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  His mouth opened, but after a moment shut. Heat was thundering through his veins. Frustration, annoyance and outrage, he told himself.

  “You managed to survive one of my kisses.” Her gaze landed on his lips as she wetted her own. “Can you honestly say it was objectionable or an imposition?”

  She was mere inches away, her eyes glistening, her cheeks rosy. Her lips—soft lips that had moved with such exquisite provocation over his—were moist and succulent and so very, very near.

  It was all he could do to do nothing at all.

  “I thought not.” Her voice seemed thicker, sultrier as she stepped back. “Then tomorrow morning we shall leave for Lincoln to find this Thomas Bickering, Esquire. You did come by coach, did you not?”

  He jerked a nod, realizing only now the full scope of the task before him. He was stuck husband-hunting with a woman who had beguiled and disarmed half a dozen men hell-bent on dissipation, with nothing more than a fiddle and a punch bowl. She was striking, sensual, self-possessed and had already proven she had as much command over his body as he did.

  “Excellent.” She caught his gaze and held it in triumph. “While there you can visit Barclay’s Bank and arrange the funds to cover my note.”

  She paused, waiting for a response that he refused to give her. With a growl, he turned on his heel and headed for the door.

  “Cheer up, Jack B. Nimble.” The satisfaction in her voice scraped his broad back like cat’s claws. “By tomorrow night you might be celebrating my upcoming nuptials.”

  5

  A GLOSSY, black-lacquered coach arrived at the front door of the inn the next morning at nine in sunny weather that belied the tightening chill of the season. Mariah sent her trunk out with Old Robert while she waited in the hall with Mercy, whom she had drafted to accompany her.

  The old woman tugged at her straining jacket, grumbling that it had somehow shrunk since she wore it last. Mariah smoothed her own navy woolen skirt, resettled her military-style jacket at her waist, and drew her kidskin gloves higher on her wrists. After a moment, she stepped back to check herself in the hall mirror. The vivid blue of her eyes and pink of her cheeks surprised her. She was positively glowing.

  Stop that, she ordered herself.

  An instant later, the sunlight coming through the open door dimmed. She looked over to find Jack St. Lawrence’s tall, broad-shouldered form silhouetted against the brightness. Her heart dropped a beat.

  “A steamer trunk?” His irritation seemed to push some of the air out of the hall as he leaned inward.

  “Who knows how long we’ll be gone?” she said, forcing a deep breath as she retrieved her reticule and lap blanket from the hall table.

  “One and a half days,” he declared. “Thirty hours, give or take. How many changes of clothing can you possibly need in thirty hours?”

  He was eager to be rid of her. Too blessed bad. She was in no hurry to select one of the men on his list as her lord and master. Her only hope, she had realized, was to draw out the process either until she could find someone she could bear to marry or until she exhausted the prince’s patience without simultaneously invoking his wrath.

  “That is an absurd time estimate under the best of circumstances,” she said. “Should Mr. Bickering prove suitable, there will be certain formalities to conduct, some of which may require days to complete. To say nothing of the shopping that will be required.”

  “Shopping?” His horror was palpable.

  “I believe the baron mentioned new clothing.” She lowered her voice and gestured to her serviceable but uninspired skirt and jacket. “I simply cannot undertake my new role in such garments. And should Mr. Bickering prove unsuitable, we shall have to go on to the next candidate.”

  Muttering something unintelligible, he turned and stalked down the steps to the coach. When she approached the vehicle with Mercy in tow, he suddenly registered the old girl’s hat and traveling gear.

  “What’s this?” He looked to Mariah in exasperation.

  “My maid.” She met his incredulity full-on. “A respectable woman never travels without assistance.”

  Mercy lifted her chins with exaggerated dignity and held out a hand for assistance in mounting the steps. Jack first extended his arm and then hefted and grappled and finally pushed her substantial frame through the door. Red-faced, he collected himself and then helped Mariah up.

  Mercy, unused to coach travel, had ensconced herself on the forward-facing seat. Mariah settled beside her without correcting her gaffe, leaving the rear-facing seat for Jack, who bit his tongue, settled back against the tufted leather, and rapped the upholstered roof of the coach with his walking stick. The vehicle lurched forward, pulling a gasp and giggle from Mercy.

  As it happened, Mariah needn’t have bothered with the lap blanket; the sun coming through the windows warmed the coach…too well. The smell of naphtha soon permeated the air, courtesy of Mercy, who had pulled her traveling clothes out of storage only that morning. The combination of riding backward and the smell of mothballs soon had Jack looking a little green. He let down one of the windows for some fresh air and it wasn’t long before Mariah was spreading that lap blanket after all.

  “Never been all th’ way to Lincoln.” Mercy gawked out the window as they rolled past dun-colored fields bounded by meandering stone walls and clusters of cottages with smoke curling out of squat stone chimneys. “The old squire stayed to home. Said he’d done his travelin’. At least, after Miz Mariah come. A’fore that, he went to Lincoln regular an’ come home all wrung out, like he—”

  “Mercy,” Mariah said with an edge, hoping to head off a trip down memory lane, “are you cold?”

  “Naw. Got my quilties on.” She looked to Jack. “He was with East Inja Comp’ny, ye know. That’s how come we got them fancy rugs all over.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Jack said, glancing at Mariah as if to say it was her fault he was having to listen to this.

  “Brung ’em back from Inja,” Mercy continued. “Them an’ all kinds o’ swords and shields and trunks of feathers an’ oils. Alwus had ’is nose in a book. ’Til Miz Mariah come. Then—” she grinned “—he didn’t have no time fer books. Couldn’t take ’is eyes off her.”

  “Really, Mercy,” Mariah said, betraying a touch of anxiety, which she quickly banished. “I’m sure Mr. St. Lawrence isn’t interested.”

  “Oh, but I am,” Jack protested. “What sort of man was the squire?”

  “A right handsome bloke in ’is day.” Mercy ignored Mariah’s annoyance. “Tall, but not spare. Silver hair. Had standards, he did. And ‘habits.’ Cook said he alwus liked his brandy before an’ his—”

  “Mercy!” Mariah snapped, drawing a look of astonishment from the old woman. “You mustn’t bore Mr. St. Lawrence with servants’ prattle.”

  “Don’t underestimate my tolerance for gossip, Mrs. Eller. I am enthralled.” He gave Mercy a smile that set her preening. “Go on.”

  “He were a bach’lor fer years.” Mercy chuckled. “Said, why pick one flower when there wus a whole garden to enjoy?”

  “A common enough sentiment,” Jack said. “What changed his mind?”

  Mariah groaned silently. Mercy was past all caution, and the last thing she needed was Jack poking around in her marriage.

  “The mistress, o’course. Went off to Lincoln one day, like always, and come home days later with a bride. Said it were like he wus hit by lightning. Struck by her beauty, he was.”

  Beauty indeed. Mariah reddened. She didn’t like where this was headed: a mythologized tale of their meeting that her husband had concocted to tease her and satisfy the servants’ curiosity.

  “Her pa had just died, an’ Lord knew, th’ squire was needin’ a wife. Wasted no time, old Mason. Like a kid with Christmas peppermints. Married her the next day.” Mercy cast a mischievous grin at her. “Little bitty slip o’a thing, Miz Mariah. Hardly said a word for days.”

  “Doesn’t sound like her,” he said with a glance
Mariah’s way.

  The old woman chuckled, ignoring her mistress’s “tsk” of warning.

  “Gentle-raised, she was. Squire had to teach her everthin’.”

  “Everything?” Jack propped both hands on the head of his walking stick, looking Mariah over. “A patient man, indeed.”

  “Everthin’ about—”

  “Mercy, it will be several hours before we reach Lincoln,” Mariah inserted firmly. “You should rest while you have the chance.”

  Reading in her mistress’s glare that her moment was over, Mercy nestled back in her corner, sighed with resignation and closed her eyes. Soon she was snoring softly and Mariah was able to breathe easier. Despite the draft from the open window, she began feeling warmer and tucked her lap blanket around the old servant.

  When she looked up, Jack was studying her.

  “How old was he—your husband?” he asked.

  Curse Mercy for stirring up his curiosity.

  “Older.”

  “How much older?” His gaze intensified.

  “I hardly think that is relevant here.” She pulled a small writing pad and pencil out of her purse. “Tell me, what is the prince’s favorite color?”

  “You married him after a day? A precipitously short courtship.”

  “That seems to be my fate.” She concentrated on her pad and tried to change the subject. “I thought perhaps I should include some of the prince’s favorites in my wardrobe. Is he more of a satin or a damask man?”

  “Your father had died, so who arranged the marriage?” He leaned forward.

  “A magistrate who decided I needed a husband.”

  “Needed?” His brows rose.

  “I had nowhere else to go,” she said flatly. “The magistrate introduced us and the squire made me an offer of marriage then and there.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Old enough.”

  He thought on that, drawing heaven knew what kind of conclusions. She hated the feeling of being weighed and palpated like a holiday goose.

  “And you were married for how long?” he continued.

  “It’s a bit late to be examining my credentials, is it not?”

  “Ten years? A dozen?” he prodded.

  “Over seven.” Long, eventful years that she had successfully locked away…feathers, oils and all. Until a week ago.

  “During which time he taught you things.” He sat forward, looking her over with those unusual amber-colored eyes. Clearly, he did not intend to be diverted. Curse him. There was nothing more tenacious than a man on the trail of a woman’s vulnerability.

  “My husband was a man of many facets.” Her face warmed as she clung to hard-won composure. “As, I am sure, is the prince. His Highness is fond of music, obviously. What else is he fond of?”

  Jack smiled in a way that made her want to retract the question.

  “Women,” he said without altering his intense regard. “Was your husband fond of them, too?”

  His aggressive posture and the speculation in his face pushed her discomfort to its limits. But the cracks in her own composure suddenly allowed her to see the weaknesses in his. He was a man who liked to be in control…of a situation, of himself. Why else would he be the only one sober at the end of an evening’s revelry with the prince?

  “Quite so, Mr. St. Lawrence.” Control. She knew all about men who had to be in control. She slid into the bold, unflappable part of her being that had allowed her to handle Mason’s demands without quailing. She leaned forward to call Jack’s arrogance and raise him a bit of self-assurance.

  “In fact, my husband was something of a connoisseur of women. He had lived in the Orient, you see, where pleasures of the flesh are considered normal and even desirable.”

  Jack sensed something had changed and he froze, mid-coach, eye to eye with her.

  There was that word again. Pleasures. She was leaning toward him now, meeting his gaze dead-on, the stormy blue of her eyes like whirlpools ready to drag the unwary male under the surface of duty and respectability and into oblivion. But what a demise it would be…giving in to the erotic urges that had seized him that night at the inn…drowning in his own juices…yielding to his own reckless, consuming…

  “Colors?” she reminded him, smiling coolly.

  “I have no earthly idea.” Every muscle in his body tensed as he sat back and wished the seat were in a different coach and headed in the opposite direction from wherever she was going.

  “Surely you’ve seen him express some preference.”

  “Not really.”

  “Then the choice of his own clothes may provide a clue.”

  “Plaid,” he said shortly. “Royal tartan. Gray, tan and black.”

  The blasted woman was going about this like a damned business: studying her new protector, devising god-knew-what snares and temptations for the unsuspecting wretch, making no bones about her purely pecuniary interest in his attentions. Worse: dragging him into her plotting.

  “Then perhaps fragrances. What scents does he favor?”

  “Soap. He always smells of soap. And cigars.”

  “Hmmm. I doubt I’ll find eau de cigar in a perfumer’s shop.” She tapped her lips, drawing his attention to that plump, rosy flesh…fashioned into extravagant bow-shaped curves…“Flowers?”

  “I have no bloody idea what—gardens, he likes gardens,” he said curtly, crossing his arms and glancing out the window. “Goes on and on about the fine gardens at this or that house.” He gave a grimace of a smile. “Perhaps you could smear a little garden dirt behind each ear.”

  “Dirt behind the ears,” she muttered dutifully as she wrote on her pad. He dragged his walking stick across his knees and gripped the ends of it like a fighting staff, knowing it was useless in this sort of battle.

  “What do you think—is he more visual or tactile?” When he scowled, she clarified, “Is he a looker or a toucher?” Holding her pencil poised, she appeared thoughtful. “He seemed to like having his hands in my hair.”

  “It’s not for me to say,” he bit out, filled with images and indignation.

  “I only ask because you are my sole source of information, and it has a direct impact on what sort of garments I buy. Some men like to see a woman’s bounty grandly and brazenly displayed. Others prefer to have to peel away layers of frilly armor to reveal a woman’s intimate secrets.”

  A woman’s bounty…frilly armor…intimate secrets… Every word was an incantation conjuring salacious images in his head.

  “This entire line of questioning is beyond the pale,” he said, outrage compressed into every syllable. “This is my future king. Speaking of him in such a manner is…is indecent.”

  “No more indecent than being sent to procure a woman for him, surely,” she said with an edge so fine that it drew blood without him noticing at first. “And yet, you seemed to have no difficulty with that.”

  “That is an en-entirely different matter,” he sputtered, his face on fire.

  “Because it was a mere woman’s decency being presumed upon? I can see why you make such distinctions. You must surely see why I cannot.”

  Arrogant female, equating her honor to their future king’s! Yet, even as he thought it, his pricked conscience winced at the comparison. This was not the middle ages, where le droit de seigneur was the universal right of lords. He shook himself. For God’s sake, it was the Prince of Wales, heir to their nation’s throne and empire. Surely she could see that his needs—

  That word brought him up short. Needs? It was more a matter of privilege, he had to concede. Heaven knew the prince had no needs that hadn’t long ago been filled to surfeit. The prince’s desires, then—it should be an honor to serve them. And it wasn’t as though she wouldn’t be recompensed.

  “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 loo
sened.

  “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.