One Night with a Prince

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “So you gave up on flirting with him to gain access to his room?” he asked in a tight voice.

  “Yes.”

  He let out a breath. “Thank God for that.” Turning the deck of cards around in his hand, he stared at her. “It’s rapidly becoming apparent that we aren’t going to find them this way. We’d be better off striking a deal with Stokely.”

  “He won’t give them up,” she murmured, with a glance in the baron’s direction. “And offering a bargain would only put him on his guard.”

  “I know. That’s why I haven’t done it yet. But if the choice is leaving here without the letters or striking a bargain—”

  “I have nothing with which to bargain—nothing he’d want badly enough to give them up. You, on the other hand, have money and connections—you might have something he’d want. And it’s not as if I can stop you from…dealing with him.”

  Throat tight, she turned to leave, but he spoke again, his voice softer, almost tormented. “Please, lass, I need to know…Are you all right?”

  “As well as can be expected.” For a woman whose heart was breaking.

  “You look tired.”

  Under the circumstances, his concern angered her. “I find it hard to sleep when the possibility of disaster looms over me and my family.”

  “And I find it hard to sleep without you.”

  Her gaze shot to his, and the yearning she glimpsed in his eyes banished her anger, rousing a bone-deep longing for him in her chest. It had been three full nights since they’d shared a bed, three nights of restless tossing, anxious dreams, and fiery, unfulfilled needs that drove her to drown her woes in tears.

  It would be so easy to give in, to tell him she didn’t care what happened as long as she had him, didn’t care if her father lost his commission, his reputation…his life.

  Ruthlessly, she pushed the temptation away. “Try laudanum. I understand it works wonders for the sleepless.”

  “Christabel, please—” he choked out.

  “Lady Haversham!” a voice called out, dragging her attention from Gavin.

  She stifled a groan as Lord Stokely approached, especially when a quick glance around revealed that everyone else had left.

  The baron flashed them both a patently false smile. “I understand that the two of you will be playing in the next round.”

  “We’ll be winning the next round,” Gavin said.

  “We’ll see.” Lord Stokely settled his gaze on her, and it grew decidedly lewd. “I hope your partner told you that in the final stages, we meet right after breakfast to play. So the others will be starting at one o’clock.”

  “I told her,” Gavin interjected.

  Lord Stokely ignored him. “I’ll send a servant for you once the next round begins. Of course, we may start later than one o’clock if I have another more entertaining prospect tonight that keeps me up until the morn.” He offered her his arm. “Would you join me for a glass of wine in my study, Lady Haversham?”

  She actually considered it. Perhaps if she got Lord Stokely drunk—

  No, she couldn’t do it, not with Gavin sitting there watching, assuming the worst. Besides, the more she saw of Lord Stokely, the more convinced she was that Gavin was right about him. He was playing with them. He would never tell her anything, but he might very well be capable of rape. It was too dangerous to risk.

  “Thank you,” she said, ignoring his proffered arm, “but I’m tired after the long day. I believe I’ll go on to bed now.”

  She started to walk past, but he caught her arm. “Come now, don’t be so—”

  “Let go of her,” Gavin said, each word clipped like pistol fire as he rose to his feet behind them.

  Lord Stokely’s grip on her arm only tightened. “Don’t be an ass, Byrne. I know you kicked her out of your bed, so now that you’re done with her—”

  “First of all, what happens in our bed is none of your concern.” There was no velvet with the steel in his voice this time. “Second, I am far from done with her, and even if I were, you would have no right to manhandle her.”

  “I’m not manhandling her.”

  Gavin’s eyes narrowed to slits. “If you don’t remove your hand from her arm this minute, I will break it finger by finger until you do.”

  Lord Stokely released her with amazing speed. “Christ, you’re mad.” His resentful gaze shot to Christabel. “We’ll talk again when you don’t have an angry ex-lover hovering about.”

  As the baron stalked from the room, she heard Gavin mutter, “The hell you will, you slimy bastard.”

  They were entirely alone in the cavernous card room. Wary of his mood, Christabel started to leave, but he added in a low voice, “Don’t go.”

  She faced him wearily. “Gavin, there’s no point to this.”

  “No point?” He strode up to her, then caught her head in his hands and kissed her, slowly, achingly. But when she only stood there woodenly, fighting the surge of feelings that his mouth sent coursing through her, he drew back with a curse. “The point is that we belong together. I miss you. And I can see from your eyes that you miss me, too. Why must you be so stubborn?”

  “Why must you? I’m trying to protect everything I hold dear—”

  “I’ve already said I’ll not let any harm come to you or your father. But my mother deserves justice.”

  “Don’t lie to yourself that you’re doing it for her.”

  “You think I’m doing it for me?” He released her abruptly. “I’m giving up the barony my bloody sire offered. And as you pointed out before, I could lose what little position I have in society. So what advantage will I gain from it?”

  “An end to your guilt.”

  He looked stricken. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve thought about it constantly ever since Bath. You blame yourself for your mother’s disfigurement, don’t you?”

  A muscle worked in his jaw, but he didn’t answer.

  “You blame yourself for not rousing—”

  “I shouldn’t have slept through a fire, damn it! I shouldn’t have left her to carry me alone.”

  “You weren’t asleep, Gavin,” she said gently. “You were overcome with smoke, which is common in a fire. Don’t blame yourself for making it necessary for her to wrap you in the rug. That was the fire’s fault, not yours, no matter what you’ve told yourself through the years. She had a hard choice to make, and she did what any mother would do—sacrificed for her son. But that doesn’t mean you should feel honor-bound to make it right.”

  “How can I not?” he said hoarsely. “It’s more than just the fire. I wasn’t by Mother’s side in those difficult months in the hospital when I should have been. They told me she was dead, and like a fool I believed them.”

  “You were twelve! You might have been running an E-O table by then, but you were still a child, and you thought like a child. The people in authority told you she was dead—why shouldn’t you believe them? No doubt you saw enough bodies come out of the building that night.”

  She laid a hand on his rigid arm. “You have every right to be angry and hurt and bitter, my love. But wreaking havoc on His Highness won’t fix that. It certainly won’t help your mother.”

  His body tensed, and he refused to look at her. “She’d have been better off if I’d never been born.”

  Dear Lord, he truly believed that, didn’t he? “Oh, my love, don’t even think it. You’re the center of her life. I know she doesn’t regret one minute of having you. She would certainly not want you to do this and ruin your chances at a decent future. All she wants is for you to have a happy life.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “That’s what I want, too.”

  His gaze swung to hers, fiery, furious. “You have an odd way of showing it. You refuse to share my bed, you refuse my offer of marriage—”

  She snorted. “As if you really meant it.”

  “Of course I meant it,” he protested. “I still do.”

  She dropped her gaze from his. “I thought you mi
ght change your mind when you’d had a chance to reconsider.”

  “Well, I didn’t.” He slid his arm about her waist and pulled her close, then added in a husky rasp, “You’re the only one keeping us from having a respectable connection, the only one putting conditions on our marriage. I want to marry you no matter what happens.”

  She gazed up at him, torn between love and fear. “Then you must think beyond your vengeance to your future. How can we have a happy life with this cloud hanging over our heads?”

  “All that matters is us. If we don’t care about public opinion—”

  “What about our children? What about their future? Do you really want them to grow up hearing slurs against their father, the man who caused the greatest scandal in royal history? And their grandfather, the disgraced general? You, of all people, should know how sensitive children are to criticism of their families.”

  Judging from his stunned look, he hadn’t thought about children at all.

  “N-Not that I’m even sure I can have children,” she stammered, disconcerted by his expression, “but I would like to try. I-I would hope that if we married…” When he continued to stare at her without speaking, her heart sank. “You probably don’t even want chi—”

  The door swung open behind them to admit Mr. Talbot and Colonel Bradley, clearly in an already inebriated state. “Byrne!” the colonel cried. “You should try some of Stokely’s—Oh, Lady Haversham. Didn’t mean to interrupt. We thought we’d see if Byrne would join us in a drink.”

  “It’s all right,” she murmured, grateful for the reprieve. At least she wouldn’t have to hear Gavin admit that he never wanted children, an admission that would shatter her in her already fragile state. “I was just heading off to bed.”

  Before they could say anything else, she fled.

  Gavin watched her leave, too stunned to do more than stare after her. Children. With Christabel. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it beyond his efforts to prevent it by using French letters.

  “Come on, Byrne,” Talbot said, weaving on his feet. “The lady is gone, so come have some brandy with us. Stokely’s broken out the best stuff.”

  Gavin whirled on them, his frustration with Christabel twisting into fury at them. “Of course he has. He’s hoping that if you drink enough tonight, you’ll be too bloody cropsick tomorrow to play decently, and then his team will win the pot. He does it every year, and you fools fall for it every time. Why do you think he and I always win?”

  He surveyed them with a sudden surge of disgust. “I don’t know why I even bother with the lot of you. You’re idiots, every last one. You deserve to have Stokely fleece you. Good night, gentlemen. Enjoy your drink while you can. Because after tomorrow, you won’t be able to afford brandy for some time.”

  “Now see here, no need to be an ass—” Talbot began, but Gavin was already out the door and in the corridor, looking to see if he could catch Christabel.

  But no, she’d disappeared. He would think that she was searching, except that she preferred to sleep a few hours first and do her work after there was little chance of running into Stokely. Unlike Gavin, she wasn’t used to late nights. Which meant she was presently in her room, where between Rosa and the chair she kept propped against the handle, she might as well be behind a castle moat. So there was no chance of trying to change her mind by kissing her and making love to her and talking of marriage and the future.

  And children.

  A groan escaped him as he stared up the staircase that led to the family wing. He could have a family wing—the house at Bath was large enough for it. And if he had his barony, he could pass the title on to his son—

  Damn it, he wasn’t going to get the barony, not if he followed his plan for vengeance.

  Gritting his teeth, he strode off toward the other part of the house, trying to blot Christabel’s words from his head. What about our children?

  He’d never wanted children before. Why should he want them now?

  An image rose unbidden, of her nursing a babe at her breast, of a little lass with red curls perched on his knee or a dark-haired boy calling him Papa—

  Damn her! Christabel was driving him insane with her talk of their future.

  Raucous laughter assaulted his ears, and he gave a wide berth to the drawing room from whence it came. Stokely was in there filling the men’s bellies with drink. Then he would send them to bed stinking drunk, where they’d get into rows with their wives or mistresses. And no one would awaken in any condition to focus on a card game. Except Stokely, of course.

  For the first time, he felt sickened by the scheming and manipulation and outright chicanery involved in the man’s little games. And his disgust stretched beyond the baron to the women who’d been making advances to Gavin ever since they’d heard that Christabel wasn’t sharing his bed. To the supposed “gentlemen” of his club, who scoffed at him behind his back for being in “trade” even while they drank his liquor and ate his food and took advantage of all the amenities of his club as if it were their due.

  Damn them all. Once he had his barony, he’d tell them to go to hell.

  No, he reminded himself again, he wasn’t going to have a barony. Instead, he was going to heap calumny on his own head by unseating Prinny from the throne. And for what?

  Don’t lie to yourself that you’re doing it for her.

  Of course he was doing it for her.

  All right, so his mother had never asked for vengeance, had never prodded him to seek it. Although she’d cursed the prince in her early days, she’d changed after the fire. She’d said that having her life spared had made her realize that life was too precious to spend it hating.

  And why should she? He’d done all the hating for her—hating those who’d unjustly called her a whore, hating Prinny…hating himself.

  He walked up the stairs to his room in a daze. Yes, hating himself. For sleeping through the fire, for not being able to protect his mother, for being born. Christabel wasn’t far wrong—part of the reason he wanted this so badly was to quell the guilt he’d felt ever since he’d been old enough to know he was a bastard, to know that his very existence had altered his mother’s future.

  Yet she was right about something else, too. His mother did want him to have a happy life. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have made such sacrifices for him.

  Now he meant to reward her sacrifice by destroying any possibility of a happy life for himself. Because if he couldn’t have Christabel, he couldn’t be happy.

  He stopped outside his bedchamber as a hollow pain settled in his gut. He couldn’t take this anymore—being without Christabel, going off to his empty bed alone every night, not having her to tease and provoke and hold. Only two women had ever looked at him with true love in their eyes. Only two women had ever looked beneath his defenses to see a man of worth, a man capable of more than he’d shown the world heretofore.

  And he would disappoint them both, destroy his future and theirs—and the future of his children—just for the chance to thumb his nose at a man who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as they. He must be insane.

  Abruptly, he turned on his heel and headed back down the stairs. No more—it was time to put an end to the nonsense. He’d find those letters if he had to spend all night searching. And if that didn’t work, he’d bargain with Stokely.

  No matter what he had to do, he would get the letters back for Christabel. And only for Christabel.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  If you find a lover who can be faithful to

  you, hold on to him with all your might.

  —Anonymous, Memoirs of a Mistress

  The next day, Christabel slipped into the main drawing room as the clock struck one. Except for the two teams who’d won early and were probably still abed, the other players would be at the tables. Lord Stokely would be overseeing his guests, even though he was done with this round. And she’d seen Gavin dozing in the music room.

  But she couldn’t think about him rig
ht now. Or the fact that she’d passed Lady Kingsley heading for the music room. An assignation? With the only woman he’d ever loved?

  She couldn’t bear to think it. But she had to face the prospect of a future without Gavin, of hearing about him with some new mistress, while she and Papa weathered whatever awful prospect lay before them.

  Shaking off the icy fear stealing down her spine, she set her fan on a console table near the door. She’d been using the fan as her excuse for being in any room. If a servant came in or one of the guests, she said, “I was looking for my fan—have you seen it?” Then she’d pretend to find it and leave the room.

  After so much time searching, she’d developed a routine. Begin at the door and work steadily around the room twice. In the first time around, she examined the furniture, though she doubted she’d find the letters just sitting in some drawer. The second round was for the walls. She searched every panel and molding within reach, looking for anomalies in paint and trim and design, anything that might hide a safe. Of course, once she found one, she’d have to deal with Gavin, because he could open it, and she couldn’t. But she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

  She’d just opened a drawer when she heard the door open behind her and a voice say, “You won’t find them in there, Lady Haversham. What kind of an idiot do you take me for?”

  Whirling to face Lord Stokely, she felt her blood freeze as he reached behind him with a cold smile to turn the key in the drawing room door, then drop it into a coat pocket.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She fought not to show fear as she edged toward where her fan lay on the console table. “I was looking for my fan.”

  His hand came down on hers just as she reached for it. He pocketed her fan, too, and her heart sank.

  A chilling laugh escaped him. “We both know you weren’t looking for any fan, my dear. You and Byrne must take me for a complete idiot. I know what you want—and you can be sure that you will never find those letters just lying around in some drawing room. I have them in a very safe place, I assure you.”