Make Me Yours

Old Robert and even older Aggie exchanged looks. They hadn’t been asked to serve red meat at Eller House since the old master had died. That combined with spirits-drinking and bath-taking in the middle of the week—the middle of the day!—confirmed that something unusual was happening.

It was almost as if the old master, Squire Eller, was back. The aged retainers shook their heads with wistful smiles. Those were the days. Old Mason had a streak in him, he did. Demanded his fun. Accompanied by a sizeable belt of brandy before and a hunk of juicy beefsteak after.

So, who or what had roused their mistress into such a state?

Mariah had no thought to spare for servant curiosity. Her heart was pounding and her limbs were icy by the time she reached her bedroom. Dread crawled up her spine the way it must in an animal caught in a trap and awaiting its fate. She was indeed “caught,” and the fact that the trap was partly of her own making made it that much worse.

To protect her property, she’d flaunted herself before a group of idle, arrogant noblemen, never guessing that the true price of one night’s peace would prove steeper still. Now she had to pay with that unique currency that women had used to acquire safety and security since the beginning of time.

The men’s words came around again and again in her head as she paced her room, waiting for Mercy to draw her bath. Very close personal relations…Quite taken with her… Having “tasted” her, the prince had found her “flavor” to his liking.

That was what outraged her most, she realized. John St. Lawrence had “nimbly” failed to inform their future king that the royal member had been limp and unresponsive—in-capable of manly service—when they helped him to his bed. Why hadn’t the wretch told the prince the truth? Then she recalled the warning on St. Lawrence’s face when she’d started to correct the notion that the prince had bedded her, and she guessed why.

The royal pride. His companions were pledged to it as a matter of patriotic service. And if honoring it meant allowing the prince to think he’d bedded a woman when he hadn’t…to them it was a small price to pay. Of course they’d feel that way, she thought with a moan. It wasn’t their lives being disrupted, their honor being claimed or their bodies being bartered.

Damned men.

She was wise enough in the ways of the world, however, to see that if she turned down this “generous offer” she would be inviting trouble that might only begin with debts being called in early. Clearly, they had made inquiries to learn her circumstances and figured out how pressure could be brought to bear on her. Even if the prince himself were not vindictive, the men around him would never allow such an insult to the royal pride to go unredressed.

A ROYAL MISTRESS. As she descended the stairs that afternoon, toward the interview that would change her life, she paused to give herself a final check in the ornate hall mirror. The woman staring back at her didn’t look especially wicked or licentious. It occurred to her to wonder what a future king looked for in a mistress. What if the prince actually did bed her and she proved not to be to his tastes after all?

She smoothed the elongated bodice of her best blue challis dress, puffed her leg-o’-mutton sleeves, and checked the mother-of-pearl buttons at her wrists. Her green dress might have highlighted her hair better, but the blue brought out her eyes.

Not, she scolded herself, that she wanted “Jack B. Nimble” to notice her eyes. She just wanted him and his arrogant comrade to see that she was a woman of stature, not to be trifled with or condescended to. The bastards.

Chiding herself for her language, she ran a hand over her upswept hair, brushed at the dusting of simple powder on her reddened cheeks, and straightened her collar and cameo…avoiding her own eyes in the mirror.

In the spacious front parlor, Old Robert was shuffling in from the dining room with a rattling tray of cups, saucers and spoons. Older Aggie labored along behind him with a fresh cloth for the tea table and a tiered plate caddie filled with tea cakes and sandwiches. The pair looked downright frazzled. She sighed. She needed some younger servants.

The hearth-lighting and table-draping continued until Old Robert was called away to answer the front door. He returned shortly with the baron and St. Lawrence in tow. A motion toward her head reminded the old butler of his duty. He grabbed the hats from the men’s hands and yanked the coats from their shoulders…doddering out with the garments dragging on the floor behind him.

Mariah stood near the venerable marble hearth, glad of the heat at her back, feeling every muscle in her body tense as “Nimble Jack” St. Lawrence crossed her parlor with an easy, athletic stride. She extended a hand to the baron and then to him, knowing it was the civil thing to do and dreading it all the same.

As Nimble Jack bowed—“Mrs. Eller”—she caught the scents of sandalwood and warmed wool and felt a flash of the memory she’d tried to bury in her garden that morning. His dark hair looked soft, his shoulders were broad, and his hand around hers was warm and firm, like the rest of—

“Baron. Mr. St. Lawrence.” She braced herself and gestured to the linen-draped table. “I thought perhaps we would have tea as we talk.”

An unctuous smile spread over the baron’s face and he glanced at St. Lawrence. They read in her reception the answer they hoped to receive.

“Excellent. The prince will be quite pleased,” the baron said, glowing at this positive outcome. “I imagine you have questions for us.”

And just like that, it was done. She was to become a mistress to the Prince of Wales. She glanced at St. Lawrence as the baron held her chair for her at the tea table. The baron was ebullient, but “Nimble Jack” seemed oddly contained upon learning of his mission’s success.

She rang the china bell on the table to summon the tea.

“I suppose my first question is, will I have to remove to London?”

“I should imagine that will depend on a number of things,” the baron said, relishing his role. “His Highness travels a great deal. His secretary makes the necessary arrangements. I would never presume to speak for the prince in matters unauthorized, but I gathered that he intends to join you here in the Lake Country. He is fond of country air and hunting.” A weasel-like smile appeared. “But, of course, there will be your husband to consider.”

She frowned, wondering if he had taken leave of his senses.

“My husband, sir, is deceased.”

“Of course he is.” The baron gave a tense little laugh and she saw St. Lawrence stiffen. “I meant to say your new husband.”

Just then Old Robert rushed in with a silver teapot that he had forgotten to pick up with a mitt. The old fellow dropped it onto the table with a sloshing thud—“Tea be sarved”—and then tottered out, grumbling as he nursed his overheated hand.

“My what?” She turned to the baron, her blood stopped in her veins.

“Your new husband, madam.” The baron straightened, pulling authority around him like a cloak. “The prince would never enter into relations with an unmarried woman. That would never do. To leave a woman he is associated with unprotected and exposed to the world…the prince would never be so callous.”

Her jaw loosened but thankfully did not drop.

“I am a widow, sir,” she said, leaning forward. “I live independently and have no husband to object to such an arrangement. How can the prince possibly imagine I would wish to acquire one now?”

“But you must acquire one, madam, or relations with the prince cannot proceed.” The baron looked scandalized by the prospect. “The prince has made it his firm—and most wise—practice to spend time only with ladies whose husbands can provide comfort for them once his time with them is done.” The baron produced a handkerchief and dabbed his moist lip.

“This is absurd,” she said, looking at St. Lawrence, who took up the argument.

“If I may be blunt.” He clenched his jaw, looking as if he’d just sucked a lemon. “There is always the possibility of consequences from such relations. The prince has left no ‘consequences’ in his path to date, and is determined to see that any born to his special friends will have fathers of their own. As heir to our good queen’s throne and the future head of the Church of England, to do otherwise would be unthinkable to him.”

Mariah felt the flush of color she had just experienced now drain from her face. Consequences: a polite way of saying children. The prince intended to leave no royal bastards in his wake. Fastidious of him, she thought furiously, to take his future roles as seriously as he took his pleasures. He bedded women thither and yon but insisted, whether from fear of public opinion or his own moral quirk, that the natural consequences of those liaisons never be laid at his doorstep.

“Why on earth would I wish to exchange vows with a man, only to betray them with the prince?” she demanded, gripping the edge of the table.

“Because,” St. Lawrence said tightly, “it is necessary. And if you are anything, Mrs. Eller, you are a woman who recognizes the necessary and turns it to her advantage.”

She felt struck physically by that assessment. Rising abruptly from the table, she went to the long windows that overlooked the side yard. Anger roiled in her as she gripped the sash. So that was what they thought of her. Clever. Contriving. Conveniently amoral.

The full weight of the situation bore down on her. She was a woman whose behavior had left room for assumption. A woman with no man to “protect” her. A woman who could be acquired, used and discarded like a pair of outmoded trousers. Her insignificant life could be turned upside-down without a second thought should she fail to cooperate. To accept such conditions would mean that she would be the one to pay for the prince’s pleasures…with a lifetime of marital servitude.

All because the prince fancied her.

Eyes burning, she turned to look at them. The baron sat with his arms crossed and St. Lawrence toyed with a teacup from the tray. Neither seemed at all chagrined by the demands they placed on her.

Then it occurred to her in a stroke: if she couldn’t find a husband, the prince might be forced to call off the notion of bedding her.

“I fear, gentlemen, we are at an impasse. I know of no man willing to marry me and then loan me out for a spell to the Prince of Wales.”

“I expect that is true.” The baron’s composure bordered on the smug. “We, on the other hand, know quite a few.”

She was stunned. In the silence that followed, she realized that there was still more to come. With each new requirement they had slowly painted her into a corner.

“As we have said, the prince is generous,” the baron continued. “There are numerous men of his acquaintance who would be willing to do him just such a favor.”

“And what sort of men would they be? Barking madmen? Wastrels? Misers who would sell their grandmothers for a profit?”

“I assure you, madam—” the baron rose, looking as sincere as a weasel can look “—the men on St. Lawrence’s list are gentlemen, one and all.”

She looked to Nimble Jack, who pulled an envelope from his inner breast pocket and laid it on the tea table beside her china cups. The cad! He had arrived that morning with a list of agreeable cuckolds in his pocket!

“You came prepared,” she said, struggling with rising outrage.

“The prince surrounds himself with resourceful men,” Jack said.

“Resourceful,” she echoed. So that was how the wretch saw himself.

She turned back to the window and clamped her arms around her waist. The prince had a whole kingdom of “resourceful” men to see to his welfare. She, on the other hand, had no one. No parents, no brothers or sisters, no uncles or aunts to intervene on her behalf. That was how she had fallen into the squire’s hands in the first place. The magistrate overseeing the sale of her deceased father’s property had insisted that, as a girl alone, marriage was her only option. And as it happened, his friend Squire Eller was in need of a wife. In the end, she was just one more asset the judge dispersed to a man whose good will would ease his own way in life.

But she was not that naive little seventeen-year-old girl anymore. She had learned the ways of the world and the men who ran it. The years of hard work since her husband died had stunted her reactions, dulled her responses. But no longer. Resourceful? She’d show the wretches resourceful.

She’d find a way to get out of this intolerable fix or die trying!

“No matter what you think of me, gentlemen, the prince’s proposal is shocking to a woman of my background and experience. Make no mistake, I would not consider accepting the overtures of a married man, even those from His Highness the Prince of Wales, if I had a gracious way of declining them.

“I must, however, demand a choice in those small matters which are of interest to no one but myself. The prince may be my friend and supporter for a few months or even a year or two, but I will remain wedded to this ‘husband’ for the rest of my days. Therefore, I insist upon the right to choose the man I will marry.” She pointed to the envelope. “I cannot continue unless I am assured that I may reject those men with impunity.”

The baron looked anxiously to St. Lawrence, who frowned at this new wrinkle and studied her openly.

“And if you refuse all of the men on this list, what then?” he asked.

“We must have some assurance,” the baron said, mopping his lip again, “that you will show good faith in seeking a husband elsewhere.”

“I give you my word, sir, that I will. If that is not enough, then you must return to the prince and explain to him your predicament—that you do not believe the woman he selected as a mistress is worthy of your trust.”

There was an awkward silence as they grappled with her demand.

“A time limit, then,” the baron said, proposing a compromise. “Say, a fortnight. You must pledge to find and accept a husband within a fortnight.”

She looked from one man to the other, turning it over in her mind.

“I think two weeks should be sufficient.”

“Excellent.” The baron’s smile was full of relief as he rose and reached for her hand. “I’ll be off, then, to deliver the good news to the prince. St. Lawrence here will see to the details. He has access to funds and the special license and will ensure that you have whatever clothing and incidentals you desire.” There was a hint of challenge in his tone. “He will see to it that you are wedded within the agreed-upon time.”

4

JACK WATCHED with an unsettled expression masking pure inner turmoil as the baron took his leave.

Damn and blast Marchant, saddling him with marrying off Mariah Eller! He had agreed to compile a list of suggested men for her to marry when it became clear that the prince was determined to go through with this idiocy, but he had never imagined it would come to this.

She’d already declared her opposition to the whole notion. What in hell made Marchant think she would actually do the deed? When he looked back at Mariah, she was settling at the table and reaching for the teapot. He sat down opposite her, gripping his knees under the tablecloth.

After pouring in silence and serving him, she reached for the envelope on the table and opened it to peruse the names inside with a frown.

“So, you’re to be both minder and matchmaker.” She didn’t look up.

“And you’re to be cooperative.” He sipped his tea, wishing to hell it was Scotch whiskey.

“I intend to be, Mr. St. Lawrence. I must say, that name sounds wrong to me. I feel I should call you Jack.”

His smile faded, then returned as if force-marched back.

“You may call me that if you wish, Mrs. Eller. Most do. In truth, I was the one true ‘Jack’ in the room that night.”

“You could have saved me a great deal of grief if you had been truer still.” She sipped her own tea with an accusing expression.

Those damnable blue eyes. Don’t look, he told himself.

“Men loyal to the future king—” he began, focusing purposefully on the wheezing hearth.

“Refuse to tell him the truth?” she inserted. “His reign won’t be one for the history books if that is the kind of counsel he depends upon.”

He straightened and met that gaze full-on.

“You were in the room and clearly willing. What does it matter that your kiss found lips other than his?”

For a brief moment he thought he saw actual flame in the dark centers of her eyes.

“Yes, of course,” she said with a razor edge. “A woman who will kiss one man will surely not scruple about kissing another. And a woman who enters a man’s sleeping room will surely bed any man she finds there. For men are all the same in the dark, are they not?”

He scowled at her twist on the well-known saw: Jane is the same as milady in the dark. She meant to torture him with verbal thumbscrews. Lord, how he hated clever women.

“I did not mean to imply that you have no discrimination, Mrs. Eller. I merely pointed out that it could as easily have been the prince you kissed.”

“No, it could not,” she said, her cheeks pinker. “It may shock you to hear, sir, but I actually have standards. And bedding married men destined to rule my country is definitely outside them.” She reached for the list of potential husbands and scowled at it. “With such an attitude, I am surprised that you bothered to include so many names.” She set the paper down and picked up her cup, giving him an arch look.

“I wonder…what was your criteria for selection? What about these men made you think any of them would be suitable as a husband for me?”

He expelled a quiet breath, feeling her gaze roaming him as his had just wandered her. An unwelcome heaviness was settling in his loins.

“All are unmarried and have an income of two thousand or better.”

“And?” she prompted.

“And all would be willing to marry a comely young widow if it would win for them the future king’s favor.”

“So, I marry one of these men and serve both the prince’s and this husband’s carnal demands?” She seemed genuinely taken aback. “If so, I am going to be one very well-buttered bun.”

He was jarred by her blunt language. “I believe it is understood that the marriage will be in name only until the prince foregoes his relationship with you. Your husband will be free to enjoy his marital rights at that time.”

“Oh. Well. How fortunate for him. I am on loan to the prince for as long as he wants me to pleasure him, after which I am given back to my legal lord and master to serve his pleasures.” She leaned forward, searching his face. “Forgive me, Jack, but I’m having trouble figuring out just what I get out of all this pleasuring.”

Pleasuring. The way she said the word sent a tongue of heat licking up the inside of his belly. A phantom vignette of burying his face in her hair and sliding his hands over her warm breasts flashed through his senses.

“I believe you know very well what you will get, madam. Income…gifts…connections…” Running out of benefits, he grabbed a tea sandwich and stuffed it whole into his mouth.

A foul, vinegary taste filled his head, and he feared he might be sick. It must have shown, for she handed him the baron’s unused napkin.

“Aggie’s tripe ’n’ turnip sandwich—not her best work,” she said as he disposed of the bite and rinsed his mouth with tea. She offered him a jam tart. “This usually kills the taste.”

“Good Lord.” His eyes still watered as he stuffed the entire tart in his mouth and felt the beastly taste subside. “She’ll poison somebody.”

“She’s better with more ordinary fare. She doesn’t get a chance to produce her specialties often.” Her smile was nothing short of taunting.

“Then you will have to make changes to your staff and upgrade your cellar. You will be expected to provide food and drink for the prince and the occasional dinner for some of his intimates.”

“Oh? And will those ‘intimates’ include you?” she asked, freshening his cup.

“I doubt it,” he said, downing more of the brew and vowing never to set foot in her presence again once this business was finished.

“You are not considered one of his ‘intimates’?”

“I am pleased to say that he counts me a loyal friend. We hunt together. My family’s land borders the prince’s at Sandringham, and for years the prince has taken birds from our fields and dined at our table. While I am in London, I generally attend social functions with him. But as for being an ‘intimate’—”

“I should think that negotiating for a mistress would certainly qualify you as one,” she said with excessive sweetness. “How fortunate for him to have an ‘acquaintance’ willing to see him to his bed when he can no longer find it and kiss women for him when he can no longer muster a pucker.”

He swallowed repeatedly—the damned tart was stuck in his throat—and then drained his cup.

“The men who hunt with the prince are charged with his welfare, madam, and do not take their ease before seeing to his safety.” He smacked the cup back onto the saucer. “And since you raised the topic, I kissed no one. I believe it was you who did the kissing.”

She regarded him fiercely for a moment, probably deciding whether to unleash a bit of temper, then to his surprise gave a reasonable nod.

“So it was.” The smile that bloomed from her thoughts sent a cool trickle of anxiety up his spine. “And look where it’s brought me. I shall have to be much more careful about whom I kiss in the future.”

He rose and went to the window to find cooler air. Every time she said the word kiss, his damned collar seemed to grow a bit tighter.

“It hardly seems fair that one of these men—” she joined him there, brandishing his list “—will receive such benefit without so much as raising a finger.” She glanced from him to the names, and back. “Tell me, which man do you think would suit me best?”

“I have not the temerity to suggest, madam.” He clasped his hands firmly behind his back and stared past her out the window.

“But you have had the temerity to suggest, sir. You put four men on this list, so you must have some opinion on their suitability.” She motioned with the paper, inadvertently brushing his vest with it. His abdominal muscles snapped taut. “This Thomas Bickering, is he a tall man?”

“I couldn’t say, madam.” He refused to look at her.

“Do you know if he is portly or balding or has snuff-yellowed teeth?”

“I do not. I am not personally acquainted with the fellow.”

“Yet you would marry me off to him without a blink. What about the others? Richard Stephens, Winston Martindale and Gordon Clapford?”

“Clapford lives near Grantham, but is heir to a barony somewhere in Ireland,” he rattled off. “Stephens’s income is from some cotton mills south of London. Martindale is a friend of the Earl of Chester’s son…comes recommended by the earl. Bickering is a solicitor in Lincoln. That and the men’s income is all I know about them.”

Silence fell as she looked between him and the paper in her hand.

“You honestly expect me to choose one of these men to share my bed and partner my life, but you cannot tell me which is tallest, which dribbles gravy on his shirtfronts and which is stingy with his household allowance…all matters critical to the success of a marriage?”

“How on earth is a man’s height significant to wedded success?”

“It is easy to see you have never been married, sir.” He glanced down to find her eyes lit with feminine superiority. “Otherwise you would know how a man’s dimensions enter into his wife’s contentment. How can I be expected to choose without seeing, much less experiencing these men?”

She leaned against the windowsill, her eyes darting over some private vision, running her hands up her arms. Nice hands. Long-fingered and graceful. Probably strong enough to—damn it!

What was he thinking, giving her more than one name at a time? Women took weeks to make up their minds about a damned hat. But Bertie had said for him to cast about and come up with some names, plural. He had done so, never guessing that he would be the one to present them to the wily, audacious wid—Wait—what? He found himself bracing, scrambling mentally. Experiencing men?