running her hand slowly over the rose satin that was to be made into an evening gown for her.

  He bent close to Mrs. Watts and lowered his voice. “The rose gown—what would it cost to have it finished in time for her to wear tomorrow evening?”

  The dressmaker followed his gaze, then named some exorbitant sum.

  “Done.” This had nothing to do with any sudden urge to please Christabel, he told himself. It was merely another tactic for keeping her off guard.

  “And your lady will need the matching pelisse and—”

  “The whole ensemble. Whatever it takes.”

  Beaming her approval, Mrs. Watts hurried off to gather up her wares.

  While she bustled about, Gavin strolled up to Christabel. “Mrs. Watts works with a milliner and a cobbler who will make sure you have bonnets, caps, slippers, and any other matching fripperies. As for reticules—”

  “My present reticules will be sufficient. I don’t need all that.” With a sigh, she turned from the satin as a pilgrim turns from temptation.
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br />   It reminded him of his boyhood, when he’d watched futilely as his mother tore her gaze from the rich gowns in shop windows that she couldn’t afford, thanks to Prinny. And that he couldn’t afford to get for her. “Yes, but you want ‘all that,’ don’t you?”

  She lifted her clear-eyed gaze to him. “It doesn’t matter what I want. You’ve already spent too much as it is.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  Her features hardened. “You’ll expect something in return.”

  “Yes, I’ll expect you to wear the gowns,” he snapped.

  “You know what I mean. And gowns weren’t part of our bargain.”

  He frowned. The idea of her feeling obligated to accept his advances because he’d bought some clothes didn’t sit well. It smacked too much of a whore’s transaction with her customer. And Christabel, like his mother, was no whore. “Think of it as my way of atoning for my part in your current situation.”

  “Is that what it is?”

  “No. But if that makes you feel better—”

  “I would feel better if you wouldn’t spend so much money on me that I can’t repay without…without…”

  “Sharing my bed?”

  She stuck out her chin. “Yes.”

  “One thing has nothing to do with the other. If I’m to convince Stokely to invite you to his party, you have to dress well. My reward has already been established; this is simply part of earning my barony.”

  She eyed him skeptically.

  His exasperation grew. “Consider it this way—if I didn’t spend money on clothes for you, I’d spend it on loose women, wine, and song. By taking the gowns, you’re saving me from other wicked pursuits.” He bit back a smile. “And I know how keen respectable women are on saving men from wickedness.”

  “Not this respectable woman.” A sad little frown marred her smooth brow. “The last time I tried saving a man, I failed spectacularly. I don’t plan to try again.”

  Haversham, no doubt. And why did her cynicism annoy him? He was just as cynical, if not more so.

  She picked up a monstrous reticule and a shawl she’d draped over a nearby chair. “Are we going for a drive or not?”

  He eyed her reticule suspiciously. “It depends.” Before she could stop him, he snatched it from her and peered inside. Lifting one eyebrow, he dug out her pistol. “I’m not going anywhere with you carting a loaded pistol.”

  “It’s not loaded,” she protested.

  “Then it’s no use to you at present anyway.” He shoved it into his coat pocket, then offered her his arm. “Shall we go?”

  “Now see here, that belongs to me!”

  “And you’ll get it back upon our return.”

  She sniffed. “So we actually are going for a drive then? I thought you might have said that last night just to disguise what we were really doing today.”

  “That was part of it. Iversley and Draker know the true situation between us, but I cautioned them not to tell their wives. So the ladies would naturally assume the worst if they heard about my buying you gowns. You seemed to be enjoying yourself at dinner, and I didn’t want to make things awkward for you.”

  Taking his arm, she let him lead her into the hall, where the servants handed her a horrid black bonnet. “Then you shouldn’t have kissed my hand and called me ‘my sweet’ when you took your leave.”

  She had a point. But hearing them tell her about his sordid childhood in the streets had provoked him. He had spent his life amassing a substantial fortune, yet no one could forget where he’d begun.

  That was Prinny’s fault, and Gavin meant to make the man atone for it, one way or the other.

  “Well, as you say, it hardly matters.” He led her outside and down the steps to his cabriolet. “They don’t move in Stokely’s circle, so you’ll have little occasion to see them.” He cast her a side glance. “Unless you plan to take society by storm after this is over.”

  “Hardly. I’ll have enough trouble with this scheme. Once I have my property back, I’ll retreat to the country and never show myself in London again.”

  He helped her up onto the perch, then climbed up beside her. “Do you hate town that much?”

  “Actually, I like town. It’s society that terrifies me.”

  “Yet you’ll throw yourself upon its mercy for the sake of family property.”

  “I have no choice.”

  He set the horses off at a smart pace. “Speaking of your property, do you know where Stokely might keep it? His estate is rather large.” And her answer might give him an idea of what the bloody thing was.

  “I have no idea,” she said coolly.

  “Where did your father keep it?”

  “In a strongbox.”

  So the object was small. Jewelry perhaps? But how would that affect Prinny? “How do you know Stokely isn’t keeping it in a strongbox or even a safe?”

  “I don’t. If he is, I’ll have to find a way into it. Or take the entire thing with me. Surely he won’t have more than one.” She paused. “Do you know how to break into such things?”

  “I can get into any safe, I promise you.” Though she would undoubtedly disapprove of his methods. “And if your property was in a strongbox in the first place, how did your husband get his hands on it? Or even know about it?”

  At her long silence, he glanced over to see her face suffused with shame. “I told him.” She caught him staring and cast him a defiant glance. “Before Papa left for France last time, he gave me the strongbox. He explained what I was to do with the contents if something happened to him. When I brought the box home and wouldn’t tell Philip what was in it, his curiosity was roused. He badgered me about it, asking why I didn’t trust him. It already galled him that Papa didn’t.”

  A defeated sigh left her lips. “I couldn’t stand to see him so hurt. Philip had been distant toward me, and I thought if I could show him how much faith I had in him—” She shook her head. “It probably sounds silly to you.”

  “Not at all.” Haversham had been exactly the sort to play on his wife’s affections to get what he wanted.

  “Well, it sounds silly to me, especially now that I know that while he was begging me to tell him the family secrets he was also trotting off to London to—”

  When she stopped there, he prodded, “To do what?”

  Color filled her pretty cheeks. “Gamble. And…and other things.”

  Other things. Gavin wracked his mind, but could think of no other vice he’d heard of Haversham engaging in. Strong drink? As he recalled, Haversham had swilled his share of Gavin’s brandy when he was at the club. Still, if she’d grown up around soldiers, she had to be used to that. A mistress? Not that he’d ever heard.

  Whatever it was, her closed expression made it clear that she didn’t wish to discuss it. Very well, he’d get it out of her later. Besides, that wasn’t the important thing right now. “So you gave him the key to the strongbox, did you?”

  “No, indeed, I’m not that much a fool.” She scowled. “But his steward knew how to break into such things—he was that sort of person.”

  Gavin bit back a smile. “Like me, you mean.”

  When she tossed her head back, the wind nearly carried off her large-brimmed bonnet. “It does take a certain sort of scoundrel to break into things.”

  “It does indeed.” And another sort to betray his wife for a gambling debt. No wonder she distrusted gamblers. Gavin began to wish he’d exacted a different sort of payment from Lord Haversham. “So he never confessed what he’d done?”

  As their speed increased down a long stretch of road, she grabbed for her bonnet ribbons. “I never even guessed they were missing until it was too late. After the prince summoned me, and we spoke, I immediately went to check the contents of the strongbox, only to find that they were gone.”

  He pounced on her slip. “‘They’?”

  “It,” she said hastily. “The contents.”

  “You said ‘they.’”

  The panic in h
er eyes was unmistakable. “You misheard me.”

  “Ah.” Misheard you, my arse. She’d said it twice. So there was more than one piece of property. A whole set of jewels? Documents? Documents made more sense, in light of Prinny’s interest in the things. But what sort of documents?

  “So where are we going?” she asked brightly.

  He smothered a chuckle. He’d never heard a more blatant change of subject. Despite her testy demeanor and aggressive stance, she was at heart an honest person. Keeping this secret was probably killing her.

  Which is why he’d have to make it easy for her to unburden herself when the time came. Surely if that idiot Haversham could get it out of her, Gavin could do so. He’d simply get her into his bed, where she belonged. No woman could keep silent for long when cocooned in the intimacy of the bedchamber.

  “Byrne?” the fetching female prodded. “Where are we going?”

  To bed, I hope. “Rotten Row, of course.” He flicked the ends of the reins at her. “Why? Do you want to drive?”

  Her face lit up. “Oh, could I?”

  He’d been joking, but how could he resist when she looked as if he’d just offered her the keys to the city? “Do you know how to drive a cabriolet?”

  “I’ve driven a phaeton. It can’t be any harder than that.”

  “A phaeton? And you didn’t turn it over?”

  “No, indeed!” She looked insulted. “I’ll have you know I’ve never turned a vehicle over in my life.”

  Suppressing a grin, he handed her the reins. “Then try not to turn this one over, will you?”

  Her eyes went wide, then she broke into a smile of such delight, he didn’t even mind risking his cattle. “I won’t, I swear,” she said in a rush.

  She took control of the cabriolet as if born to it, expertly controlling his team of matched grays, settling them at once when they showed some rebellion.

  “You enjoy driving, do you?” he asked.

  “The only thing I love better than driving a rig like this is riding my gelding. In the country, I either ride or drive myself everywhere I can.”