Betina Krahn (5 page)

“Very well.” She broke the silence and made a note on her pad. “You refuse to discuss the prince’s preferences, so I shall just have to be guided by your own.”

“Mine?” His grip on his walking stick and his jaw both loosened.

“As a representative. Most certainly. You hunt together, attend the same functions and admire the same fashionable ladies, do you not? Then what appeals to you must, by all logic, appeal to him.”

He was speechless with disbelief and experiencing an alarming rush of anticipation. She was going to use him as a stand-in for Bertie! And in so doing, she was going to punish him for the sin of denying her the kiss she had expected on that first night…for keeping his mouth shut when he should have spoken the truth…for handing her over to the prince…and for coercing her into a liaison she claimed not to want.
In short, she was going to make him pay for every scorched inch of her flaming pride.

Jack dropped his walking stick, jammed his shoulders into the corner of the coach, and stretched his legs out across the seat beside him. Jaw set, he tilted his hat down over his face and crossed his arms to close off further discussion.

She wasn’t so easily dismissed.

“So, Jack St. Lawrence—” her voice lowered and lapped around his tensed body in warm, suggestive waves “—in intimate situations, do you prefer to see a woman arrayed in permissive silk lingerie or cinched into stern-boned corsets and twenty-button gloves?”

His teeth ground together. He squeezed his eyes tighter and his whole body tensed. Provocative flashes of nipples veiled by translucent silk and breasts bulging above black satin boning flared in his mind. Punishment indeed. The silk in his vision slid…the corset loosened…blue eyes burned and wine-sweetened lips beckoned…tempting and accusing him. Hypocrite. Denying himself in the name of duty. Denying her in the name of his own damnable—

With a growl he sat upright, slammed his hat on the seat, and in one swift move was across the coach and grabbing her by the shoulders. He pulled her to him and smothered her shocked “What—oh—” with a blistering kiss that softened into an exploration as it went on and on…warming, absorbing, caressing…until her resistance melted and his sanity and self-possession were unrecognizable lumps simmering in a stew of desire.

Somewhere in the throes of it, he sank onto one knee in the foot well and leaned into her, trapping her legs between the seat and his body. Her mouth fitted itself to his, drawing him closer and deeper into the kiss. Sweet—her lips were faintly sweet, just as he had recalled—and moist and warm.
Her silky tongue was tentative at first in its movements, then more assured, as if she were remembering how to cast that particular spell.

Her shoulders were firmer under his hands than he would have expected, and that thought fired his curiosity about the rest of her. Shapely and strong; the combination surprised and intrigued him. Suddenly everything in the images he’d conjured—bare skin and taut nipples and reddened lips—belonged to her. And there she was at his fingertips, warming to him, willing to—

A snuffling snort and some movement on the seat beside them punched through the steam in his senses. He drew back the same instant she did and in a heartbeat was braced against the opposite seat, breathing hard, his skin too tight and his muscles twitching in protest.

The snoring Mercy smacked her lips dryly in her sleep and shifted so that her cheek lodged against the wall of the coach. He could barely swallow as he watched the old girl settle back into sleep. Relieved, he yanked down his vest and made himself meet Mariah’s questioning look.

Her eyes were wide and her lips were swollen from his kiss. Without a single hair out of place, she managed to look tousled and ready for more. This—this desire, this turmoil—was what it would have been like if he had kissed her that night.

“Now you know,” he managed, struggling to justify his impulse.

If the avowed motivation for his action shocked her, she hid it well.

“So I do. It seems the prince is quite a kisser.” She responded after a moment with a tight little smile and coolly raised her pad and began to make notes. As she concentrated, the tip of her tongue emerged to stroke her kiss-reddened
lips—the very territory his had covered moments earlier. Sweet Jesus. He slammed his eyes shut against the sight.

She was making notes on his kiss.

M
ARIAH
had time as the coach wound through the chilled countryside to recover her determination to ignore Jack St. Lawrence’s arrogance. And attractions. Which were sprawled with masculine aplomb in front of her.

He was so smug in his male autonomy. No one told
him
who to bed. How could he possibly understand how demeaning it was for a woman to be considered available for
use
by a man, even a prince?

As unappetizing as the thought of passion with the portly prince was, it was the marriage part that really stung. A part of her had begun to hope that a new love would walk into her inn and into her life…someone who could make her heart sing and body yearn…someone with whom she could share bed and board and the passing years. But the prince’s insistence that she marry for
his
convenience put that dream out of reach forever.

She thought of Thomas Bickering. How likely was he to be tall, clean-limbed and athletic looking, with thick, run-your-fingers-through-me hair and a simmering gaze that made her body hot and tingly? Not very.

If only she could go back to her simple life and her uncomplicated hopes.

But she knew better. The minute Jack’s touch reminded her she was a woman, that time of healing and illusion of simplicity was over.

This was the hand that Fortune had dealt her. She had to find a way to navigate its trials and temptations and make a new life for herself. And what if this mistress debacle was itself an instrument of Fate? What if she was meant to start again with one of the potential husbands she met on this journey? She pulled Jack’s list from her purse and stared at the names with an ache around her heart: men who would marry a prince’s mistress for favor and financial gain. She took a deep breath.

Something told her she’d best prepare for the worst.

The coach slowed sometime later, and she leaned to the window. They had entered a stream of traffic approaching the city.

The change in motion awakened Jack; he stirred, sat up and stretched. His eyes had the heaviness of a man fresh from bed and his dark hair was mussed just enough to make him seem appealingly vulnerable. Accessible. Fortunately, Mercy awoke as well and complained that sleeping twisted like a corkscrew had set her joints aching.

“Whew!” The old woman wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell?”

Apparently, it was Lincoln. Everything about the city, a medieval cathedral town and woolen center whose fortunes had risen and fallen through the centuries, was washed a smelly, sooty gray. Mariah winced as she imagined living in a place where the air had a color and carried a perpetual tang of iron and oil. Lincolnshire’s seat had come alive once more with the development of Britain’s industrial might, but at a price.

They stopped first at the White Hart Hotel in Bailgate, near the cathedral, to secure lodgings and learn where they might find the legal firm employing Thomas Bickering. The manager of the venerable brick inn directed them to a district where banks and solicitor firms were located.

Leaving Mercy at the hotel to settle her things into her room, Mariah set off with Jack to find Yarborough Street.

“I’ll go in first,” Jack said, rigid now and curt, “and tell him—”

“Nothing,” she countered, having to work to keep up with his long strides. “You’ll not say a word about why we are here. I need to see what sort of man he is apart from royal bribes.”

“I should think that would already be more than plain,” he bit out. “He’s the kind of man who seizes an opportunity when it presents itself.”

She halted on the pavement, sensing that he’d revealed something about himself. When he realized she had stopped, he turned to look at her.

“Like you?” Sharpening her gaze, she tried to slice through the male bluster of duty to crown and country to glimpse the man beneath. “I’ve been wondering, Jack, what do you get out of this? What opportunity does settling a royal mistress in the prince’s bed open for
you?
”

He reddened, and a muscle flexed in his jaw. Without a word he turned and struck off down the street again.

Well. She stood watching his broad shoulders trying to shake off some of the conflict they carried. He seemed to have a conscience after all. He knew that the position they’d forced her into wasn’t right. It didn’t change anything, but that discovery felt like a small victory.

They soon found a firm called Halliwell, Soames, Make-peace and Bickering; it turned out to be just a few doors away from a stationer’s shop where they stopped to inquire. The clerk, an older woman, said that the shop supplied office materials to the firm and, without being asked, revealed that Thomas Bickering had just been made a partner there.

Jack thanked her and turned to go, but Mariah lingered to
purchase some new pencils and another writing pad, and asked the clerk if she were acquainted with Mr. Bickering.

“I am. A fine young man.” There was genuine admiration in the woman’s eyes. “Alwus tips ’is hat to women…ladies and shop girls alike.”

“A ringing endorsement from the shop-girl contingent,” Jack muttered as he held the door for Mariah.

“A woman could do worse than a man who is polite to people of all stations.” She shot him a look as she stepped onto the street.

Thomas Bickering’s name had just been added to the sign hanging above the pavement, painted onto a board tacked below the names of the other partners. Mariah’s pulse picked up as she stared at the change. At least Mr. Bickering was clever enough to advance in his chosen career.

The lobby of the firm’s offices gave an impression of solidity and worth…wooden paneling, large windows and comfortable leather chairs in a waiting area set off from the clerks’ desks by a heavy railing. The young man at the desk in the reception area confirmed that Thomas Bickering was indeed a member of the firm and was at that moment on the premises.

Mariah gave him her sunniest smile.

“We have it on the best authority—the Earl of Chester—that Mr. Bickering is a very capable solicitor. We’ve had something of a journey and are anxious to meet with him.” When the clerk looked doubtful, she handed him their calling cards. “Surely he can find a few minutes in his schedule for us. The work must be started today if it is to be finished in time for the wedding.” She glanced at Jack, who looked as if he were biting his tongue.

“I’ll see if Mr. Bickering has some time to give you.” The clerk looked from her to Jack and then down at their names.
“And may I offer sincerest congratulations. Matrimony seems to be in the air these days.”

As the fellow strode off, Jack leaned closer with a glower.

“You know, you’ve made him think
we’re
—” He cut off that alarming thought. “Do you always play so fast and loose with the truth?”

“I prefer to think of it as creative use of the facts,” she countered in an emphatic sotto voce. “I can hardly barge in, demand an accounting of his personal life and then tell him he’s been instructed to marry me.” She looked up with a taunting smile. “That’s
your
job.”

The clerk returned to usher them down a hallway with: “You’re in luck. Mr. Bickering has a most important engagement this afternoon, but he has agreed to see you for a few moments.”

Mariah held her breath as she entered her potential husband’s office.

Thomas Bickering was a man in his thirties, moderately tall and of medium build, with brown, prematurely graying hair. He looked a bit frazzled, sitting behind a large desk in an office full of crates, boxes and half-filled bookshelves. His new office, no doubt. As he rose to greet them she assessed his face—pleasant, if a little ordinary; his eyes—clear and watchful; and his handshake—firm and businesslike. He invited them to be seated in the chairs the clerk scurried to pull from under stacks of papers.

“Well, Miss Eller—” He tugged his cuffs self-consciously.

“It’s Mrs. Eller,” Mariah said sweetly. “I’m a widow.”

“Oh.” Flustered slightly, he cast about on his chaotic desktop for paper and a pen. “Well, then, this makes more sense. A second marriage. Property involved, is there?”

“I knew the earl wouldn’t steer us wrong,” Mariah said, putting a hand on Jack’s sleeve. “You see how quickly he’s assessed the situation?”

“And you—” he consulted Jack’s card for his name “—Mr. St. Lawrence. Have you been married before?”

“I have not, b-but—”

“Mr. St. Lawrence has numerous properties and family to whom he has made certain promises,” she inserted. “We felt it only prudent to discuss the situation with someone knowledgeable and seek professional advice.”

“A wise course of action,” Bickering said, smiling with fresh warmth at Mariah. He had a nice smile; his countenance became quite attractive when it appeared. She experienced a quiver of feminine interest. “If only more people would be so rational upon entering into marriage. It is, after all, a solemn responsibility as well as a joyous undertaking.”

“So it is.” Mariah studied the man, trying to square that statement with his presence on a list of potential husbands for a prince’s mistress.
A joyous undertaking.
Perhaps there was more to him than met the eye.

“I own an inn on the Edinburgh Road, north of Lincoln, which I wish to continue to operate after my marriage,” she said with a sidelong glance at Jack. “Though I will likely be spending time away from it.”

“Moving to your husband’s home, no doubt,” Bickering said, looking increasingly uncomfortable under Jack’s increasingly stony regard.

“Yes, but there are circumstances—” She laid a hand on Jack’s sleeve again. “Would you mind leaving us for a few moments? I have a matter to discuss with Mr. Bickering in private.”

“Private?” Jack straightened. “Anything you have to say can be said in front of me.”

“I would draw on Mr. Bickering’s experience in a delicate matter.” She ordered him to the door with her eyes, eager to test the new sense of
possibilities
that had come over her.
Perhaps…just perhaps…being married again wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to her.

“All the more reason I should be here.” He scowled, clearly offended by the notion of personal contact between her and her prospective husband.

“Don’t be silly, it has nothing to do with you. I simply want to consult Mr. Bickering’s
experience.
” She pulled Jack up by the arm and bustled him out. When she had closed the door behind him, she leaned back against it, facing Thomas Bickering, who had risen with them and stood watching her with visible confusion.

She smiled.

“Tell me, Mr. Bickering, do you think marriage is a wise choice for a woman of independent means?”

“The right marriage, Mrs. Eller. Certainly.” His confusion melted into heartfelt sincerity. “The right marriage is far more than a civil arrangement for providing heirs and apportioning property. It is a partnership of souls crafted out of love, respect and commitment. As such, it is one of the greatest gifts life has to offer.” His gaze shifted and warmed subtly, as if he were seeing something not quite material. “Had I believed otherwise, I would never have asked my sweet Cynthia to marry me.”

“Your—” her jaw dropped “—Cynthia?”

O
UT IN THE
hallway, Jack St. Lawrence paced and fumed. If there hadn’t been so many people around, clerks trundling back and forth with arms full of legal folios, he’d have had his ear to the lock. Why did lawyers have to have such damned thick doors?

But he didn’t really have to hear; he already knew what she was up to. He could see it as plain as day in his mind. She was swaying across the room…removing her scented
gloves with mesmerizing leisure…gliding around the poor wretch’s desk like the Serpent in the Garden…all while interrogating him suggestively about his table manners and gambling habits and corset preferences. He could guess what came after that: a sampling of the wretch’s amorous skill. Or lack thereof.

He made himself take one deep breath and another before he lunged for the knob…and managed to stop himself. Charging back inside would be tantamount to admitting that he cared that she threw herself at the lawyer. The satisfaction that would give her would be just too humiliating. Growling quietly, he stepped away from the door.

Voices rose after a few minutes and the door opened, startling him away from the wall where he had been leaning. The lawyer escorted Mariah out with a chummy hand on her elbow. Her gaze was lowered, but she was smiling, and Bickering’s face was red and his eyes were unnaturally bright. Clearly, something had happened between them.

“Good to meet you, St. Lawrence. Let me know if I can be of further service.” The lawyer offered Jack his hand while consulting his pocket watch. “Must be on my way. Can’t afford to be late—not for this.”

With a gracious nod, he abandoned them to rush down the hall, retrieve his hat and exit via a side door. By the time Jack turned back to Mariah, she was moving in the other direction, headed for the reception area, straightening her hat and donning her gloves as she went.

He waited until they were on the street and walking briskly in the direction of the hotel before demanding, “Well?”

She looked as if she was concentrating on something as she stopped abruptly on the pavement.

“Chocolate,” she declared. “I’m dying for a piece of chocolate.” Peering up and down the street, she spotted some
thing that looked like a sweet shop down the way and struck off for it.

“What?” He was caught flat-footed.

She wanted chocolate? Now?

Infernal female.

He followed her into a shop that specialized in gustatory decadence. The air reeked of edible sin—melting sugar and tempering chocolate—and the place was crowded with ornate glass cases containing confections displayed like the blessed Crown Jewels. She selected piece after piece of chocolate-covered nuts, nougats, crèmes and caramels. After the clerk had assembled a sizeable collection into a pink pasteboard box, she instructed the woman to give the bill to Jack, seized the package, and exited the shop.

When he caught up with her, she had pulled out a nougat the size of a Yorkshire pudding and was nibbling it. He stepped in front of her to block her way, and she looked up with lips laced with chocolate and eyes luminous with pleasure. Wordless, she held up the candy to offer him a bite.