One Night with a Prince

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “Then we renegotiate.” He dragged her gown off. “But don’t worry, I’ll get them back somehow. As long as you agree to my terms.”

  When he circled around behind her to unlace her corset, she became aware of her surroundings. “Gavin, if someone sees us—”

  “Don’t worry, they’re playing cards.” But after dropping her corset beside her, he strode over to close the gazebo door. “So? Will you marry me?”

  “I don’t know why I should,” she grumbled. “It will quite ruin me in society to be married to a scoundrel like you.”

  He laughed. “As if you care about society.”

  She thrust out her chin. “And I have some terms of my own.”

  He arched one eyebrow as he came toward her, shedding his clothes piece by piece. “I hope you’re not going to ask me to close my club.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because of Haversham and his penchant for gambling,” he said tightly.

  She snorted. “You would never lose a fortune at the tables. No, I’m not worried about you on that score.” When relief showed in his face, she couldn’t resist saying, “But if that were one of my conditions, would you do it?”

  He approached her, eyes narrowing. “You’re going to be a stubborn minx and make me beg, aren’t you?”

  “After all you’ve put me through?” she said lightly. “Absolutely.”

  She backed away from him, only to come up squarely against the pillar that held up the gazebo. Wearing nothing but his drawers, he reached out and flicked her chemise off her shoulders. As it slid down her body, he dropped to his knees, and said earnestly, “I’ll do anything it takes to have you in my life.”

  “Anything?”

  “Anything.” He slid her own drawers down, then leaned close to press a kiss to the curls that already grew damp. “I want to make you mine.”

  His mouth closed hotly over her, sucking, caressing. “I want to take care of you, have you take care of me,” he murmured against her. “Have children with you.”

  Her blood raced as she clutched his head. “Oh, Gavin, what if I can’t?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s you I want.”

  “Only me?” she whispered. “You have to admit you’re used to having a rather…wide variety of women at your disposal.”

  He sat back on his heels and stared up at her, eyes solemn. “Sometimes a man must sample a variety of women to learn what he really wants. And I want you. Just you. From now on, until death do us part.”

  She swallowed, still hesitant. “No mistresses, no ladies of the evening—”

  “I don’t need them anymore, my darling. They were all practice for you.” Then he covered her with his mouth, and began to show her exactly how much he’d learned from his “practice.”

  “Ohhh, Gavin…” she murmured, as the ache built in her, the ache that only he could soothe, that only he roused. “Please…please—”

  “Marry me.” He brought her just to the edge, then kept her there hanging, yearning…” Marry me, Christabel.”

  There was one thing he hadn’t said, but she was afraid to ask for it. Because if Gavin couldn’t love her—

  “Marry me, darling.” He tugged her down, laying her out on the cushions scattered about the gazebo floor. After shoving off his drawers, he knelt between her legs and entered her with one fierce thrust. “I can’t promise I’ll make you happy, but I sure as hell will try.”

  “What if I need something more to make me happy?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Something more?” His eyes searched hers. “Ah yes, something more.” He drove into her deeply, then said in a husky rasp, “I love you, Christabel. More than I ever imagined possible, I love you.”

  Her joy exploded, making her arch up into him in an urgent need to be closer to him, to have him filling her so completely that they could never be torn apart. “Oh, Gavin, I love you, too.”

  His gaze grew fierce, hungry, the gaze of a man who knew what he wanted and would move heaven and earth to get it. “Then marry me, my love.” His voice was an aching whisper as he thundered into her. “Marry me…marry me…”

  And as the need soared in her, finding an answer in his wild and passionate thrusts, she cried, “Yes…yes…oh yes, Gavin, yes!”

  Then they were reaching release together, the flood of pleasure swamping her, washing away any doubts and uncertainties until the only thing remaining was the bedrock of the love she felt for her dear, strong Gavin.

  The aftermath was sweet indeed. Gavin dragged her into his embrace, where they lay, hearts pounding, until their blood began to cool and their passion to ebb.

  Still hardly daring to believe the joy that stole through her, she whispered, “Did you mean it?”

  He tipped her chin up to him, and the warmth in his eyes made it clear that he knew exactly what she was asking. “I love you. I love how you throw yourself into any endeavor with the strength and enthusiasm of an army marching to war. I love that you try to be honest in everything, that you hire damaged soldiers as servants, that you’re loyal to your family. I adore the fact that you went after Anna with a knife.” His amusement faded to earnestness. “I love that you look at me and don’t see a bastard or a coldhearted gambler or a licentious fool. You see a man worth saving. I love that most of all.”

  Her throat grew tight as she stroked his cheek. “Tell the truth, my love. If I’d refused to marry you, would you still have agreed to help me get the letters back to Papa?”

  He flashed her a rueful smile. “Yes.” When she began to smile, he added gruffly, “But only in hopes that I could convince you later to marry me.”

  “Nonsense,” she teased. “You do have a conscience, for all your protests otherwise. And a soul.”

  “If you say so,” he muttered. “But if you think that means I’m going to start forgiving people’s debts and doing fool things like going to church and—”

  Her kiss cut him off. When it rapidly flared into something hot and raw and he slid his hand down to fondle her breast, she broke free to whisper, “Enough of that for now. We’ll have plenty of time for it later.” Sitting up, she found her chemise and drew it on. “Now tell me how we’re going to get Papa’s letters back.”

  With a sigh, he propped his head up on one hand. “All right, darling. My plan isn’t foolproof by any means, but here’s what I was thinking…”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  If your lover is a gambler, you must be

  prepared for anything.

  —Anonymous, Memoirs of a Mistress

  As Gavin ushered Christabel into Stokely’s study right behind the baron, he tamped down his unease. He must sound convincing to a man who knew him far too well. If this didn’t work—

  It had to. He gazed down at Christabel, at her luminous eyes and fear-tightened mouth, and felt a punch in the gut at the thought of failing her.

  She cast him a sudden glance, a hesitant smile, and his heart constricted. He had to convince Stokely one way or the other. He refused to disappoint her as Haversham had.

  “So what’s this about, Byrne?” Stokely asked as he took a seat behind his desk. “You mentioned a proposition?”

  “I want to buy Lady Haversham’s letters from you.”

  Stokely didn’t even bother to pretend he didn’t know what Gavin meant. “Why would I sell them to you when I wouldn’t take Prinny’s money for them?”

  “Because if you don’t,” Gavin retorted, “I’ll make them useless to you.”

  The baron’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “Christabel and I will tell the press about some forged letters making the rounds that insinuate that Prinny had a child by Mrs. Fitzherbert. We’ll claim that Christabel’s husband had them forged so he could sell them to pay off a gaming debt. And that will leave you with nothing to blackmail Prinny with.”

  Stokely shot up from his chair, his face a cold, hard mask. “You wouldn’t dare. The minute you raise the possibility of there being suc
h a child, the press will descend in a swarm to examine every aspect of General Lyon’s past and Lady Haversham’s marriage. They’ll unearth the truth, and the prince would never allow that.”

  Gavin stared at him coldly. “I don’t care what Prinny would allow—I’d just as soon see him destroyed. Why do you think I want the letters for myself? So I can ruin his chance of being king.”

  Stokely, of all people, knew how much Gavin loathed the prince. But that didn’t mean he’d fall for this. “I seriously doubt Lady Haversham would conspire with you in any effort that would destroy her father, too.”

  “As you said earlier,” she retorted, “my father can flee anywhere he pleases.”

  “If you truly didn’t care what happened to your father,” Stokely snapped, “you would have taken me up on my offer.”

  Gavin could cheerfully kill the man for that offer. Especially since he sensed she was hiding the worst of what had happened.

  No matter. Once they had the letters, Gavin would take great pleasure in making sure Stokely paid for his actions.

  Stokely was eyeing her now with suspicion. “You’d never let Byrne raise the subject of Prinny’s child in the papers, not when it might destroy your family.” The baron rounded the desk to stare Gavin down. “And while you may not care about Prinny, you care about her. I’m not a fool. This is a bluff, and a feeble one at that.”

  He started toward the door. “The letters are not for sale, not now, not ever.”

  Time for drastic measures. “Then I’m afraid I shall have to call you out, sir, to defend Lady Haversham’s honor after the insult you gave to her earlier today.”

  “No, Gavin!” she cried. He hadn’t told her of his measure of last resort, because he knew she would protest. But Stokely couldn’t use the letters if he were dead, after all.

  Unfortunately, Stokely merely laughed at the suggestion. “Duel over the honor of a whore? Don’t be absurd.”

  As rage exploded in Gavin, Christabel grabbed his arm. “Perhaps another sort of duel would appeal to you more, Lord Stokely,” she said quickly. “A duel more suitable to your talents. And ours.”

  Gavin stared at her. What was she up to?

  At least her words had kept Stokely from leaving. He eyed her with the faintest hint of interest in his face. “Go on.”

  “Why not add the letters to the final prize of the games? We’ll forgo the pot—you and Lady Kingsley can keep it for yourselves even if you lose—but if we win, we get the letters. And if you win, you keep everything.”

  Gavin suppressed a smile. Leave it to Colonel Christabel to come up with a strategy that might actually entice Stokely.

  “You’re not even sure you’ll make it to the final round,” the baron pointed out.

  He was actually considering the offer. Good. “You’re not even sure you will,” Gavin countered.

  Stokely snorted. “Lady Kingsley and I have been ahead of you the whole way.”

  “Exactly,” Gavin said. “So why not agree? You’re far more likely to win than we are. Of course, if you don’t make it into the final round, we would still expect the letters to be part of the prize. And if we make it, I’ll forgo my thousand-pound wager with you, too. Think of it—no matter whether we win against you or lose, you get to keep the thousand pounds and the pot. That’s a rather hefty consolation prize.”

  Stokely frowned. “How is this any different than if you pay me for the letters?” His lascivious gaze settled on Christabel. “Of course, if Lady Haversham’s…affections were thrown into the bargain, I might consider—”

  “Absolutely not,” Gavin bit out. “She isn’t part of the bargain.” And by God, when this was over, he’d tear the man’s lungs out for even thinking of it.

  “However,” Christabel put in, “I will offer one additional inducement. If we lose, then I’ll attest to the authenticity of the letters. That’s what you wanted from me anyway, isn’t it?”

  “Not entirely,” Stokely said.

  “It’s all you’ll get,” Gavin snapped. When Stokely bristled, he forced a modicum of civility into his tone. “This way you’ll gain nearly everything you wanted.”

  “If I win. And if I can trust the two of you to hold to your part of the bargain.”

  “Have I ever cheated on a bet before?” Gavin snapped.

  “There’s always a first time.”

  “If you want, we’ll sign something saying that the letters are authentic. If you win, we’ll hand that over. If we win, you give us the letters.”

  Gavin could see the conflict in Stokely’s face. He wasn’t quite as sure of his position as he’d led them to believe. He couldn’t entirely assume that Christabel would keep Gavin from prematurely revealing to the press what was in the letters. After all, Gavin had never shown such loyalty to a mistress before. Why would he start now?

  Besides, Stokely wanted the letters free of any encumbrances. And Christabel’s offer made that possible.

  “Come now, Stokely,” Gavin said, “it’s a fair proposal, and you know it.” His tone grew condescending. “And you are a gambling man, aren’t you? You have a choice: Gamble on the final game or gamble that we don’t go back to London and spread tales about the letters that would make them useless to you. Which will it be?”

  Stokely glanced from Gavin to Christabel, then back. “All right,” he said at last. “We’ll play for the letters.”

  Ruthlessly Gavin resisted the impulse to crow.

  Now all they had to do was win at cards.

  Christabel couldn’t believe it. Heart pounding, she stared down at the trick they’d won, the trick that had just catapulted them into the final round past Lady Hungate and her partner. Perhaps the good fortune that had always evaded Philip had amassed itself to rain down on her and Gavin in their hour of need.

  With a groan, Lady Hungate lifted her gaze to Gavin. “I swear, Byrne, you have the damnedest luck.”

  “True, but in this case it wasn’t luck, Lady Hungate.” His eyes met Christabel’s. “It was skill.”

  Lady Hungate cast Christabel a grudging smile. “You may be right, sir. You may just be right.” She turned to her partner. “Come, my dear, let’s go drown ourselves in Stokely’s brandy. No point to abstaining from it now that we’ve lost any chance at the pot. Again.”

  When she and her partner rose, Lord Stokely looked over from where he was standing with the team they’d just beaten, waiting for the outcome. “Do we have a winner then?”

  “Of course,” Gavin said, eyes glittering. “It’s just the four of us from here on out, Stokely.”

  Lord Stokely came over with Lady Kingsley. “Shall we go on to the final rubbers now? Or do you wish a brief period of respite?”

  “I don’t need any respite,” Gavin said. “What about you, darling?”

  “I’m ready now,” Christabel answered. Or as ready as she could ever be for a game where so much was at stake.

  “But before we begin,” Gavin told Lord Stokely. “I want to see the prize.”

  “I thought you might.” Reaching inside his pocket, Lord Stokely drew out a packet and threw it on the table in front of him.

  Her blood began to thunder in her ears. So close and yet still miles away.

  Gavin strode up to the table and reached for them, but Lord Stokely stayed his hand. “If you win, and not before.”

  “How do we know they’re the right ones?”

  Lord Stokely glanced beyond him to Christabel, one eyebrow raised in question.

  “It’s them,” she confirmed, her throat dry. She would recognize that faded yellow ribbon and the crumbling paper anywhere.

  “What’s this about?” Lady Kingsley asked.

  “Nothing you should worry your pretty head over,” Lord Stokely told her. “Just play to win, my dear. Play to win.”

  “I always do,” she retorted.

  “Shall we begin?” Gavin asked.

  “In a moment,” Lord Stokely answered. “But first…” He waved over two footmen who’d b
een standing at the ready inside the door. “Mr. Byrne keeps a knife inside his boot. Make sure you relieve him of it. And search the chit, too—she’s been known to carry a pistol from time to time.”

  Gavin’s lips twisted in a smile. “Don’t you trust us, Stokely?” he said, as the footmen searched him, removing his knife.

  “Not for one minute.”

  A maid was called in to search Christabel, discovering her fan in her apron pocket.

  “You can keep that, I suppose.” Lord Stokely gave a cruel laugh. “You might need it when the game grows heated.”

  Lady Kingsley looked as if she might say something about the fan, but Christabel shot her a threatening glance that the woman thankfully took to heart.

  “Now it’s my turn to search you, Stokely,” Gavin said.

  Lord Stokely looked offended. “I’m a gentleman. I don’t carry knives hidden in my boot.”

  “All the same, I’m sure you won’t mind if I look for myself.”

  Lord Stokely hesitated, then gave in with a nod.

  When Gavin had satisfied himself that Lord Stokely indeed was weaponless, he added, “Same terms for the game as always? We play the best two rubbers out of three?”

  “Of course.” Lord Stokely waved toward the chairs. “Ladies.”

  As Christabel found her seat, her pulse began to race. So much was at stake—the letters, her father’s honor, even her future with Gavin. If Lord Stokely won and kept the letters, there was no telling how or upon whom His Highness would wreak his fury. He might not stop with her and Papa. By agreeing to marry Gavin no matter what, she’d put him firmly in her camp, and the prince had already done so much to hurt him that she couldn’t bear to see him do more.

  They had to win. It was as simple as that.

  Her hands shook as she pulled out the chair. Then suddenly Gavin’s hand was covering hers, helping her with the chair. And in the process, giving her a brief caress. As she sat down, she gazed up at him.

  His mouth crooked up in a smile. “Good luck, my love,” he murmured. Then he left her to take his own seat.