Make Me Yours. Betina Krahn

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      “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!

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