One Night With A Prince (6 page)
Then he said in English, “Rosa, why don’t you show Mrs. Watts where we’ll be doing the fittings for your mistress’s gowns? Her footmen are waiting to bring in bolts of fabric.”
Before Christabel could stop her, Rosa took the dressmaker off. Christabel turned to Byrne with a frown. “I thought this was a consultation.”
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“It’s also a fitting. I want Mrs. Watts to get started on your gowns right away. She’s making it her first priority.”
“I can’t afford that!”
“Ah, but I can. And the quickest way for people to learn that you’re my mistress is if they hear I bought you expensive gowns.”
She considered that a moment, torn between pride and practicality, as footmen marched through the vestibule to the parlor, carrying bolts of muslin and sarcenet. “I suppose you do this all the time,” she grumbled.
He took that for the acquiescence it was. “Occasionally. Although fortunately, my mistress’s husbands generally pay for their gowns.”
She stuck out her chin. “Then I’ll pay you for mine later.”
“I’m getting a barony out of this—that’s payment enough.” He slanted her a glance. “Besides, if I letyou pay for them, you’ll probably buy the coarsest linsey and plenty of dimity and fustian.”
Because that was all she could afford. “That’s practical for the country. And we are going to be in the country, aren’t we?”
“Trust me, no one at this affair will be dressed in fustian. I mean to see you in gauze and silk and sheer muslin.” He bent close to murmur, “Verysheer muslin.”
Ignoring the sudden racing of her pulse, she said, “Is that what you said to Rosa in Spanish?”
“I told her I could afford satins and silks. And I told her I would treat you well.” His eyes gleamed with humor. “She said that if I didn’t, she’d feed me my privates for breakfast.” At Christabel’s groan, he chuckled. “Do you find your servants on the battlefield, for God’s sake? Do you test them on marksmanship and swordplay before you hire them?”
“Very funny. Rosa is a soldier’s widow. That taught her to be fierce.”
“Much like her mistress.” He drew her aside to avoid a footman carrying a particularly large bolt of rose satin. “God help the poor fellow who waylays you two in some dark alley. He’s liable to have his head shot off.”
She sniffed. “Sometimes a woman has to defend herself.”
“And sometimes, my sweet, she should allow a man to defend her.”
“As long as that man isn’t the same one she needs defense from.”
He shot her a seductive smile. “In which case, there are more effective ways of bringing him to his knees than shooting at him.”
She fought to ignore the sensual pull of his dark flirtations. “As if you would know—have youever let a woman bring you to your knees?”
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“I do it in bed all the time.” He scoured her with a wicked gaze, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “I can’t wait to be on my knees with you.”
A vivid image of him kneeling between her parted thighs rose in her mind, shocking her. “You’ll be waiting an eternity for that,” she shot back, as much to convince herself as him. He merely laughed. The audacity of the man! Did he haveno intention of holding to their bargain? Or could he simply not help trying to seduce any woman within reach? Well, it wouldn’t work with her. She refused to let his flirtations make her imagine what he’d be like in bed. Or wonder if he would be gentle or rough. If he would leave her feeling vaguely dissatisfied afterward the way Philip always had—
Oh, Lord, how could she even think about such things with her husband freshly in the grave? Byrne drew her into the nearby dining room out of the way of the trooping footmen. Glancing around, he caught sight of a portrait over the mantel that she’d brought with her from Rosevine. His eyes narrowed.
“Your father?”
“How did you know?”
“The uniform.” He smiled. “And the resemblance. You have his fierce green eyes and stubborn chin.”
“Thank you,” she said, pleased. Most people said she looked nothing like Papa, because he was tall and gaunt, with gray-streaked chestnut curls utterly unlike her long, dark locks.
“Does he know about your scheme?”
She eyed him warily. “How could he? He’s fighting the French right now.”
“But you didn’t write him.”
“I thought it best not to bother him.”
“And Prinny?” Byrne lifted one eyebrow. “When he learned that your ‘property’ had been sold, why didn’the approach your father?”
Because there was no time. In one month, Lord Stokely would make good his threats unless she stopped him. It would take a month at least just to reach her father and bring him back to England. But if she told Byrne that, it would raise more questions in his too-inquisitive mind. So she shrugged. “I suppose His Highness thought it best to deal with me, since it wasmy husband who sold my family’s property.”
Byrne flicked her a glance. “If your father did know of your scheme, what would he think of it?”
Trying to ignore Papa’s stern eyes staring down at her, she clasped her clammy hands together, and lied.
“I have no idea.”
“I doubt he’d approve of your sacrificing your reputation for ‘family property.’”
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“With luck, he won’t hear of it.” But of course he would. And no, he wouldn’t approve. She was his
“little soldier,” his “Bel-bel”—he would want no man sullying her good name. But what use was her good name when his was about to be destroyed? She refused to watch “Roaring Randall” be vilified in the papers as the man responsible for the greatest scandal in royal history. Worse, as the prince had pointed out, if the letters weren’t retrieved, Papa might very well hang for treason. How could she take that chance?
Papa should never have kept those letters after he’d been ordered to destroy them. But like any military strategist, he’d thought to protect himself—and his family—in case the drastic actions he’d taken on the prince’s behalf ever came back to haunt him.
Which was precisely what they’d done. Because of her husband, the man whom her father had cautioned her against. She only wished Papa had barred her from seeing Philip. Then she wouldn’t be in this position now.
She sighed. No, she would have found a way to elope. At the time, she’d chafed at Papa’s many restrictions. Never mind that they’d been designed to protect her. She’d wanted light, air, freedom. She’d found it in Philip, a gentleman officer too charming and solicitous for a woman of her limited experience to resist. What a naïve fool she’d been.
“Mr. Byrne? My lady?” came a voice from the vestibule. Grateful to be dragged from her thoughts, she walked out of the dining room with Byrne to find Mrs. Watts standing there. “We are ready for your ladyship’s fitting now.”
Once they were in the small parlor, the dressmaker banished Rosa with the excuse that there was no space for the maid. But after the maid stalked out, Mrs. Watts explained in a confidential tone, “I find that ladies’ maids only get in the way. Best to leave matters of dress to the experts, don’t you think?”
“Certainly,” Christabel replied, flummoxed by the dressmaker’s lofty pretensions. But as the dressmaker brought out a book of fashion plates for them to examine, it became apparent that the expert she referred to was Byrne.
While Mrs. Watts took notes, he flipped through the book, barking orders faster than the dressmaker could write them down. “She’ll need at least five chemises, seven evening gowns, three riding habits, eleven walking dresses with matching pelisses or spencers—”
“That’s too many,” Christabel protested.
“We’ll be in the country a week.” Skimming his hand down to rest just above her hips, he added, “And I intend to have you in and out of your gowns frequently.”
As the dressmaker discreetly dropped her gaze, Christabel glared at him. He was enjoying his role of lover far too much.
Leaving his hand on her waist, he went on. “She’ll need new petticoats—silk, preferably—a few nightgowns of very fine linen, and dressing gowns.”
“And shawls,” Christabel added.
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“No shawls.” Byrne dropped his gaze to her bosom. “A woman should flaunt her…assets.”
Heat rose in her cheeks despite her efforts to contain it. “Then perhaps I should do without gowns entirely,” she said sweetly.
His eyes gleamed. “An excellent idea. We’ll stay in my room the whole time.”
Blast him. She tipped up her chin, determined to have the last word. “I need my shawls. I get cold.”
“I’ll keep you warm enough, don’t worry.”
“Byrne—” she began in sheer exasperation.
“Oh, all right.” He turned to Mrs. Watts. “And a shawl.”
“Three shawls,” Christabel said.
“Oneshawl,” he countered. “In silk.” When she frowned, he added, “If you want more, you’ll have to pay for them yourself.”
He knew perfectly well she couldn’t afford such things. “Then I’ll just use my old ones.”
“Of wool, no doubt.”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
He groaned. “Fine. Three silk shawls.” Her triumphant glance made him add, “But don’t think I’ll let you wrap yourself up like a mummy after I’ve gone to the trouble of buying gowns that display your charms.”
He lowered his voice to a confidential murmur. “Either play the part or don’t. Stokely will be suspicious enough as it is.”
Her face fell. He was right. “Very well, one shawl will do, I suppose.”
The next hour was taken up in sorting through a dizzying array of fabrics, styles, and colors. The fabrics were the most exquisite she’d ever seen or touched. She’d never cared much about clothes, but then she’d never had gowns made of fabrics like these—silks that flowed over one’s hand like water, muslins so soft and delicate she feared tearing them with a single touch. As a lieutenant, Philip hadn’t been able to afford such. Then, along with his estate he’d inherited a mountain of debt, which he’d built higher every year.
But Byrne could clearly afford them. Either that or he was mad. Madnesswould explain his outrageously bold color choices—brilliant reds, vibrant blues, and dramatic greens. Didn’t he realize she wasn’t one of his stunning society ladies, who could easily wear clothes that drew attention to themselves?
When she protested, he told her, “Trust me, they’ll suit you perfectly.”
“But I thought pink and cream were the fashion.” That’s what Philip had always preferred her to wear.
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“For schoolgirls coming out, not for a grown woman. And certainly not for you.”
When Mrs. Watts held particular fabrics up to her face for him to choose, Christabel saw in the mirror what he meant. Even she could see that the rose satin made her cheeks glow a healthy color, and the holly green crepe made her eyes sparkle. She’d always looked rather sallow in her pink gowns. The fact that he’d been right perversely annoyed her. “You seem to know a great deal about women’s clothes.”
His slow smile sparked something hot low in her belly. “I know what I like.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “And what makes a man desire a woman.”
A delicious shiver coursed through her. Curse the randy devil, he also knew what made a woman desire a man. Him and his smiles and extravagant gifts and commanding voice—all designed to send a female’s pulse into a frenzied gallop and melt her resistance into a puddle. Well, he wouldn’t do that to her. No, indeed. She’d already allowed one man’s flatteries and flirtations to tempt her into an unwise marriage; she wasn’t about to let it tempt her into an illicit liaison with a devil who put his own gain above his conscience. If he even possessed a conscience. Once they’d settled on the gowns, Mrs. Watts drew out her measuring tape. “If you will come this way, my lady…” Mrs. Watts led her to a corner of the room where a little dais had been built to accommodate a previous resident’s passion for exhibiting. “Stand up here, please. And forgive me, but you must remove your gown so I can measure you in your corset.”
“Of course.” As she mounted the little steps, she glanced expectantly at Byrne, who responded by taking a seat in her favorite armchair. “Byrne! You can’t watch this.”
“Why not?” The sneaky devil had the audacity to smile. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
He was taking this role too far, and he knew it. “Which is why you don’t need to see it now,” she persisted.
“Ah, but I have to make sure everything is done to my specifications.” He glanced at the dressmaker.
“Don’t mind me.”
Mrs. Watts’s plump cheeks turned a rosy sheen, but she gave him a cursory nod. That’s what Byrne’s extravagance bought him—compliance from dressmakers and servants. Fine, she would let him watch her be measured. She couldn’t very well quarrel with him in front of the dressmaker. Besides, hewas paying for the gowns. She supposed he had a right to have a say in it. But his extravagance would not buyher . He’d find that out soon enough. Pretending she didn’t care in the least if he saw her half-dressed, she stared him down as the dressmaker helped her remove her gown. Watching him proved a mistake, however, for once she stood atop the dais in her corset and chemise, her pride forced her to keep looking as his gaze roamed wherever it pleased. It took all her strength to fight a blush. No man had ever gazed upon her like that before. Even Philip had never really taken the time to look at her. A lusty soldier, he’d been quick to join her in bed, and just as
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quick to retire to his own when he was done.
Somehow she suspected that “quick” wouldn’t apply to Mr. Byrne. While Mrs. Watts took her measurements and scribbled them in her notebook, he did some measuring of his own. His eyes lingered on her bosom with disquieting interest, then examined her cinched-in waist and too-ample hips. When he was done with his thorough assessment, his heated gaze made a leisurely trip back up her body to fix on her face.
