Make Me Yours. Betina Krahn

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

СКАЧАТЬ