Make Me Yours Page 17

  “Not before noon, however,” he whispered, kissing her temple, her cheek and her throat as she offered them to him. “Because tonight I intend to keep you up late, ravishing you.”

  “Ravishing…what a lovely word,” she whispered, then gasped quietly as his hand slipped beneath her jacket. “Ohhh.” She closed her eyes and sucked in a breath as his fingers skimmed her breast above her corset. “Shall I try on my new dressing gowns for you?”

  He chuckled. “I doubt you’ll have time,” he whispered, his hot breath sending trickles of excitement through her. “I’m more in the mood for claiming and devouring.”

  “Devouring?” she murmured. The word itself sent heat pouring into her sex. “Like this?” She nibbled his lip.

  “Mmm.”

  “Or this?” She tongued his ear and sucked his earlobe.

  “Just like that,” he said, his voice dropping to a frayed rasp.

  The minute the cab stopped at the hotel doors, he shifted her off his lap and sprang out to collect the doorman for help in delivering Mercy safely to her bed. Mariah went ahead to her room and stood in the dark, watching the dull glow of light from the hearth and realizing the passage that was taking place in her life. From widow to wife. From death and mourning into life and celebration.

  The door latch snicked once, then a second time, and she held her breath. But instead of encircling her waist with his arms, he moved around to face her. In the dimness, his features looked taut and hungry; his eyes glowed the way they had that first night in Bertie’s room.

  She began to remove her jacket, staring into those hypnotic golden eyes. He gave a deliciously wicked laugh and brushed her hands away to remove her clothes himself. When she stood in corset, knickers and stockings, atop a puddle of skirts and petticoats, he picked her up and swept her back against the wall by the door, pinning her there with his body.

  “This—” his voice was ragged and demanding “—is what I wanted to do to you that first night.”

  With exquisite deliberation, he planted his hands on the wall on either side of her and began to rub his body against hers. Every movement was a revelation, every angle and position an avenue to fresh, untried pleasure. She planted her hands just beneath his, as she had that first night. Soon her nipples had popped free of her corset and he rubbed every part of him against them…face, lips, tongue, chest, ribs. She was vibrating like a violin string by the time he paused to enjoy her response.

  “If you’re going to ravish me,” she said hoarsely, “get on with it.”

  With a laugh he began to do just that, kissing, tonguing, nipping…until she was incandescent with desire. By the time she reached for his trousers, he allowed her to guide him and soon supported her with his arms and thighs. When she climaxed, he took release as well and they collapsed together against the wall, waiting for the strength to move to the bed. She kissed his burning ears and rumpled his hair.

  “You know, we might have saved a lot of time and trouble if you had done this to me that first night.”

  With a teasing growl, he picked her up and carried her to the bed. This time her corset and knickers came completely off. But the stockings, as always, stayed on.

  The next morning, the early sunlight turned Jack’s big body to gold as it sprawled over her and the bed. He looked a little civilized and a little barbaric, and a whole lot desirable. He was hers.

  She slipped from under his arm and leg and stretched, feeling small, suggestive aches from the night’s exertions. A bath, she wanted a warm bath. Sliding from the bed, she padded into the bathing room, lighted the water heater, and prepared for a bath. Just as she was adjusting the final temperature of the water, she heard a tapping at their outer door.

  Fearing it would wake Jack, she quickly donned her dressing gown and went to answer it. Outside stood every porter in the hotel, the manager, and even a couple of the morning-room attendants, all bearing large baskets of roses…big, gorgeous, extravagant roses in red, pink and white. She admitted them, holding a finger to her lips to insist on quiet. Behind them, on a rolling cart draped with linen, came an exotic display of fresh oranges and raspberries, buttery French madeleines and gâteau and champagne.

  She was overwhelmed at the largess. Her heart swelled as she went from one fabulous bouquet to another, growing intoxicated on the heavenly scents. When the room was cleared of extraneous people, she grabbed an orange and peeled it, then carried it to the bed. She waved it under Jack’s nose and he smiled lazily, keeping his eyes shut. With some coaxing he finally opened his mouth and nibbled it.

  “Delicious.” Groaning, he pushed up onto his elbow and looked around the room in amazement. “What’s all this?”

  “As if you don’t know,” she said, giving him an enormous hug.

  “This is marvelous,” he said, sitting up and raking his hands through his hair. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. “Who are they from?”

  “What a tease,” she chided. “You’ll have all the thanks you can bear after I’ve had a warm soak and something to eat. I have to keep up my strength for—”

  She halted in the midst of carrying a perfect red rose to him on the bed, realizing he truly was confused.

  “You didn’t send them?” She felt her stomach sink.

  “I would have loved surprising you with such a grand gesture, Butterfly. But when would I have had time to arrange it?”

  She turned to look at all the flowers and the tea cart. For the first time she noticed an envelope on it addressed to My Lovely Mariah.

  Her knees weakened as she picked it up, dreading what she would find inside. The signature of the note confirmed her worst fear.

  “It’s Bertie,” she said without looking up. She couldn’t bear to see Jack’s face. “They’re from him. He asks that I join him tonight for an evening of games and entertainments at The Wetherington Assembly Rooms.”

  He was out of the bed in a heartbeat and reaching for the note.

  As he read it, he reddened all the way to the roots of his hair.

  “It’s an exclusive club,” he told her, his mouth tensing into a grim line. “Lots of gambling and drinking and fast company.”

  “What do I do?” She hadn’t expected such trouble so soon.

  “What do we do?” he corrected her, taking her into his arms. “We’re in this marriage, this life together, remember? We’ll figure it out together.”

  He kissed her tenderly and promised he’d be back as soon as he’d gotten some fresh clothes from his room.

  She set the note back on the table of luscious food and noticed in the center of that extravagant display a small velvet box. With unsteady hands she picked it up, opened it, and nearly fainted. There was an oval diamond brooch inside that shone in the morning light like a small sun. It had to be worth a fortune. Staggering back to collapse on the bed, she stared at it in horror.

  A gift from Bertie to his mistress.

  A gift worth a king’s ransom.

  Or a woman’s virtue.

  She looked around at the roses and champagne and back at the diamonds. It was a bribe. A not-so-subtle way of letting her know that she’d been claimed and paid for.

  And what did it mean that he’d sent such things after she’d proposed marrying Jack? That he intended to let her wed Jack and then claim her as his mistress anyway? Could he have so little regard for Jack’s honor and her own moral standards? It would crush Jack to know Bertie could treat him so. Feeling sick, she clicked the box closed, carried it into the bathroom, and tucked it into a stack of towels.

  A moment later, the door reopened and she hurried out to find Jack holding a familiar-looking vellum envelope and handwritten invitation.

  “I got one, too,” he said. “The same time, the same place.”

  “We have to go, don’t we?”

  He nodded. “So, we’ll go.” He pulled her into his arms, taking strength from her and giving it back in equal measure. “And we’ll tell him the truth.”

  THE WETHERINGTON
ASSEMBLY ROOMS were actually a single mansion in the west end of London, in an area of townhomes belonging to the wealthy. Built originally by a shirttail royal, it had been sold for debts and had traded hands until it was suggested as a replacement for the gaming houses and deteriorating pleasure gardens being closed in other parts of the city.

  The Wetherington never attained or aspired to the respectability of an Almack’s. It developed instead a more dangerous and alluring cachet as the sporting ground of people of fashion who had secrets to keep and money to wager. It was a place where men could be seen openly with their mistresses and gaming buffs could find stakes high enough to tempt jaded palates.

  The prince arrived early, claimed the old library—now a gentlemen’s smoking room—as his base for the evening, and settled in to wait. It wasn’t long before Sprat arrived with Baron Marchant in hand.

  “There you are.” Bertie waved Marchant to a seat on one of the leather sofas and offered him a cigar. There was an edge about the west-country baron tonight, and a tightness about his red-rimmed eyes that Bertie noted without comment.

  “Tell me how your special project is going, Edgar.” He rubbed his hands together in a show of eagerness. “You know, the one I asked you and Jack St. Lawrence to handle a fortnight back.”

  “Actually…” Marchant looked as if his collar was bothering him. “I haven’t spoken to St. Lawrence since I reported our success to you more than a week ago. I left the lady in his care. I’m sure all has gone well and the lady will be ready to receive you soon.”

  Bertie casually rolled the ash from his cigar into a cut-glass tray. “You haven’t checked to see how things are going?” he asked.

  Marchant shrugged, choosing his words carefully.

  “I presume that Jack has handled it with his customary thoroughness and dispatch.”

  “I have heard rumors that the lady is already in London. That St. Lawrence brought her here and has been seen out and about with her.”

  “Truly?” Marchant sat straighter, feigning surprise. “I had no idea.”

  “No idea?” Bertie smiled one of his affable but totally inscrutable smiles…the sort that men who knew him well dreaded.

  A door opened on the far side of the room to reveal Jared St. Lawrence standing outside, his face ruddy with contained outrage. Further pretense was useless. With a defensive huff, Marchant confessed.

  “I left him with instructions to see her wedded within two weeks, as I reported to you. The next thing, I knew, he was in London with her. And I saw them together. At Claridge’s. Looking chummy.”

  “How ‘chummy’?” Bertie demanded.

  “It was a bollocks-up disaster.” Marchant’s words were not so carefully chosen now. “I asked his brother to help me talk some sense into him. I thought he would see reason and you would never—” He halted, realizing his misstep, but Bertie finished for him.

  “Never know that he had ‘been there before me’?” Bertie said with ice in his eyes. “Edgar, you and I have had our ups and downs. I’ve always made allowances for your peccadilloes because you were often amusing and sometimes earnest.” Bertie stubbed out his cigar and rose. “But a prince must be certain of whom he can and cannot trust.”

  When he turned his back and strolled to one of the bookshelves to peruse the titles, Marchant staggered to his feet and looked to Sprat and Dandy for help. Neither man would meet his gaze. The prince’s sufferance had run out. Marchant tugged down his vest, red-faced, and strode out.

  Bertie took a book off the shelf and spoke to Jack’s brother while examining the antique leather binding.

  “Jared, my boy, go have a bit of fun. You look like you could use it.”

  When the door closed behind Jack’s brother, Bertie turned back to Sprat and Dandy.

  “Is she here?”

  “Just arrived. Jack is here, too. They arrived together.”

  “Is she wearing it?” Bertie asked.

  “I didn’t see it,” Sprat said, adding glumly, “but that doesn’t mean much. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

  “Give them a few minutes, and then bring her to me. Alone.”

  21

  THE GASLIGHT and the banks of candles that illuminated the main salons and card rooms of the Wetherington gave the place a warm, romantic glow. Music from a string ensemble floated through the halls with the guests, lively and spirited and transitory. The well-heeled patrons were dressed in the latest fashions, some laden with jewels and others, like Mariah Eller St. Lawrence, sparkling without the aid of gems.

  As she arrived, wearing a midnight-blue dinner gown adorned with perfect white roses, wearing white roses in her upswept hair, she created a stir. Then her escort was recognized and rumors began to fly in earnest. Jack St. Lawrence, one of Bertie’s beloved St. Lawrences, was with a tantalizing beauty that no one seemed to know. When it was learned that the lady was Iron Jack’s wife, gossip reached a fevered pitch.

  Mercifully, Mariah understood little of the interest swirling around her. The faces, introductions and best wishes on her recent nuptials melted into a blur, but every burst of laughter or crash of a falling glass made her flinch and look up, half expecting to see Bertie bearing down on them. Jack, battling his own tensions, never failed to squeeze her hand and give her a reassuring smile. She was grateful for his strength at her side and tried to lend him whatever support she could.

  Watching for and dreading Bertie’s appearance, she was unprepared for handsomely dressed Jack A. Dandy to suddenly appear at her side and insist on escorting her to see a “friend.” Dandy relayed to Jack the prince’s explicit instructions: he would see Mariah alone.

  Torn between protectiveness and possessiveness, Jack followed them like a big, ineffectual shadow. Should he barge in with her to face Bertie with the truth, or trust that Bertie would behave honorably and listen to her? The next moment, his thoughts shamed him. Bertie’s honor, once engaged, was never in question. It was Bertie’s forgiveness that left significant room for doubt. What would he do when he learned they were married and that Jack didn’t intend to share her with his prince?

  When they arrived at the library doors, Dandy advised Jack to stay outside until he was summoned. But it was only when Mariah kissed his cheek and assured him that she was all right to go in alone that he relented and let Dandy usher her inside.

  THE DOORS closing behind Mariah sounded like the snapping jaws of a steel trap. She found herself in what appeared to be a library furnished with shelves laden with books and curiosities, a desk, chairs and lamps for reading. At the center of this elegant web sat the Prince of Wales, dressed in evening clothes and looking august and intimidating.

  As Dandy bowed and exited through a side door, Bertie rose and extended a hand. “My dear, you look enchanting. The male population of London will lie at your feet before the night is out.”

  “You are too kind, Your Highness.” She prayed he couldn’t feel how icy her hands were through her gloves. “But I am not a greedy woman. One man is quite enough for me.”

  “Is it now?” Bertie raised an eyebrow. “Then you are a rare specimen of femininity indeed.”

  She allowed him to lead her to the leather sofa, but declined to sit.

  “I must thank you for the gift of this morning,” she said. “It was as unexpected as it was extravagant. I wear it to honor your generosity.”

  He studied her fashionably low-cut bodice and fetching use of roses.

  “But, I believe something is missing. Was there not something a bit more eye-catching than just pretty flowers?”

  She met the question in his gaze straight on.

  “It is not missing, Highness. It is here.” She opened her small reticule and removed the diamond brooch, relieved to have brought it thus far without Jack’s knowledge. She reached for the prince’s hand and placed it in his palm, closing his fingers around it.

  “What is this?” He looked at it and then at her in disbelief.

  “I cannot accept it. It would
be dishonorable of me to take such a gift. And even more dishonorable to keep knowledge of it from my husband.”

  “You’ve married?” Bertie seemed startled. “Since yesterday?”

  “Last night.”

  “So that is it.” He scowled, looking her over. “I thought there was something different about you.”

  “Marriage does change a body, Highness,” she said softly. “I pray it won’t displease you to hear that my partner in that sacrament is Jack St. Lawrence. Your Jack.” She felt his stare like rays of sun piercing her liberally exposed skin. “Now my Jack, too.”

  His frown deepened, then he turned and stalked away, leaving her to clasp her hands and hold her breath. His silence outlasted her.

  “I have a confession to make, Your Highness,” she said finally.

  “Yes?” He didn’t turn.

  “I married Jack not because I had to, but because I wanted to. I care very much for him.” Her throat tightened such that she had to pause for a moment. “And it is because I love and honor him…and I wish to honor and esteem you…that I must ask you to release me from our agreement. I cannot be both his wife and your mistress.”

  He turned to look her up and down, then began to pace, appearing troubled, irritable and uncertain. Then he stopped and pointed to the sofa.

  “Sit. And explain to me exactly how this betrayal occurred.”

  Her knees buckled. She hit the sofa with her bottom, feeling jarred.

  “If it was a betrayal, the fault was mine. I was unhappy about being coerced into being your paramour and insisted on choosing my husband.”

  “Coerced?” Bertie propped his fists on his waist. “Good God.”

  “I felt I had no choice. The baron said some debts I had incurred on behalf of my inn would be called due if I did not submit to you.”

  “Submit? Good Lord—you make me sound like a pillaging Hun!”

  “Then Jack was assigned to see me married off. I insisted on seeing the men on his list with my own eyes and found them exactly as I described them to you last night. Poor Jack…his frustration was monumental. He’s a very logical and rational man. He couldn’t fault my refusal of them. They were so unsuitable. Yet, he was desperate to be rid of me. I’m afraid I wasn’t disposed to make his task any easier than mine,” she continued. “I was hard on him at times.”