Betina Krahn (14 page)

M
ARIAH
stepped out from behind the changing screen in a half-sewn blue satin dinner gown that displayed her figure to spectacular advantage. She twirled around, holding the train up as she might while waltzing.

“What do you think?” she asked, coming to a stop in front of them.

“A pure vizhun, miz.” Mercy beamed.

“Needs more fabric.” Jack stared at her bared bosom. “A
lot
more.”

She gave a throaty laugh and her eyes danced with a hint of mischief.

“Well, I am reliably informed that this style is
de rigueur
for ladies of quality at fine restaurants and the opera.”

“Ever
been
to an opera?” he asked with exaggerated distaste. “The audience should be allowed to wear nightcaps and bedclothes.”

She burst into laughter and gripped the waist of the gown as if afraid the temporary stitching might not hold. He joined her, and after a moment, so did Mercy, though she seemed to be wondering what she was laughing about. When they sobered, Mariah settled a warm smile on him.

She didn’t know when she’d felt so good or enjoyed someone’s company as much as she did Jack’s. He constantly surprised her with droll comments on London
society. In him, a lively curiosity was mated with a rebellious and rigorous intellect that viewed matters from odd angles. The result was that he, like the rest of the male sex, was beset by internal contradictions that sometimes embarrassed him.

He was supremely self-controlled, but he was as fond of pleasure as any man alive. He refused to subscribe to popular thought without critical analysis, but he was careful to observe social conventions as though they were immutable laws. It was as if outward conformity was the price he paid to allow himself the freedom to think and feel for himself.

Wanting her was the ultimate expression of that tension inside him. To admit he loved her would be to risk losing the benefits of birth and social standing he’d enjoyed his entire life. To have her, to truly make her his, he would have to turn his comfortable, predictable world on its ear.

Do you love me that much, Jack?
she asked with her eyes.
You’ve pulled me from my safe, secure life and made me want a love, a family, a lifetime with you. Are you willing to leave your safe, secure world to have those things with me?

His ragged, desire-filled sigh muted every worry clamoring inside her. Being with him, wanting him and loving him…that was what was important. They had a week left. Seven days. It might be selfish, but she wanted every precious minute of every precious one of them with him.

P
ROMISING
Jack an easier time of it at Harrods, Mariah shopped next for the fine linens and pillows she had developed such a fondness for at the hotel. The store was elegant and overwhelming…packed ceiling to floor with fine foods, elegant china, figurines, clothing, inventions and household items of every purpose and description.

Mercy complained of her lumbago and seemed on the
verge of her first ever collapse due to “vapors,” when Mariah discovered some adorable bonnets. The parlor maid cum traveling companion was miraculously revived by a new hat and a finely crafted pair of walking shoes.

The rest of the day they spent seeing more of London’s sights by carriage: Hyde Park, the Crystal Palace and, for good measure, Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum. There, they disembarked and paid for admission. Mercy required smelling salts outside the Chamber of Horrors and refused to continue the tour. They left her in a lady-seat by the entry and went on to see the rest of the exhibits…holding hands when they were out of her sight, and talking and laughing with their heads together, looking very much like the lovers they were.

Later, during tea at the hotel, Jack conferred with the concierge and returned to the table to announce he had acquired tickets to a concert at Royal Albert Hall. Mariah couldn’t speak as she stared at the tickets he presented her. When she looked up, she knew her pleasure shone in her eyes.

“I recall how much you like music,” he said wryly.

“I do indeed.” She grinned. “An orchestra at Royal Albert Hall!” She had a sobering thought. “But I don’t have an evening dress to wear.”

“Sunday clothes will do. It’s a large hall and not half so socially demanding as the opera.”

“Ye’ll be needin’ me to come.” Mercy speared Jack with a look. “Right?”

He exhaled quietly.

“Of course.” Mariah spread the tickets in a fan to show that Jack had indeed purchased three.

That was how they came to be sitting that night in the vast, gaslit expanse of the empire’s crowning architectural wonder. It was an oval-shaped amphitheater capable of seating thousands in classical opulence, but tonight, the hall was far from
full. Jack had been able to get prime seats on the tier just above the main floor and fairly near the stage.

They arrived in time for a quick tour, but not in time for a ride in one of the hydraulic lifts that carried patrons up to the art-filled gallery that ringed the uppermost level. That, Jack declared, would have to wait until intermission. When Mercy learned that a hydraulic lift was essentially a box in which you rode a hundred feet straight up, she looked a bit conflicted and then declared she was willing to forego that excitement.

As the musicians took the stage and the lights dimmed, Mariah put her hand on Jack’s arm and left it there throughout the first two selections. As the varied program continued with works from Brahms, Beethoven and Liszt, she spent as much time watching Jack as she did the performers.

The dim lighting and evocative music of so many strings gave the experience an intimacy that made Mariah long to be someplace not so public. When she looked up at Jack, the sight of his jawline sent a ripple of sexual excitement through her that made her gasp. He turned to see what had caused it and she lowered her eyes, a bit embarrassed.

She clasped her hands and pressed her knees together, taking deep, slow breaths. Fortunately the music slowed and grew dreamy and pastoral. She was starting to relax, when a snort from Mercy made her jump. She turned and Jack leaned out to look past her at the maid…who was snoring.

“Brahms,” Jack whispered with a chuckle. “He does it every time.”

When the lights came up at intermission, Mercy roused, blinked, and allowed herself to be persuaded to sit while they stretched their legs with a trip to the Gallery. As they waited in line for the lift, Mariah was even more aware of Jack’s handsome male presence and grew a little breathless.

They stepped out and began to walk along the broad, art-lined Gallery. Longing shot through her as she saw and felt his muscular strides and the subtle sway of his shoulders. Her body vibrated with a delicious private knowledge of the sexual prowess of the man at her side.

When they stopped with a small group of other theater-goers to study a painting, she settled herself in front of him and brushed the front of his trousers. A flash of desire rushed through her, brightening her eyes. She felt him stiffen, though his expression didn’t change. Then he leaned to her ear, his eyes lidded and unreadable.

“You are a naughty girl, Butterfly,” he whispered.

She smiled and struck off for another painting. Under the guise of making room for other patrons, he pressed against her back…and ran a hand up the side of her waist. Yet another painting and their legs brushed. Still another, and she turned and slid by him, body pressed to body, hand dragging covertly over the ridge developing in his trousers.

“A pity they don’t have a tea room here,” she said, glancing out over the hall itself. “I would love some tea and a
petit four.
How about you?” She flicked a gaze at him from the corner of her eye. “Would you like a luscious little cake with white frosting and taut pink rosettes?”

He pulled her behind a large potted palm and kissed her. She laughed and ducked out of his embrace to stroll further down the gallery. He was only a step behind her as she paused before another painting.

“Perhaps I can arrange a little tea party in my room tonight,” she said quietly, feigning absorption in the rather garish landscape.

“Wicked woman,” he muttered next to her ear. “I’m already—”

“St. Lawrence?”
A strident male voice shattered that de
licious moment. They started apart and looked around to locate the source.

“It
is
you!” A familiar face had appeared a few yards away in the middle of the gallery. “I thought you were somewhere in the country, growing moss.”

The dapper, elegant man Mariah had hosted in her inn as Jack A. Dandy was suddenly closing on them with a bluff, confident smile and an outstretched hand. She stifled the urge to hide her still-tingling lips and straighten her clothes.

“Cranmer. Imagine seeing you here.” Jack’s chin rose as he retreated into well-practiced reserve. “I never took you for a music lover.”

“Well, you know how it is.” The dapper earl gave a wicked grin and tossed a glance over his shoulder to indicate several men gathered around a portly figure in a dark suit. “Where
he
goes, we go.”

Mariah’s heart stopped as her gaze fell on the group’s central figure. He was of average height, considerable girth and sported a closely cropped pointed beard that she recalled all too well.

“St. Lawrence?”
the prince called.

The heir to the throne and his companions bore down on them from across the gallery. Her first impulse was to run, to grab Jack’s hand and just flee for her life. But Jack was planted firmly at her side with his hand searching between them for hers. A brief squeeze was all he could manage before the prince and his men were upon them.

“And Mrs. Eller. What an unexpected pleasure!” Bertie’s face lit as he reached for her with both hands. She laid her hands in his and gave a small curtsy. “What a sight you are—even lovelier than I remembered. What the devil are you doing here in London?” This last he aimed equally at Jack, who stood at attention.

Jack didn’t look at her; he was focused fully on the prince.

“Seeing the sights, Your Highness, and shopping,” she answered for them both. Her face felt as though it might crack from the force a smile required.

“And taking care of a certain legal matter,” Jack added.

“By God, you look scrumptious. Doesn’t she, lads?” There was enthusiastic agreement as he looked her over thoroughly and introduced her to his group, which included Jack Ketch and Jack Sprat and Jack A. Dandy. Titled men, every one. “Quite a stunner you’re escorting here, Jack.”

“So she is, Your Highness,” Jack responded. With a countenance now resembling granite, he made no move to interfere as the prince transferred her hand to his arm so he would be free to clasp her waist. But then she spotted a familiar twitch in Jack’s jaw…saw his hand curl into a fist.

Gordon Clapford’s bloodied face rose in her mind, and her heart lurched back to duty, racing to make up for lost time.

“Well, my dear, have you found our fair city to your liking?”

Sliding determinedly into the worldly persona that had allowed her to handle the prince before, she managed to wedge her arm between herself and Bertie’s middle and make a bit of room.

“I cannot speak for the entire city, Highness, since I haven’t seen it
all.
But I certainly have found Harrods a delight.” She hoped her eyes twinkled. It must have worked; the prince and his companions seemed charmed. “Do you know they have telephones? I had never seen one. And an American phonograph that plays recorded music and political speeches.”

“Political speeches?” The prince laughed heartily. “Pray that doesn’t catch on. There’s entirely too much ‘speechifying’ in politics as it is.”

“And this afternoon, we took in Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum. Quite the chilling experience, if I do say so. My
maid, Mercy, was quite overcome and had to be revived with smelling salts.”

There was more laughter, which would have been a relief if the prince hadn’t chosen that moment to turn to Jack.

“Where are you keeping her, St. Lawrence?”

“Claridge’s,” Jack said tautly.

“Excellent. Know it well.” A canny look came over the prince. “You needn’t worry. I’ll see she gets home safe and sound.” He tucked Mariah’s hand into the crook of his arm. “Come, my dear. Let’s have a stroll and see a bit more of this
art.
”

I
T COULDN’T
have been clearer that Jack was being dismissed. Mariah tried to catch his eye, but his gaze was lowered as he nodded, backed a step, and then turned on his heel. She watched him head for the lift with a sick feeling. It was all she could do to attend to the prince’s question.

“So, is Jack looking after you well?”

“Yes,” she said, afraid to say more lest her voice give away her feeling for him. As they walked, the prince’s companions began to fall discreetly away. Soon, with only Jack Sprat and Jack A. Dandy for company, Bertie began to explore his latest acquisition.

“And what of the legal matter Jack mentioned?” the prince asked as his hands drifted over her. “Has that been settled to your satisfaction?”

“Interesting that you should mention that, Highness.”

“Bertie, please,” he said, leaning so close that she could smell the tobacco and brandy on his breath.

“
Bertie.
It seems we’ve run into a bit of a snag. There were four possibilities on the list—but I mustn’t bore you with such details.”

“No, no, I want to know. I am deeply interested in your welfare, my dear.” His hand tightened on her waist and his voice lowered.
“Deeply.”

“The first candidate, a solicitor from Lincoln, was already
contracted to marry someone else…well and truly off the market. The second prospect, the soon-to-be Baron Clapford, was an arrogant, overwhelming boor, who very nearly cold-cocked me when we met.”

“He what?” Bertie stopped dead, drawing the others to a halt.

“Clapford? The MP from Grantham? He’s got a nasty temper,” Jack Sprat declared, “but I wouldn’t have taken him for a woman bully.”

“To be fair, I pushed him into his fish pond first.” They gaped at her. “In my defense, I thought he was going to hit me. So, it was instinctive, not malicious.” The prince hooted and she realized that laughter was the key to forestalling his advances. “I don’t think you should count on getting any fancy goldfish from him to stock your garden ponds, Your Highness.”

“I’ll remember. No goldfish,” he said, grinning. “Surely there was someone more suitable.”

“We went to Cambridge next, where I met Professor Winston Martindale of Magdalene College.”

“Martindale? Wait—I know that name.” Bertie looked to Sprat and Dandy for help. “Where do I know that name from?”

They shook their heads.

“Your husband list?” she prompted. “It seems he’s been on it before. Winston Martindale, of the deplorable dental hygiene?”

“Oh, my God!” Bertie recalled with shock. “Toothless Winnie! He’s still around?” He looked to the others, who apparently also recalled the professor. “Who the devil gave Jack old Winnie Martindale’s name?”

The others were too busy laughing to reply.

“I believe it was the Earl of Chester’s son,” she ventured.

“I might have known.” Bertie looked genuinely annoyed.

“But Martindale is no longer toothless,” she said brightly.
“He has a new set of teeth from Germany. ‘If you ever need a new set of choppers,’ he said, ‘the Huns make the very best.’” She made her bucktoothed face. “You should see them. Big as fence posts.” The prince’s friends leaned against the wall, weak with laughter. “He’s generous with them, too. Took them out and offered to let me give them a try.”

She was laughing such that she had to wipe the corners of her eyes.

“I declined. Seeing as half his dinner was still in them.”

“Ha-ha-ha-ha-haaarghh!” Bertie laughed so hard he started to cough. The others patted him on the back, until he got control and waved them off.

When he’d sobered, he settled a perceptive gaze on her.

“You’re quite an unexpected treat, my dear. Don’t know when I’ve laughed like that.” He pulled out his handkerchief, dabbed his eyes, then took her arm through his again. “So, who did you finally settle on?”

She winced.

“No one, I’m afraid.”

He halted to look at her, holding her arm a bit too tightly.

“You mean to say you have no plans to marry?” The consequences of that were made plain as his fleshy features sharpened and his eyes took on a cool displeasure. She couldn’t allow him to think Jack had failed.

“Well, as it happens, I do have a matrimonial candidate in mind. Someone quite acceptable to me. But—” she gave him her most appealing smile “—I fear you may not approve. And I do so want you to approve.”

“Don’t be silly.” His affability returned in a rush that made it less than convincing. “I’m sure anyone you want will be perfectly fine with me. After all, my dear, I want you to be happy. He will make you happy, won’t he?”

“I believe so. I mean, he’s not a handsome prince.” She
sighed, hoping he would be flattered. “But, I think there’s enough there to work with. Given time, I can shape him into a suitable husband.”

“Consider it done, then. If you think he’ll do, then by all means marry the blighter.” He leaned closer, and closer still.
“The sooner the better.”

It was only then that she realized he had maneuvered her into a niche between a column and a large potted palm. The music had resumed in the concert hall, drawing the rest of the audience back to the hall. They were virtually alone.

His mouth descended on hers and the wrongness of it shocked her motionless.

If she had ever entertained any notion of complying with the prince’s demands and becoming his mistress, that kiss would have quashed it. His lips were thick and rubbery and his mouth was beard-scratchy and wet; she was simultaneously drowning and being devoured! Only the strongest self-control allowed her to remain trapped in his embrace.

When he raised his head, his features were coarsened by lust alloyed with power.

“And what is the name of this lucky lump you’ve decided to mold into a domesticated male?”

She prayed she wasn’t making the mistake of her life.

“Jack St. Lawrence.”

Her heart stopped as he froze. The surprise on his face deepened, and he pulled away and looked her up and down.

“
My
Jack St. Lawrence?” he said, clearly taken aback. After what seemed a small eternity, he produced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Have you spoken with him about this?” he demanded.

“Heavens, no. I haven’t mentioned the word
marriage.
He’s not the most conversational of fellows. Besides, I believe it’s always best to let a man think matrimony is
his
idea.”

She gave a nervous laugh that she didn’t have to fake.

“If you have someone better, I’d be happy to entertain another option. I have another whole week, I believe.” She ran a flirtatious finger down the buttons of his waistcoat. “To prepare.”

“It’s just…Jack St. Lawrence. It’s somewhat unexpected. He’s not known to be much of a ladies’ man.”

“Precisely what will make him a proper and dutiful husband. A man who is too successful with the ladies finds it difficult to be satisfied with the monotony of home life.” She slipped her arm through his and pressed against his shoulder to distract him from realizing that
he
was the prime example of that axiom. As they turned toward the lift she assured him, “Trust me, Highness. I have experience in these matters.”

J
ACK HAD STUMBLED
from the lift and managed to make his way back to the seats he and Mariah had shared minutes earlier. Images of her trapped at Bertie’s side blinded him to all but the most rudimentary of sensory input. He collected the protesting Mercy, bundled her into a cab and deposited her on Claridge’s doorstep…then headed for his club and a bottle of Scotch.

Halfway through the first glass he found it impossible to swallow any more of the stuff. He’d failed her, failed himself, even failed Bertie in a way. If he’d been truthful about that night at the inn, Bertie wouldn’t have started this whole damnable thing. And if he’d kept his hands and his lips to himself…

…he’d be even more miserable than he was now.

Loving Mariah Eller was the best thing that had happened to him in his entire life. She made him laugh as well as think, she challenged his assumptions and gave him a reason to wake up in the morning. He truly
loved
her. And he’d been too afraid of the damnable “consequences” to tell her that. Even after she’d bared her soul to him. Even after she’d given
him all the love and passion she possessed. Even after she’d opened his eyes and heart and life to the possibilities all around him.

What the hell was wrong with him?

Leaving the nearly full bottle on the clubroom table, he stalked out into the street and began to walk. Professor Jamison’s words came back to him: a man has obligations to himself as well as to his country and his family. Mariah’s observations followed close behind: he needed someone to encourage him to rebel, to try new things, to live life on his own terms instead of his family’s. No truer words were ever spoken. And the “someone” he needed was Mariah.

She was the one who saw not only the man he was, but the man he could someday be. And she loved both. If he didn’t make her his, legally and morally, he would be consigning himself to a life half lived in the service of others’ ambitions and desires.

When he came to his senses some time later, he found himself back at Claridge’s. He looked up at the lights coming from the upstairs windows and his heart beat faster at the thought that she might be there. He knew then that his heart would always beat faster at the prospect of her presence.

What the devil was he waiting for?

He practically leapt over the desk to get his key, then took the steps two at a time to her room. Her door was locked. She wasn’t there. The look in her eyes as Bertie had led her away returned to haunt him. He should have spoken up…should have done something…

Stomach in knots, he headed for his own room and found the door ajar. Bracing, he entered and slammed the door so hard that it bounced.

“Well, Jack, you’ve gotten yourself into a real mess this time.”

He straightened slowly from his defensive stance, scowling at the two men waiting for him by the hearth: the canny Baron Marchant and Jack’s eldest brother, Jared the Perfect.

“You’re supposed to be procuring a mistress, not poaching one,” Jared continued, unfolding his tall frame from a low stool by the hearth.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jack demanded of his brother, then glowered at Marchant, guessing he was responsible.

“Saving your ungrateful arse,” Jared said irritably. “You should be kissing Marchant’s boots for alerting me to this insanity.”

“You can’t deny it, Jack,” Marchant charged. “I saw you with her.”

So Marchant had seen them together and gone to fetch his brother.

“You were sent to marry off the widow and decided to sample the goods yourself,” Jared snapped. “Stupid, but not fatal. I’m here to fix things so that the prince never finds out what an idiot you’ve been.”

“Go home, Jared,” Jack said quietly, feeling old angers rising. “This is none of your business.”

“Whatever affects my family’s reputation
is
my business, little brother. I won’t have you bringing the enmity of king and crown down upon our family just so you can have a roll in the hay with one of Bertie’s sluts.”

“Shut up, Jared.” Jack’s muscles coiled. “You don’t know what—or who—you’re talking about.”

Jared looked to Marchant, who was indignation personified. “Oh, I think I have a fair picture. I’ve been there myself, remember? The hunting trip. The nubile widow. It’s Bertie’s stock in trade. He has a rare talent for sniffing out women with more ambition than virtue.”

“You don’t know the first thing about her,” Jack said, quieting as he worked to control his anger. Jared stalked closer.

“So now you’re the tart’s champion and defender? Oh, God—don’t tell me.” Jared clapped his hand to his forehead. “You’ve gone and fallen for the chit. You’re in
love,
is that it?”

“I’m telling you, Jared, leave it. Go home to your wife and children. I’ll handle this my way.”

“She’s using you,” Jared snarled. “She’s a common trollop who wants someone who can pay the bills when Bertie throws her over.”

“Get out,” Jack snarled. “Before I throw you out!”

He grabbed Jared’s arm to drag him to the door, and the next instant, they were grappling, gouging, knocking over chairs and banging into a sideboard, sending crockery crashing.