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Make Me Yours
Betina Krahn


Mariah Eller was only trying to save her inn from being trashed.So how did the widow manage to attract the unwanted–and erotic–attention of the Prince of Wales? Not that being desired by royalty is necessarily bad. . .Only, Mariah much prefers the prince's best friend. . . . Jack St. Lawrence is very tempting, and very loyal. And he knows that the prince gets involved only with married women. So he figures sexy Mariah is safe. . . until the prince demands Jack find her a husband!The problem? Jack and Mariah can't fight their sizzling attraction. And once they give in to their desires, the situation is even worse. Because the prince's man has found a husband for Mariah. Himself. . .









Look what people are saying about Betina Krahn…


“Ms. Krahn is truly ingenious…. You have to read her books!”

—The Literary Times

“One of the genre’s most creative writers. Her ingenious romances always entertain and leave readers with a warm glow.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“Wonderfully romantic…brilliantly written and a joy to read…humorous, witty, and original…Betina Krahn is talented and gifted. Her writing is superb…perfectly charming.”

—The Literary Times

“Merry, heart-charming…Betina Krahn is a treasure among historical writers, and The Husband Test is a story to savor.”

—BookPage

“Witty, rollicking romance…Krahn’s amusing follow-up to The Husband Test quickly blossoms into a bright, exciting adventure.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Wife Test

“With The Marriage Test, Krahn has perfected her unique recipe for highly amusing historical romances as she deftly brings together two perfectly matched protagonists to create a delectable romance most readers will find impossible to resist.”

—Booklist (starred review)









Dear Reader,

Welcome to my Harlequin Blaze debut! The minute I heard about Blaze Historicals, I was intrigued. Now, after writing my first book, Harlequin’s vision for “big, sexy books in a smaller format” has me totally hooked. Some friends joked that I usually take 60,000 words to say hello! Well, eat those words, my friends; after writing 120,000-word books forever, I found this shorter format for a historical a dream come true!

Writing Make Me Yours was the most fun I’d had at the keyboard in years. The characters were so compelling, the story came so naturally and the tighter focus on “pure romance” was so freeing! My favorite heroines have always been gals with the gumption to go after what they want and a plan to get it. My favorite heroes are strong, stubborn men who think they know best, but get “taken to school” by a smart, sexy woman. I think I’ve been writing a Harlequin Blaze heroine for years without knowing it!

I’m hoping you enjoy Jack and Mariah and the Prince and Mercy. Come by my Web site afterward (BetinaKrahn.com) and let me know how you liked the way we’re setting history a-BLAZE!

Happy reading!

Betina Krahn


New York Times Bestselling Author

BETINA KRAHN

Make Me Yours









ABOUT THE AUTHOR


New York Times bestselling author Betina Krahn, mother of two and owner of two (humans and canines, respectively), shares the Florida sunshine with her fiancé and a fun and crazy sister. Her historical romances have received reviewer’s choice and lifetime achievement awards and appear regularly on bestseller lists…including the coveted USA TODAY and New York Times lists.

Her books have been called “sexy,” “warm,” “witty” and even “wise.” But the description that pleases her most is “funny”—because she believes the only thing the world needs as much as it needs love is laughter.

You can learn more about her books and contact her through her Web site, BetinaKrahn.com.


For Rex,

who always believes in me.




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Author’s Note




1


England’s Lake Country, 1887

“ALL I WANT is to be left alone to run my own life and tend my business in peace. Is that too bloody much to ask?” Mariah Eller muttered as she pulled her cloak tighter against the wind-whipped rain and squinted, trying to make out the lights from the Eller-Stapleton Inn. There were at least a dozen things she’d rather be doing at nine o’clock on a rainy October evening…most involving a glowing fire and toasty slippers.

“Hurry, miz!” The boy with the lantern looked back anxiously and halted for her to catch up. “Pa said they wus about to blow the winders out.”

“They’d better not touch my blessed windows,” she declared, wishing the threat didn’t sound so thin in her own ears. She motioned the boy forward on the darkened gravel path that led from her house to her inn. “That glazing cost me a fortune. I’m in hock up to my—” She pulled her icy hands inside her cloak. “If they lay one finger on that glass—”

She’d do what? Scold them? Send them to bed without supper? What could she possibly do to a group of men who were drinking, out of control and bent on destruction?

The sprawling Eller-Stapleton Inn, a coaching stop for travelers on the way north, was miles from the nearest town and constable. Ordinarily she and her staff took care of their own problems. Her capable innkeeper, Mr. Carson, maintained order with his razor-like glare, beefy arms and redoubtable old musket.

But something about this situation exceeded his unflappable grasp.

It must be bad indeed.

Taking a deep breath, she dashed the last few yards through the puddles in the backyard and through the open kitchen door. She stood for a moment taking her bearings, her long cloak dripping water on the worn flagstone floor. The inn’s staff was collected around the glowing stone hearth at the far end of the kitchen. They greeted her with “Thank the Lord, yer here”…all but Carson, who seemed little relieved by her presence.

“Since when do you need help to deal with a few drunk gentlemen?” she said, lowering her hood and wiping rain from her face.

“The wretches grabbed Nell,” Carson said, pointing to the inn’s cook and one of the serving women, who were huddled with their arms around young Nell Jacoby. The little chambermaid’s face was as white as her eyes were red. “Kissed an’ groped her—acted like they meant to have her right on the damned tabletop, fergive th’ French.”

His square, usually pleasant face burned dull crimson and his blocky shoulders were thick with tension.

“Wild as March hares an’ gettin’ wilder. I’d ’ave bounced the lot, except—” it clearly pained him to say “—I seen a crest on one gent’s snuffbox. And my boy says there be a coat o’ arms on the chase coach that brought their guns an’ baggage.”

Noblemen. Mariah groaned. It would be.

“Who are they? Did they not give names?” she asked, hoping they had refused. By law, an inn’s patrons had to identify themselves and sign a register to obtain lodgings.

“They give names, all right.” Carson glowered, reaching for his big leather register and opening it to the current page. “Jus’ not their own.”

“Jack Sprat and Jack B. Nimble,” she read aloud. “Union Jack. Jack A. Dandy. Jack Ketch. Jack O. Lantern.” She swallowed hard against the lump those names left in her throat. “Clever boys.”

Worrisome boys, too, she realized. Giving no names meant taking no responsibility. Apparently they did intend to blow her windows out tonight.

Lord, how she hated titled men “gone a-hunting.” Turned loose on a distant countryside, they felt free to vent every base impulse and indulge every low urge their otherwise “exemplary” lives denied them. When worse came to worst, as it often did, no mere innkeeper could manhandle them with impunity. Which left only the dicey art of diplomacy.

Dealing with powerful men behaving badly required a unique set of skills…sleight-of-hand, humor and whopping doses of honesty and flattery. It was like walking a tightrope. She looked at the apologetic expectation in Carson’s face and her heart sank. She had no noble neighbor to call for help, no well-born husband to step in on her behalf. It was up to her. She was going to have to be very, very good on that tightrope tonight.

Removing her soggy cloak, she handed it off to Carson’s son to hang by the door, then glanced down at what she wore. Her tailored navy woolen jacket, white blouse sans frills, and fitted gray wool skirt weren’t exactly ideal for disarming drunken noblemen, but she had no time to change.

“I need a mirror, a fiddle player and a bottomless bowl of wassail—” her eyes glinted with the resentment she had to harness “—spiked with the strongest rum we’ve got.”

Nodding with relief, Carson sent his son to fetch Old Farley the stableman and his fiddle, then ordered the scullery maid to get a mirror from the staff living quarters. Bursts of raucous male laughter rolled down the passage from the public room, interspersed with the sounds of metal cups crashing on the floor, calls for more drink and howls for the innkeeper to “send that ripe little maid back out here.”

Mariah looked at the faces turned her way and summoned all her determination. This was her business, her home, her life. Her people depended on her. She had to defend them with the only resources she had: her nerve and her wits.

The mirror arrived and she loosened and repinned her thick honey-colored hair into a freer style, removed her jacket and unbuttoned the blouse at her throat. She wasn’t a great beauty, but her mercurial and exacting husband had often bragged that men turned to look at her a second time when she smiled. Running a finger over her teeth and pinching her cheeks, she checked the mirror. Her eyes shone with a confidence that surprised her.

“Stay awake, Carson, in case I should need you, and keep the drink coming.” After downing a gulp of the brew being prepared for their guests, she picked up a bottle of her best rum and strode into the public room.

Her strategy was both simple and risky: find the leader, engage him and enlist his aid in keeping things under control while the lot drank themselves into harmless oblivion. If that failed, she’d scream bloody murder and Carson would come running with his faithful musket, Old Blunder.

Six men, mostly young, all well-dressed, were sprawled on benches and chairs around the flickering hearth at the far end of the inn’s oak-paneled public room. There were no other patrons present, which was odd, given the miserable weather and the fact that the register showed every sleeping room in the inn was occupied. The men’s behavior had apparently cleared the room.

At close range she could both see and smell their careless affluence. Glinting gold watch chains and Corinthian leather boots…sandalwood soap and brandy-flavored tobacco…muddied chairs and tables where they propped their feet…ash from their cigars on her polished floor…empty ale cups abandoned on table, floor and hearth.

“More to drink, gentlemen?” she asked, striding toward them. The two facing her straightened and the others turned to see what had captured their interest. She paused a few feet away and gripped the bottle in her hands.

“Well, well. What have we here?” The closest man, a round-faced fellow with pomaded hair, looked up at her with sly speculation.

“I am the owner of this establishment, sirs, and as such, your hostess.” On impulse, she made a deep, sardonic curtsey. Sensing she had taken them off guard and intending to capitalize on it, she looked up…straight into a pair of golden eyes set in a strongly chiseled face.

She froze for a moment, absorbing the fact that the man’s dark hair was given to waves, his skin was sun-burnished, and his broad, full lips curled languidly up on one side. As their gazes met, his half smile faded and his eyes darkened. With interest. His stare dragged across her skin like a match, igniting something she seldom experienced these days: anticipation.

Suppressing a shiver, she jerked her gaze away and it landed next on a tall, fleshy man with thinning hair and a distinctive V-shaped beard.

The blood drained from her head.

She knew that face.

All of Britain knew it.

Merciful Heaven. Was it possible Carson hadn’t recognized their future king?



JACK ST. LAWRENCE froze with his ale cup halfway to his lips, his eyes fixed on the honey-haired beauty coiled into a deep curtsey a few inches from his outstretched legs. She was of middling height, but that was the only thing average about her. Her carriage was nothing short of regal; her abundant hair shone with fiery lights; her delicate face was clear and arresting, and—damn—underneath that starched blouse and fitted skirt she had curves that could make a bishop forget it was Sunday.

The pleasant ale-buzz in his head evaporated in a rush of unexpected heat. Then she looked up, and damned if she didn’t have eyes as blue as a summer sky—big, luminous pools of liquid get-lost-in-me—that were returning his stare with what could only be called interest.

Before he could react, she jerked her head to the side and her gaze fell on Bertie. Jack watched her color drain and her eyes widen with recognition of the Prince of Wales. He’d seen that reaction before, from women of all ranks and stations. Surprise and awe, followed close on by eagerness.

Glancing at the rest of the prince’s companions, he found them grinning, licking their lips, assessing her with lusty anticipation. Dammit. They were already half-sauced and getting rowdier by the minute. The last thing he needed was a sexual hot coal to juggle. He’d already had a close call with the little tavern maid who had brought them fresh pitchers of ale.

He had winced when they’d grabbed and fondled her, and was on the verge of intervening when the barrel-chested innkeeper appeared and roared for the girl to get back to her duties. Shocked by the innkeeper’s interference, his companions had let the terrified girl scramble from the table and laughed it off as they turned back to their drinking.

He had heaved a silent sigh and downed another gulp of the brew he’d been nursing for the better part of an hour. He didn’t relish having to rein in his companions. They could be a handful. Unfortunately, they were his handful. When he hunted with the prince, it was his responsibility to see that things never got too far out of hand.

The heir to Britain’s throne and empire, Prince Albert Edward—“Bertie” to his friends—leaned forward and looked the woman over, letting his gaze linger on her breasts before raising it to her face. He smiled, clearly pleased with what he saw. When he held out a meaty hand, she accepted it with aplomb and gave a second, rather charming dip.

“And you, good sir,” she said, her lush mouth curving into a perfect cupid’s bow. “Which ‘Jack’ would you be? Not Sprat, clearly.”

Sweet Jesus. Had she just made reference to Bertie’s girth? His companions gave low oooh’s that slid into muffled laughter, which caused the prince to drop her hand and resettle his vest over his bulging middle with a sharp tug…deciding whether to be a good sport about it.

Clearly in the grip of madness, the chit blundered on.

“No, no, don’t tell me. Not Jack O. Lantern either—far too handsome for that. Nor Jack Ketch—too lively. Nor Jack A. Dandy—though you certainly are well-dressed enough for the part.” She bit her lip and then eyed him with flirtatious appreciation. “Clearly, sir, a man of your superior aspect and august bearing could only be…Union Jack.”

A howl of approval went up from the others.

She produced a mischievous smile, which the prince returned.

“By damn, you’re a perceptive wench, you are,” he declared, grabbing her hand and using it to reel her closer.

“So I’ve been told, sir.” She exerted just enough resistance to keep from being drawn down onto his lap. “And my ‘perception’ says that you and your company of gentlemen are in high spirits this evening.”

A raw, male kind of laughter was their response. She was flirting with disaster. Literally. Jack straightened in his chair, tensing. If she didn’t watch her step, she would find herself in serious trouble. Times five.

“I’ve taken the liberty of asking our innkeeper to prepare some of our special wassail for you. It’s the finest for counties around.” She swept the men with a playful grin. “Known far and wide to corrupt church deacons, improve the looks of spinsters and cure seven kinds of scurvy.”

The prince’s booming laughter brought a dazzling smile to her memorable features, tinged, perhaps, with a bit of relief.

“You say this is your inn?” the prince said, studying her. “The last time I was here, I was greeted by the owner himself. A fellow named Eller.”

“Squire Eller was my husband, sir. Upon his death two years ago, the house and inn passed to me.”

“You’re a widow then.” The prince raised an eyebrow and smiled.

Just then a large bowl of warm, spice-fragrant wassail arrived in the innkeeper’s beefy arms, and the prince allowed the woman to pull away from him in order to serve it. Shortly, the sounds of a spirited fiddle wafted through the inn, growing louder as an old man appeared, warming up his strings.

Music. Jack studied the bold-as-brass widow with mild surprise. To soothe the savage beasts. Very smart indeed.

The old boy’s first selection was appropriate: the lively, patriotic, “Drink Little England Dry.” As the widow ladled out the wassail, she began to hum and then to sing. When she served the prince, she motioned for him to join her. He looked her over, as if deciding whether she might be worth the effort, then threw back his head and belted out the lyrics. His participation startled his companions. They glanced at each other and, as she served them, introduced themselves by their assumed names and joined in.

Soon all were singing and drinking except Jack, who scooted his chair back a few inches and watched the wily widow and his fellow hunters from beneath lowered lids. Clever she might be, but the odds were not in her favor. What was she thinking, flirting with them all?

As she handed him his cup and urged him to take up the verse, he met her eye and shook his head—hoping she would take it as the warning it was. When she merely shrugged and went on to the next man, he buried his nose in his drink and wished that for once he could just get pissing drunk himself.

For three years he’d hunted and gambled and dined with the prince…handling details and smoothing over sticky situations. He had a reputation for clear-headedness and loyalty…the legacy of his clear-headed and loyal family. Following a longstanding English tradition, they had given up a sizeable parcel of land to enlarge Bertie’s grounds at Sandringham when the prince’s home had been built adjacent to their family seat. The prince had rewarded that generosity by drawing the stalwart St. Lawrence sons into his circle and allowing them to seek their fortunes in his exalted company.

Jack sighed. Not that Bertie’s exalted company had included any marriageable heiresses of late. The future monarch was partial to “hunting” in places populated by his favorite quarry: married women.

The old fiddler—Farley, the widow called him—transitioned seamlessly into another familiar tune: “Dance for Your Daddy.”

“Surely, gentlemen, you know this one, too.” The widow swayed her cup in time to the music. “It’s played by every town musician at every country dance in England.”

All Jack’s companions joined in spirited song, taking turns supplying verses, one drumming accompaniment on the tabletop. Jack groaned when she planted herself before the prince with a gallant bow and held out her hand. Bertie downed the rest of his drink, rose and began to step in time with her.

Jack struggled to tamp down the tension collecting in his loins as he watched her turn gracefully and sway with seductive pleasure. She seemed to enjoy her precarious position. But then, what woman of the world didn’t love being the center of wealthy, powerful men’s attentions? And she clearly was that: a woman of the world. Every smile, every word and every movement proclaimed her well-practiced in the art of flirtation.

If he needed further proof, it came as Bertie’s hands began to wander over her as they danced. She slyly chided him and rearranged his hands, but, Jack noted, submitted to more of the same by continuing to dance with him.

When another of the hunting party, a west-country baron seated beside him, rose to cut in, Jack grabbed his arm and pulled him back down in his chair. A second man, a marquess by title and heir to a duchy, staggered forward minutes later, intent on claiming a dance, but Jack propped his legs up on a chair in the man’s path and glared him back onto his seat on a nearby bench. Each protested, but a not-so-subtle jerk of Jack’s head in Bertie’s direction reminded them that a woman’s company was the prince’s prerogative. They grumbled but reined in their irritation and settled back in spirits-soaked curiosity to watch their prince’s unusual conquest.

As surely as one song led to another, one bowl of wassail led to another. The more they sang, the more deeply they imbibed, and it didn’t take much of a wit to deduce that that was the cunning widow’s intent. Jack felt a growing admiration for her determination and no small relief that her plan was working. If it had failed, he would have found himself up to his arse in trouble, along with her.

His companions continued to mellow, their rum-weighted eyes shining with memories as they began to recount tales of first dances and first loves. He groaned quietly. Having to listen to their sentimental ramblings while cursedly sober was almost more than he could take.

And having to watch the tempting widow settle on a stool by the prince’s knees and allow him to tousle her hair and fondle her neck soon had him rigid with unwelcome heat. Especially when she looked his way with those electric-blue eyes and caught him staring at her. She gave him a provocative little smile that set the skin of his belly on fire.



MARIAH finally allowed herself to relax a bit as she sat by the prince’s knee. The camaraderie that developed as the rum and music worked their magic surprised her. She doubted these worldly, overprivileged men had ever had a night quite like this one. The prince had lowered his guard and begun to muss her hair affectionately, as if she were a cherished pet. She might make it through the evening without her heels in the air after all.

As the light from the hearth lowered, out came campaigning songs and sentimental favorites that made the men’s faces soften further…all but the dark, handsome “Jack” who had withheld himself from the merriment and wassail, but not from searing looks in her direction. It was a relief when he slouched in his chair, laid his head back, and closed his memorable eyes.

The clock struck one and the cups were filled yet again.

“Never had s-such fun with m’ trousers on,” the prince said thickly, after the mantel clock struck two. Swiping a meaty hand across his drink-reddened face, he propped his drooping head on his palm. There was a weak “hear, hear” and a mute wave from a sluggish hand across the room.

Fatigue and drink claimed them one by one. Jack O. Lantern laid his head on a table; Jack A. Dandy sprawled on his back on a bench, snoring loudly, and Jack Ketch pulled a second chair over to prop his feet up and closed his eyes. Jack Sprat staggered off toward the stairs and managed to haul himself—hand over hand—up to his room.

As the prince’s eyes closed and he sank irretrievably into his cups, the bronze-eyed Jack, whose alias—by process of elimination—was Jack B. Nimble, became more alert. Though he still slouched in his chair, Mariah sensed an awareness about him that belied his appearance of dozing.

When the prince’s head hit the top rail of his chair, she saw Nimble Jack sit straighter. When the prince began to snore, his eyes opened fully.

Mariah waved Old Farley to a halt and gave him a grateful smile. The old fiddler nodded, rose, and shuffled off to his quarters in the stables…leaving her and Nimble Jack the only ones awake in the public room.

Her heart started to pound as he rose from his chair. He was taller than she’d realized, and his broad shoulders and long, muscular legs gave him an aura of physical strength that made her want to step back. She didn’t, but regretted it when he loomed over her and her knees weakened.

When he spoke, his deep tones generated a shocking vibration in her skin. She had to shake herself mentally to make sense of what he’d said.

“—cannot leave him here.” He took the unconscious prince by the arms, pulling him forward in the chair. “Show me the way to his room and help me get him into bed.”

She fought the urge to rub the gooseflesh his voice raised on her arms and shoulders. What was the matter with her? She hadn’t had that much of Carson’s brain-fuddling brew.

She stepped up onto a chair to grab a lantern from the rafter while Jack tried unsuccessfully to hoist the limp royal onto his shoulders. With a huff, she inserted herself under one of the prince’s arms, dragging it up and around her shoulders. Muttering irritably, Jack took the other arm and helped her haul the bulky future monarch to his feet.

“Come on, Bertie, give us some help here,” he growled.

But it was only when she spoke—“Come, Your Highness, time for bed. You do want to go to bed, don’t you?”—that some sense of what was happening penetrated the fog in the prince’s head. He roused enough to bear some of his own weight and allow them to propel him forward.

Together—banging and bumping, trading orders and cautions—they dragged the prince up the stairs to the inn’s finest guest room. On the way through the door, his knees buckled. She dropped the lantern to use both hands to help hold him up. They half carried, half dragged him to the bed and dumped him on it.

They stood side by side staring at their future king, breathing hard.

“Should we remove his boots?” she whispered, starkly aware of Nimble Jack’s broad chest rising and falling and of the mélange of intriguing male scents about him. The only light available was from the lantern she had dropped just inside the door. Its glow reflected off the plank floor, casting the upper half of the room in soft shadows. When she looked up, he was staring at her. Tall, dark and potent.

Heaven help her, she stared back…at least enough to see that the bronze disks of his eyes had warmed with a rising heat…that his lips were parted…that his shoulders seemed to grow with each ragged exhalation. She couldn’t get her breath.

The next thing she knew he was moving toward her. She stepped back. His stride lengthened and suddenly his body met hers and swept her back against the wall beside the door. The impact set a pitcher and basin on the nearby washstand rattling.

She was stunned by both the physical contact and her own lack of resistance to it. Then slowly, so slowly that she could have easily escaped, he raised both of his hands, palms out, and planted them against the wall on either side of her. There he paused, waiting, looking at her.

She lifted her face enough to search at close range the features she had somehow memorized over the course of the evening. Those eyes—molten pools of gold…that skin—sleek and drawn taut over strongly carved cheekbones…those lips—broad and neatly bordered, just inches from hers. He roused something in her, something dormant, something not altogether welcome.

She didn’t mean to do it, made no decision, formed no conscious intent. The impulse came from memories stored in her very bones and sinews that made her stretch and arch her body upward, against his.

With a sound that was half groan, half growl, he leaned in and pressed her back against the wall. His body was hot and hard but strangely not shocking against hers; the intimacy was no longer foreign. She remembered. With every breath his body moved against hers like a tide lapping, testing, caressing the shore. Her skin came alive beneath her clothes. More, she wanted more contact. She wanted to feel him.

Her desire to touch and be touched rattled her to her very core. Trembling, she shoved her hands out to the sides…palms pressed flat against the wall…below his. And suddenly she understood why his hands were there.

When she opened her eyes and looked up, her gaze fastened on his parted lips. Kisses, she remembered kisses…mouth to mouth…intimate silk and moist heat. Her lips felt hot and sensitive, expectant. She wetted them, and gasped silently when she tasted the sweetness from the rum on his breath. She swept her tongue across her lip, luring him closer…so close that she could feel his warmth radiating into her skin and his breath curling across her cheek. But his head dropped to the side, and his mouth skimmed her temple, her ear, the side of her throat. The sensations were so tentative—was he touching her or was that his breath against her skin?

Cascading sensations sent a hum through her blood and a shiver through her body. Her nipples drew taut and tingled in a way she hadn’t experienced in a very long time. Holding her breath, she pressed her breasts into him, dragging them along his ribs. He countered her motion, giving her the stimulation she sought and adding a small, tantalizing undulation of his own…one that confirmed the effect she had on him.

Heat rushed to her breasts and her sex, concentrating and intensifying the sensations so that her sensitive flesh burned with the desire for contact. When his knee probed her skirt, she instinctively let it slide between her own and gradually, savoring the yielding, parted her thighs. Steam billowed through her senses as he fitted himself against her. Breath snagged in her throat as sensation mounted like waves.

More, she wanted more.

She pulled her hands from the wall, seized his face between them, and pressed her lips to his. He went perfectly still, and something in her clicked like the switch of an electric light. She froze as reality fanned away some of the steam in her senses.

Abruptly, he peeled himself from her body, leaving her to stagger slightly as she sank back against the wall. The chilled air that invaded the space between them was a rude shock. She was trembling and felt as if her knees had turned to rubber.

Sweet Heaven. What had happened to her?

Her mind clutched at impressions: his burning stare and his hands clenched at his sides…the throb in her woman’s flesh…the prince’s vigorous snores…the open door only three feet away…

She escaped into the hall and down the steps—having to hang on to the railing to remain upright. She headed through the inn’s darkened kitchen and pulled her cloak from the rack by the door as Carson rose from his chair by the hearth. His son, half awake and protesting being dislodged from his father’s lap, clung to his leg.

“You all right, Miz Eller?” The innkeeper dragged his hands over his face, glancing toward the dim glow from the public room.

“They’re out—the lot of them.”

“Just like you planned, eh?” The innkeeper flashed a weary grin.

“Just li-ike—” her voice cracked “—I planned.”

“Want me to walk ye up to th’ house, miz?”

“No—thank you,” she said, grateful for the darkness that hid her burning face. “Morning will come too early for you as it is.” She settled the cloak around her shoulders and pulled up its hood. “And it wasn’t me that drank a hogshead of rum this night.”

“No, it weren’t.” Carson chuckled. “Ye were somethin,’ miz.”

“Yes. Well.” She paused with her hand on the door latch, before stepping out into the chilled autumn night. “I think we’d both be advised to forget everything that happened here tonight.”




2


MARIAH stewed with dread the next day, even after giving orders to turn away all callers with word that she was indisposed. So when Carson’s boy arrived in the afternoon with word that the prince had received a message that put him in a bad humor, climbed aboard his horse and ridden off to Scotland, she wilted with relief.

She had been delivered from the consequences of her brazen behavior.

She should have felt grateful, but instead she was seized by an unholy restlessness. Stalking down to the inn, she went from room to room, sorting and rearranging, clearing rooms and then moving the furniture back. Nothing pleased her. If she hadn’t feared a servant revolt, she’d have begun scrubbing walls and pounding rugs, spring-cleaning six months early.

At wits’ end, she sent for Old Farley to bring some soothing music up to the house. But she sent the old boy away again shortly after he began to play. Every note evoked the memory of a brooding golden-eyed presence.

Even a week later, the restlessness had not lessened.

Desperate to spend the tension inside her, she put on her oldest clothes and went to work in her garden one morning. The oak trees were bare, the flowers had died back, and the shrubbery—all but the balsam and holly—had surrendered to the cold and shortened days. But even here, on her knees in her beloved garden, she had trouble banishing thoughts of that night.

“Tart,” she said irritably, jamming her spade into the cold, dark earth. The autumn sun was too pale and remote to warm the ground where she was planting bulbs beside the arbor walk. Her gloves were caked with wet soil, her fingers were half frozen, and her back ached from the bending. But she was determined to set these blessed daffodils.

“That’s how you are behaving, you know. Like a tart.” She straightened onto her protesting knees. “I am not.”

Glowering, she stabbed the earth again and snatched up another handful of papery golden bulbs.

“I did nothing wrong. He accosted me.”

Though to be fair, accosted was painting it a bit black. He hadn’t kissed her. Hadn’t set hands on her. There wasn’t even a name for what he’d done to her. But it was intimate and pleasurable and furtive, which, by all decent lights, made it wrong, wrong, wrong.

And just like that, she was immersed in the memory she had tried to keep at bay and reliving those erotic sensations in the prince’s darkened sleeping room. Warmth and breath commingled…bodies pressed hard together, hungry, straining for more…Her throat tightened at the thought and her breath came quicker. It was the strange nature of the encounter, she told herself, that made it so difficult to dismiss.

Curse “Jack B. Nimble” for rousing such desires in her.

After Mason had died she had locked away that part of her. It hadn’t been easy; her worldly older husband had been a remarkable lover who tutored her expertly and boldly cultivated her passions. When he died unexpectedly, she had been blooming into her sexual prime and struggled nightly to subdue the desires he had so deftly roused. But then she learned of the entailment that placed her husband’s land in the hands of distant relatives. Left with no income, only an aging house and a coaching inn in bad repair, she had to scramble to survive and poured the energy of her stubborn desires into the hard work of remaking the inn into an establishment capable of supporting herself and her people.

The result was that the Eller-Stapleton had never looked so fine or received such brisk trade. It seemed, after two grueling years, that her life and her business were on the brink of flourishing—despite the debts she had incurred—and that was satisfaction enough.

Until a week ago.

She shoved bulb after bulb into the damp, pungent earth, each time giving the dirt above it a smack, daring the bulb to show its head until spring.

Thus occupied, she didn’t hear Carson’s boy approach.

“Miz?” She turned so sharply that she fell back on her rear, scattering the bulbs she held across the ground. Young Jamie stood with hands in his pockets and a grin on his round, cold-reddened face. “Ye got callers, miz.”

She pressed a hand to her chest to contain the racing of her heart.

“Yes? Who is it?” The cold had set her nose running. She sniffed.

“Gen’lmen. Pa said I should bring ’em up.” He stepped to the side and revealed two men standing on the path some distance away.

Mariah scowled at their caped greatcoats and black top hats. Whoever they were, they dressed like bankers. The thought made her heart seize.

She started to rise and realized her skirts were twisted around her, exposing her old woolen stockings and muddy boots. She knew there was dried dirt on her face, where she’d pushed her hair back earlier; she looked a mess. But then, she hadn’t invited them here. Clumsy from the cold, she staggered to her feet and brushed her skirts before realizing that her dirt-caked gloves were making her even more of a mess. Scowling, she pulled them off and threw them into the wooden trug that held her tools.

The men’s backs were to her; they seemed to be surveying her garden.

“You wished to see me, gentlemen?”

They turned as she approached.

She stopped dead on the path as her gaze connected with a pair of cool bronze-colored eyes and the bottom dropped out of her stomach.

Him.



“EDGAR MARCHANT, madam—Baron Marchant,” the shorter man introduced himself, tipping his hat. It took her a moment to recognize “Jack O. Lantern”…the prince’s friend with the round face and pomaded hair.

“John St. Lawrence, Mrs. Eller.” Jack B. Nimble removed his hat, and her knees weakened. Broad shoulders, dark hair, golden eyes; he was exactly as she had remembered him.

She crossed her arms and refused to give in to the panic blooming in her chest.

“Gentlemen,” she said, thinking that despite their smooth manners and expensive clothes, they were anything but.



JACK ST. LAWRENCE took in Mariah Eller’s dirt-streaked clothes and rosy, dirt-smudged cheeks. This was hardly how he expected to be received by the feisty widow. She looked like a servant girl sent out to weed the kitchen herb patch. Younger and fresher than he had recalled, and even more appealing. It was a good thing Marchant had spoken first; his own throat had tightened.

“We have come on an errand of some importance,” Marchant intoned with lordly precision. “Perhaps you would like us to return in an hour or two, so that you might have time to—” he glanced at her clothing “—prepare to receive our news.”

It was the wrong thing to say, apparently. She seemed startled by Marchant’s offer of time to make herself presentable, then offended by it. Her gaze darted to the basket by her feet; she looked as if she could gladly drive a garden tool through the baron’s heart.

Damn and blast Bertie, Jack thought, sending him on such an errand. He was used to handling matters and seeing to it that the prince’s desires were carried out. Capable and always in control, he was the perfect man for a sensitive mission. But not this mission.

He dreaded facing this woman the way he dreaded a dentist with a pair of pliers. And he didn’t want to think about why.

“Anything you have to say to me, sir, you may say here and now. As you can see—” she gestured to her bulbs and tools “—I am quite busy. I doubt there will be many more days this season suitable for planting.”

A very bad feeling developed in the pit of Jack’s stomach as her chin came up. It was his presence that raised her hackles, he was sure of it.

“At the very least, let us be seated.” Marchant gestured to a nearby pair of stone benches in a leafless bower among the hedges. After a moment she exhaled irritably and complied with the request.

Feeling stiff all over, fearing his knees might not bend, Jack waved Marchant to the seat on the bench beside her while he stood nearby.

“We bring sincerest greetings from the Prince of Wales,” Marchant declared with a smile. “No doubt you recognized him during his recent stay at your fine inn.”

“Of course,” she said, obviously still nettled.

“He has asked us to convey to you how impressed he was with your hospitality, your ingenuity and the warmth of your person,” the baron continued. “He was quite taken with you, Mrs. Eller. And he has entrusted to us a somewhat delicate—”

“Are you going to sit, Mr. St. Lawrence?” She pinned Jack with a look, her tone peppery.

God, they were making a hash of it, he thought.

“Certainly.” He sat down on the opposite bench, as far from her as he could get and still have stone beneath his bum cheeks. “As the baron has said, the prince was quite taken with you. It is rare, I can tell you, for His Highness to be so…so…”

He found himself staring into big blue eyes filled with questions and suspicions and not a little indignation. He struggled to recall the persuasions he’d practiced in his mind on the way down from Scotland.

“…so relaxed in the presence of a lady…um…”

“A lady with whom he has not established relations,” the baron supplied smoothly. “To come to the point, Mrs. Eller, the prince wishes to see you again.” He studied the puzzlement in her face and came right out with it. “He wishes to establish personal relations with you, Mrs. Eller. Very close…personal…relations. St. Lawrence and I are here to make the necessary arrangements.”

She blinked and looked from the baron to Jack.

“Relations? He wishes to have close…oh…oh, my Lord…relations with me?” Her shock was too artless not to be genuine.

Jack had the urge to knock the smirk from Marchant’s face. In the seconds it took him to master that shocking impulse, she shot to her feet.

“That is absurd. What would the prince want with a simple widow who—” She stiffened, reddening. “Take your ugly little joke back to your friends and tell them that their insult found its mark and was keenly felt.”

“Mrs. Eller!” The baron was on his feet before her, alarmed now. “This is no jest, I assure you. We have come at the behest of the Prince of Wales himself.” From the breast pocket of his coat he produced a letter as evidence. “If you doubt the authenticity of our mission, let the prince himself reassure you. You must surely see that this is not a matter he is free to undertake on his own behalf. He has entrusted both his desire and his honor to us in this matter. I assure you, we are faithful to that trust.”

She stood for a moment, regarding the letter as if it were a snake. Then with a fierce look at Jack, she took it from the baron and inspected the royal seal before breaking it open. The trembling of the paper was the only sign that what was penned on the vellum made any impact on her.

“I believe, gentlemen,” she said, sounding as if her mouth were dry, “that the events of a week ago may have given His Highness a mistaken notion of my character.”

The baron’s eyes narrowed and his oily smile appeared.

“I believe the prince knows precisely what conclusions to draw about a woman who drinks men under her table, flaunts her availability before half a dozen men at a time, and then hauls the heir to the throne into bed with her.” He tilted his head to look down his nose. “The prince has already tasted the nature of your character, madam. And you are fortunate indeed that he has found the flavor to his liking.”

“Tasted my…but…the prince…” She looked to Jack in disbelief.

He scowled pointedly at her, then looked away…hoping she would see what had to be seen…that he hadn’t disabused the prince of the idea that something had happened between him and the widow.

“This is a surprise for you, clearly,” Jack said emphatically to mask his discomfort. “But I would counsel that you think well before rejecting such an opportunity. The prince’s fancy does not usually dwell for long in one place…and yet the honor and the benefit to you may be such that you will be well-fixed for life. The prince is very generous to his friends.”

“So he is, our beloved prince,” the baron added. “Most generous.”

“An honor?” she said. “To serve as a paramour to a married man?”

“To our future monarch,” the baron corrected. “Make no mistake, madam. Ladies who serve the prince in such a personal capacity are not regarded as mere courtesans or ‘paramours.’ These ladies, great and small, serve both crown and country and are regarded with utmost respect.”

Her hand tightened visibly on the letter. She seemed to have difficulty getting her breath.

Jack scowled. She must surely understand that she had been selected for a singular honor, one that dukes of the realm actively encouraged their lady wives to seek, knowing that with fancy came favor. However, she had not been bred to the class that sought advancement above all else. The turmoil in her was disconcerting. If she truly had some moral objection—

He caught himself. Not hardly. She was hot enough for a man’s touch—even a man she had hardly met. His ears heated at the thought of how he knew that. And she was a widow, after all. It wasn’t as if she had vows to observe or a maiden-head to hoard. If she had a brain in her head she would come around quickly and take Bertie’s offer.

“Perhaps you need time to think it through,” Jack said. “To see the advantage to all sides in this arrangement.”

“Of course.” The baron leaned closer. “And while you are thinking, madam, be sure to consider the sizeable debts you have incurred on behalf of your quaint establishment. One word from the prince and your thousand-pound loan can be paid and stricken from both ledger and memory. A different word, however, could bring the note due this very day. You are surely clever enough to see the advantage in allying yourself to such power.”

“I believe she has the idea,” Jack said, stepping back and pulling the baron out of her way. “Shall we call for your answer, say, at four-thirty?”

Rigid with control, she picked up her garden tools, set them in a nearby wheelbarrow, then stalked off down the path to the house. The shush of pea gravel under her feet sounded uncannily like the swish of silk petticoats. Jack felt a curious clutch in his chest at the thought.

When she disappeared into the house, he came to his senses and found Marchant wearing a smug expression.

“What are you smiling about?” he asked the wily baron.

“She’s a hot one, all right.” The baron thumped his arm. “But I can’t say I envy Bertie the trouble she’ll be.”

“If she agrees.” He stuck his hat on his head and struck off down the path to the inn.

“Oh, she’ll agree,” the baron said with a wicked chuckle, falling in beside him. “Her eyes lit like Fawkes’ Night bonfires when I said the word debts. Take a lesson, Jack my boy. Money trumps morality every time.”




3


“I WANT a fire, a brandy and a bath,” Mariah declared as she burst into the kitchen and ripped off her jacket, muffler and rubber boots. “Now.”

The household staff—cook, butler, housemaid and kitchen boy—stared in confusion at her and then at each other. Brandy? At noon?

Robert, her stoop-shouldered butler, who more closely resembled a question mark with each passing year, shuffled off mumbling and squinting as he thrust his keys to arm’s length to fish for the one that opened the liquor cabinet. Her rotund maid-of-all-work, Mercy, trudged up the stairs to light the boiler in the bathing room, pausing to rub her back along the way so that her mistress would see how the extra work aggravated her lumbago. Aggie, her ancient cook, stood gaping as Mariah ordered afternoon tea for three and instructed her to send to the butcher for a prime cut of braising beef.

“I’m of a mind to sink my teeth into some red meat tonight,” Mariah declared, seizing her brandy and stomping up the stairs.

Old Robert and even older Aggie exchanged looks. They hadn’t been asked to serve red meat at Eller House since the old master had died. That combined with spirits-drinking and bath-taking in the middle of the week—the middle of the day!—confirmed that something unusual was happening.

It was almost as if the old master, Squire Eller, was back. The aged retainers shook their heads with wistful smiles. Those were the days. Old Mason had a streak in him, he did. Demanded his fun. Accompanied by a sizeable belt of brandy before and a hunk of juicy beefsteak after.

So, who or what had roused their mistress into such a state?

Mariah had no thought to spare for servant curiosity. Her heart was pounding and her limbs were icy by the time she reached her bedroom. Dread crawled up her spine the way it must in an animal caught in a trap and awaiting its fate. She was indeed “caught,” and the fact that the trap was partly of her own making made it that much worse.

To protect her property, she’d flaunted herself before a group of idle, arrogant noblemen, never guessing that the true price of one night’s peace would prove steeper still. Now she had to pay with that unique currency that women had used to acquire safety and security since the beginning of time.

The men’s words came around again and again in her head as she paced her room, waiting for Mercy to draw her bath. Very close personal relations…Quite taken with her… Having “tasted” her, the prince had found her “flavor” to his liking.

That was what outraged her most, she realized. John St. Lawrence had “nimbly” failed to inform their future king that the royal member had been limp and unresponsive—in-capable of manly service—when they helped him to his bed. Why hadn’t the wretch told the prince the truth? Then she recalled the warning on St. Lawrence’s face when she’d started to correct the notion that the prince had bedded her, and she guessed why.

The royal pride. His companions were pledged to it as a matter of patriotic service. And if honoring it meant allowing the prince to think he’d bedded a woman when he hadn’t…to them it was a small price to pay. Of course they’d feel that way, she thought with a moan. It wasn’t their lives being disrupted, their honor being claimed or their bodies being bartered.

Damned men.

She was wise enough in the ways of the world, however, to see that if she turned down this “generous offer” she would be inviting trouble that might only begin with debts being called in early. Clearly, they had made inquiries to learn her circumstances and figured out how pressure could be brought to bear on her. Even if the prince himself were not vindictive, the men around him would never allow such an insult to the royal pride to go unredressed.



A ROYAL MISTRESS. As she descended the stairs that afternoon, toward the interview that would change her life, she paused to give herself a final check in the ornate hall mirror. The woman staring back at her didn’t look especially wicked or licentious. It occurred to her to wonder what a future king looked for in a mistress. What if the prince actually did bed her and she proved not to be to his tastes after all?

She smoothed the elongated bodice of her best blue challis dress, puffed her leg-o’-mutton sleeves, and checked the mother-of-pearl buttons at her wrists. Her green dress might have highlighted her hair better, but the blue brought out her eyes.

Not, she scolded herself, that she wanted “Jack B. Nimble” to notice her eyes. She just wanted him and his arrogant comrade to see that she was a woman of stature, not to be trifled with or condescended to. The bastards.

Chiding herself for her language, she ran a hand over her upswept hair, brushed at the dusting of simple powder on her reddened cheeks, and straightened her collar and cameo…avoiding her own eyes in the mirror.

In the spacious front parlor, Old Robert was shuffling in from the dining room with a rattling tray of cups, saucers and spoons. Older Aggie labored along behind him with a fresh cloth for the tea table and a tiered plate caddie filled with tea cakes and sandwiches. The pair looked downright frazzled. She sighed. She needed some younger servants.

The hearth-lighting and table-draping continued until Old Robert was called away to answer the front door. He returned shortly with the baron and St. Lawrence in tow. A motion toward her head reminded the old butler of his duty. He grabbed the hats from the men’s hands and yanked the coats from their shoulders…doddering out with the garments dragging on the floor behind him.

Mariah stood near the venerable marble hearth, glad of the heat at her back, feeling every muscle in her body tense as “Nimble Jack” St. Lawrence crossed her parlor with an easy, athletic stride. She extended a hand to the baron and then to him, knowing it was the civil thing to do and dreading it all the same.

As Nimble Jack bowed—“Mrs. Eller”—she caught the scents of sandalwood and warmed wool and felt a flash of the memory she’d tried to bury in her garden that morning. His dark hair looked soft, his shoulders were broad, and his hand around hers was warm and firm, like the rest of—

“Baron. Mr. St. Lawrence.” She braced herself and gestured to the linen-draped table. “I thought perhaps we would have tea as we talk.”

An unctuous smile spread over the baron’s face and he glanced at St. Lawrence. They read in her reception the answer they hoped to receive.

“Excellent. The prince will be quite pleased,” the baron said, glowing at this positive outcome. “I imagine you have questions for us.”

And just like that, it was done. She was to become a mistress to the Prince of Wales. She glanced at St. Lawrence as the baron held her chair for her at the tea table. The baron was ebullient, but “Nimble Jack” seemed oddly contained upon learning of his mission’s success.

She rang the china bell on the table to summon the tea.

“I suppose my first question is, will I have to remove to London?”

“I should imagine that will depend on a number of things,” the baron said, relishing his role. “His Highness travels a great deal. His secretary makes the necessary arrangements. I would never presume to speak for the prince in matters unauthorized, but I gathered that he intends to join you here in the Lake Country. He is fond of country air and hunting.” A weasel-like smile appeared. “But, of course, there will be your husband to consider.”

She frowned, wondering if he had taken leave of his senses.

“My husband, sir, is deceased.”

“Of course he is.” The baron gave a tense little laugh and she saw St. Lawrence stiffen. “I meant to say your new husband.”

Just then Old Robert rushed in with a silver teapot that he had forgotten to pick up with a mitt. The old fellow dropped it onto the table with a sloshing thud—“Tea be sarved”—and then tottered out, grumbling as he nursed his overheated hand.

“My what?” She turned to the baron, her blood stopped in her veins.

“Your new husband, madam.” The baron straightened, pulling authority around him like a cloak. “The prince would never enter into relations with an unmarried woman. That would never do. To leave a woman he is associated with unprotected and exposed to the world…the prince would never be so callous.”

Her jaw loosened but thankfully did not drop.

“I am a widow, sir,” she said, leaning forward. “I live independently and have no husband to object to such an arrangement. How can the prince possibly imagine I would wish to acquire one now?”

“But you must acquire one, madam, or relations with the prince cannot proceed.” The baron looked scandalized by the prospect. “The prince has made it his firm—and most wise—practice to spend time only with ladies whose husbands can provide comfort for them once his time with them is done.” The baron produced a handkerchief and dabbed his moist lip.

“This is absurd,” she said, looking at St. Lawrence, who took up the argument.

“If I may be blunt.” He clenched his jaw, looking as if he’d just sucked a lemon. “There is always the possibility of consequences from such relations. The prince has left no ‘consequences’ in his path to date, and is determined to see that any born to his special friends will have fathers of their own. As heir to our good queen’s throne and the future head of the Church of England, to do otherwise would be unthinkable to him.”

Mariah felt the flush of color she had just experienced now drain from her face. Consequences: a polite way of saying children. The prince intended to leave no royal bastards in his wake. Fastidious of him, she thought furiously, to take his future roles as seriously as he took his pleasures. He bedded women thither and yon but insisted, whether from fear of public opinion or his own moral quirk, that the natural consequences of those liaisons never be laid at his doorstep.

“Why on earth would I wish to exchange vows with a man, only to betray them with the prince?” she demanded, gripping the edge of the table.

“Because,” St. Lawrence said tightly, “it is necessary. And if you are anything, Mrs. Eller, you are a woman who recognizes the necessary and turns it to her advantage.”

She felt struck physically by that assessment. Rising abruptly from the table, she went to the long windows that overlooked the side yard. Anger roiled in her as she gripped the sash. So that was what they thought of her. Clever. Contriving. Conveniently amoral.

The full weight of the situation bore down on her. She was a woman whose behavior had left room for assumption. A woman with no man to “protect” her. A woman who could be acquired, used and discarded like a pair of outmoded trousers. Her insignificant life could be turned upside-down without a second thought should she fail to cooperate. To accept such conditions would mean that she would be the one to pay for the prince’s pleasures…with a lifetime of marital servitude.

All because the prince fancied her.

Eyes burning, she turned to look at them. The baron sat with his arms crossed and St. Lawrence toyed with a teacup from the tray. Neither seemed at all chagrined by the demands they placed on her.

Then it occurred to her in a stroke: if she couldn’t find a husband, the prince might be forced to call off the notion of bedding her.

“I fear, gentlemen, we are at an impasse. I know of no man willing to marry me and then loan me out for a spell to the Prince of Wales.”

“I expect that is true.” The baron’s composure bordered on the smug. “We, on the other hand, know quite a few.”

She was stunned. In the silence that followed, she realized that there was still more to come. With each new requirement they had slowly painted her into a corner.

“As we have said, the prince is generous,” the baron continued. “There are numerous men of his acquaintance who would be willing to do him just such a favor.”

“And what sort of men would they be? Barking madmen? Wastrels? Misers who would sell their grandmothers for a profit?”

“I assure you, madam—” the baron rose, looking as sincere as a weasel can look “—the men on St. Lawrence’s list are gentlemen, one and all.”

She looked to Nimble Jack, who pulled an envelope from his inner breast pocket and laid it on the tea table beside her china cups. The cad! He had arrived that morning with a list of agreeable cuckolds in his pocket!

“You came prepared,” she said, struggling with rising outrage.

“The prince surrounds himself with resourceful men,” Jack said.

“Resourceful,” she echoed. So that was how the wretch saw himself.

She turned back to the window and clamped her arms around her waist. The prince had a whole kingdom of “resourceful” men to see to his welfare. She, on the other hand, had no one. No parents, no brothers or sisters, no uncles or aunts to intervene on her behalf. That was how she had fallen into the squire’s hands in the first place. The magistrate overseeing the sale of her deceased father’s property had insisted that, as a girl alone, marriage was her only option. And as it happened, his friend Squire Eller was in need of a wife. In the end, she was just one more asset the judge dispersed to a man whose good will would ease his own way in life.

But she was not that naive little seventeen-year-old girl anymore. She had learned the ways of the world and the men who ran it. The years of hard work since her husband died had stunted her reactions, dulled her responses. But no longer. Resourceful? She’d show the wretches resourceful.

She’d find a way to get out of this intolerable fix or die trying!

“No matter what you think of me, gentlemen, the prince’s proposal is shocking to a woman of my background and experience. Make no mistake, I would not consider accepting the overtures of a married man, even those from His Highness the Prince of Wales, if I had a gracious way of declining them.

“I must, however, demand a choice in those small matters which are of interest to no one but myself. The prince may be my friend and supporter for a few months or even a year or two, but I will remain wedded to this ‘husband’ for the rest of my days. Therefore, I insist upon the right to choose the man I will marry.” She pointed to the envelope. “I cannot continue unless I am assured that I may reject those men with impunity.”

The baron looked anxiously to St. Lawrence, who frowned at this new wrinkle and studied her openly.

“And if you refuse all of the men on this list, what then?” he asked.

“We must have some assurance,” the baron said, mopping his lip again, “that you will show good faith in seeking a husband elsewhere.”

“I give you my word, sir, that I will. If that is not enough, then you must return to the prince and explain to him your predicament—that you do not believe the woman he selected as a mistress is worthy of your trust.”

There was an awkward silence as they grappled with her demand.

“A time limit, then,” the baron said, proposing a compromise. “Say, a fortnight. You must pledge to find and accept a husband within a fortnight.”

She looked from one man to the other, turning it over in her mind.

“I think two weeks should be sufficient.”

“Excellent.” The baron’s smile was full of relief as he rose and reached for her hand. “I’ll be off, then, to deliver the good news to the prince. St. Lawrence here will see to the details. He has access to funds and the special license and will ensure that you have whatever clothing and incidentals you desire.” There was a hint of challenge in his tone. “He will see to it that you are wedded within the agreed-upon time.”




4


JACK WATCHED with an unsettled expression masking pure inner turmoil as the baron took his leave.

Damn and blast Marchant, saddling him with marrying off Mariah Eller! He had agreed to compile a list of suggested men for her to marry when it became clear that the prince was determined to go through with this idiocy, but he had never imagined it would come to this.

She’d already declared her opposition to the whole notion. What in hell made Marchant think she would actually do the deed? When he looked back at Mariah, she was settling at the table and reaching for the teapot. He sat down opposite her, gripping his knees under the tablecloth.

After pouring in silence and serving him, she reached for the envelope on the table and opened it to peruse the names inside with a frown.

“So, you’re to be both minder and matchmaker.” She didn’t look up.

“And you’re to be cooperative.” He sipped his tea, wishing to hell it was Scotch whiskey.

“I intend to be, Mr. St. Lawrence. I must say, that name sounds wrong to me. I feel I should call you Jack.”

His smile faded, then returned as if force-marched back.

“You may call me that if you wish, Mrs. Eller. Most do. In truth, I was the one true ‘Jack’ in the room that night.”

“You could have saved me a great deal of grief if you had been truer still.” She sipped her own tea with an accusing expression.

Those damnable blue eyes. Don’t look, he told himself.

“Men loyal to the future king—” he began, focusing purposefully on the wheezing hearth.

“Refuse to tell him the truth?” she inserted. “His reign won’t be one for the history books if that is the kind of counsel he depends upon.”

He straightened and met that gaze full-on.

“You were in the room and clearly willing. What does it matter that your kiss found lips other than his?”

For a brief moment he thought he saw actual flame in the dark centers of her eyes.

“Yes, of course,” she said with a razor edge. “A woman who will kiss one man will surely not scruple about kissing another. And a woman who enters a man’s sleeping room will surely bed any man she finds there. For men are all the same in the dark, are they not?”

He scowled at her twist on the well-known saw: Jane is the same as milady in the dark. She meant to torture him with verbal thumbscrews. Lord, how he hated clever women.

“I did not mean to imply that you have no discrimination, Mrs. Eller. I merely pointed out that it could as easily have been the prince you kissed.”

“No, it could not,” she said, her cheeks pinker. “It may shock you to hear, sir, but I actually have standards. And bedding married men destined to rule my country is definitely outside them.” She reached for the list of potential husbands and scowled at it. “With such an attitude, I am surprised that you bothered to include so many names.” She set the paper down and picked up her cup, giving him an arch look.

“I wonder…what was your criteria for selection? What about these men made you think any of them would be suitable as a husband for me?”

He expelled a quiet breath, feeling her gaze roaming him as his had just wandered her. An unwelcome heaviness was settling in his loins.

“All are unmarried and have an income of two thousand or better.”

“And?” she prompted.

“And all would be willing to marry a comely young widow if it would win for them the future king’s favor.”

“So, I marry one of these men and serve both the prince’s and this husband’s carnal demands?” She seemed genuinely taken aback. “If so, I am going to be one very well-buttered bun.”

He was jarred by her blunt language. “I believe it is understood that the marriage will be in name only until the prince foregoes his relationship with you. Your husband will be free to enjoy his marital rights at that time.”

“Oh. Well. How fortunate for him. I am on loan to the prince for as long as he wants me to pleasure him, after which I am given back to my legal lord and master to serve his pleasures.” She leaned forward, searching his face. “Forgive me, Jack, but I’m having trouble figuring out just what I get out of all this pleasuring.”

Pleasuring. The way she said the word sent a tongue of heat licking up the inside of his belly. A phantom vignette of burying his face in her hair and sliding his hands over her warm breasts flashed through his senses.

“I believe you know very well what you will get, madam. Income…gifts…connections…” Running out of benefits, he grabbed a tea sandwich and stuffed it whole into his mouth.

A foul, vinegary taste filled his head, and he feared he might be sick. It must have shown, for she handed him the baron’s unused napkin.

“Aggie’s tripe ’n’ turnip sandwich—not her best work,” she said as he disposed of the bite and rinsed his mouth with tea. She offered him a jam tart. “This usually kills the taste.”

“Good Lord.” His eyes still watered as he stuffed the entire tart in his mouth and felt the beastly taste subside. “She’ll poison somebody.”

“She’s better with more ordinary fare. She doesn’t get a chance to produce her specialties often.” Her smile was nothing short of taunting.

“Then you will have to make changes to your staff and upgrade your cellar. You will be expected to provide food and drink for the prince and the occasional dinner for some of his intimates.”

“Oh? And will those ‘intimates’ include you?” she asked, freshening his cup.

“I doubt it,” he said, downing more of the brew and vowing never to set foot in her presence again once this business was finished.

“You are not considered one of his ‘intimates’?”

“I am pleased to say that he counts me a loyal friend. We hunt together. My family’s land borders the prince’s at Sandringham, and for years the prince has taken birds from our fields and dined at our table. While I am in London, I generally attend social functions with him. But as for being an ‘intimate’—”

“I should think that negotiating for a mistress would certainly qualify you as one,” she said with excessive sweetness. “How fortunate for him to have an ‘acquaintance’ willing to see him to his bed when he can no longer find it and kiss women for him when he can no longer muster a pucker.”

He swallowed repeatedly—the damned tart was stuck in his throat—and then drained his cup.

“The men who hunt with the prince are charged with his welfare, madam, and do not take their ease before seeing to his safety.” He smacked the cup back onto the saucer. “And since you raised the topic, I kissed no one. I believe it was you who did the kissing.”

She regarded him fiercely for a moment, probably deciding whether to unleash a bit of temper, then to his surprise gave a reasonable nod.

“So it was.” The smile that bloomed from her thoughts sent a cool trickle of anxiety up his spine. “And look where it’s brought me. I shall have to be much more careful about whom I kiss in the future.”

He rose and went to the window to find cooler air. Every time she said the word kiss, his damned collar seemed to grow a bit tighter.

“It hardly seems fair that one of these men—” she joined him there, brandishing his list “—will receive such benefit without so much as raising a finger.” She glanced from him to the names, and back. “Tell me, which man do you think would suit me best?”

“I have not the temerity to suggest, madam.” He clasped his hands firmly behind his back and stared past her out the window.

“But you have had the temerity to suggest, sir. You put four men on this list, so you must have some opinion on their suitability.” She motioned with the paper, inadvertently brushing his vest with it. His abdominal muscles snapped taut. “This Thomas Bickering, is he a tall man?”

“I couldn’t say, madam.” He refused to look at her.

“Do you know if he is portly or balding or has snuff-yellowed teeth?”

“I do not. I am not personally acquainted with the fellow.”

“Yet you would marry me off to him without a blink. What about the others? Richard Stephens, Winston Martindale and Gordon Clapford?”

“Clapford lives near Grantham, but is heir to a barony somewhere in Ireland,” he rattled off. “Stephens’s income is from some cotton mills south of London. Martindale is a friend of the Earl of Chester’s son…comes recommended by the earl. Bickering is a solicitor in Lincoln. That and the men’s income is all I know about them.”

Silence fell as she looked between him and the paper in her hand.

“You honestly expect me to choose one of these men to share my bed and partner my life, but you cannot tell me which is tallest, which dribbles gravy on his shirtfronts and which is stingy with his household allowance…all matters critical to the success of a marriage?”

“How on earth is a man’s height significant to wedded success?”

“It is easy to see you have never been married, sir.” He glanced down to find her eyes lit with feminine superiority. “Otherwise you would know how a man’s dimensions enter into his wife’s contentment. How can I be expected to choose without seeing, much less experiencing these men?”

She leaned against the windowsill, her eyes darting over some private vision, running her hands up her arms. Nice hands. Long-fingered and graceful. Probably strong enough to—damn it!

What was he thinking, giving her more than one name at a time? Women took weeks to make up their minds about a damned hat. But Bertie had said for him to cast about and come up with some names, plural. He had done so, never guessing that he would be the one to present them to the wily, audacious wid—Wait—what? He found himself bracing, scrambling mentally. Experiencing men?

“I shall just have to see them for myself,” she said calmly.

“Beg pardon?” He shook himself more alert.

“I said, I shall have to see them for myself in order to decide which to marry. Where do they live? Surely you will be able to learn that much.”

“What are you proposing?” Every inch of his skin contracted. He had gooseflesh all the way down to his John Thomas.

“To visit these men, compare them and perhaps…sample a kiss.”

“The devil you will.” He stepped closer, reaching for her before he checked that reaction and curled his hands into fists at his sides. “You cannot go gallivanting around the country demanding kisses from strange men.”

“But they’re not strange men. They’re men who were selected for me. By you.” She edged closer, her face raised, her eyes bright with challenge. “I doubt they would shrink from providing a sample of their amorous skill. Men are usually eager to oblige in such matters.” She raked him with a look that could have ignited a wet lump of coal. “Most men, anyway.”

His mouth opened, but after a moment shut. Heat was thundering through his veins. Frustration, annoyance and outrage, he told himself.

“You managed to survive one of my kisses.” Her gaze landed on his lips as she wetted her own. “Can you honestly say it was objectionable or an imposition?”

She was mere inches away, her eyes glistening, her cheeks rosy. Her lips—soft lips that had moved with such exquisite provocation over his—were moist and succulent and so very, very near.

It was all he could do to do nothing at all.

“I thought not.” Her voice seemed thicker, sultrier as she stepped back. “Then tomorrow morning we shall leave for Lincoln to find this Thomas Bickering, Esquire. You did come by coach, did you not?”

He jerked a nod, realizing only now the full scope of the task before him. He was stuck husband-hunting with a woman who had beguiled and disarmed half a dozen men hell-bent on dissipation, with nothing more than a fiddle and a punch bowl. She was striking, sensual, self-possessed and had already proven she had as much command over his body as he did.

“Excellent.” She caught his gaze and held it in triumph. “While there you can visit Barclay’s Bank and arrange the funds to cover my note.”

She paused, waiting for a response that he refused to give her. With a growl, he turned on his heel and headed for the door.

“Cheer up, Jack B. Nimble.” The satisfaction in her voice scraped his broad back like cat’s claws. “By tomorrow night you might be celebrating my upcoming nuptials.”




5


A GLOSSY, black-lacquered coach arrived at the front door of the inn the next morning at nine in sunny weather that belied the tightening chill of the season. Mariah sent her trunk out with Old Robert while she waited in the hall with Mercy, whom she had drafted to accompany her.

The old woman tugged at her straining jacket, grumbling that it had somehow shrunk since she wore it last. Mariah smoothed her own navy woolen skirt, resettled her military-style jacket at her waist, and drew her kidskin gloves higher on her wrists. After a moment, she stepped back to check herself in the hall mirror. The vivid blue of her eyes and pink of her cheeks surprised her. She was positively glowing.

Stop that, she ordered herself.

An instant later, the sunlight coming through the open door dimmed. She looked over to find Jack St. Lawrence’s tall, broad-shouldered form silhouetted against the brightness. Her heart dropped a beat.

“A steamer trunk?” His irritation seemed to push some of the air out of the hall as he leaned inward.

“Who knows how long we’ll be gone?” she said, forcing a deep breath as she retrieved her reticule and lap blanket from the hall table.

“One and a half days,” he declared. “Thirty hours, give or take. How many changes of clothing can you possibly need in thirty hours?”

He was eager to be rid of her. Too blessed bad. She was in no hurry to select one of the men on his list as her lord and master. Her only hope, she had realized, was to draw out the process either until she could find someone she could bear to marry or until she exhausted the prince’s patience without simultaneously invoking his wrath.

“That is an absurd time estimate under the best of circumstances,” she said. “Should Mr. Bickering prove suitable, there will be certain formalities to conduct, some of which may require days to complete. To say nothing of the shopping that will be required.”

“Shopping?” His horror was palpable.

“I believe the baron mentioned new clothing.” She lowered her voice and gestured to her serviceable but uninspired skirt and jacket. “I simply cannot undertake my new role in such garments. And should Mr. Bickering prove unsuitable, we shall have to go on to the next candidate.”

Muttering something unintelligible, he turned and stalked down the steps to the coach. When she approached the vehicle with Mercy in tow, he suddenly registered the old girl’s hat and traveling gear.

“What’s this?” He looked to Mariah in exasperation.

“My maid.” She met his incredulity full-on. “A respectable woman never travels without assistance.”

Mercy lifted her chins with exaggerated dignity and held out a hand for assistance in mounting the steps. Jack first extended his arm and then hefted and grappled and finally pushed her substantial frame through the door. Red-faced, he collected himself and then helped Mariah up.

Mercy, unused to coach travel, had ensconced herself on the forward-facing seat. Mariah settled beside her without correcting her gaffe, leaving the rear-facing seat for Jack, who bit his tongue, settled back against the tufted leather, and rapped the upholstered roof of the coach with his walking stick. The vehicle lurched forward, pulling a gasp and giggle from Mercy.

As it happened, Mariah needn’t have bothered with the lap blanket; the sun coming through the windows warmed the coach…too well. The smell of naphtha soon permeated the air, courtesy of Mercy, who had pulled her traveling clothes out of storage only that morning. The combination of riding backward and the smell of mothballs soon had Jack looking a little green. He let down one of the windows for some fresh air and it wasn’t long before Mariah was spreading that lap blanket after all.




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