Make Me Yours. Betina Krahn

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ