by Julie Kenner
Marchant’s eyes burned with the need to blink, but he continued to stare at her. Mariah Eller was beaming at Jack with a directness that spoke of intimacy. When she reached up to stroke his face, they turned just enough for Marchant to make out his expression.
Gone were the fierce aura of control, the subtle arrogance, the moral superiority that had never failed to annoy the prince’s other intimates. Iron Jack, they called him behind his back. The standards-keeper. Right now his aristocratic features were filled with the same idiotic pleasure as hers.
Sweet Jesus.
Jack was bedding the prince’s light o’ love! The one he and Jack had been charged with marrying off. From the looks of them, there was more than just a bit of slap-and-tickle going on. It was a full-blown romance.
He watched them walk toward the stairs, Jack holding her adoringly, the widow gazing up at him as if he were the blessed Second Coming.
Iron Jack was in love.
Marchant leaned against the door frame and scoured his face with his hands, trying to sober up enough to figure out what to do. There would be hell to pay when Bertie found out about this. Bertie liked St. Lawrence—liked the whole damned St. Lawrence family. He’d want to blame someone else. Someone charged with securing the widow’s cooperation. He felt his collar tighten.
Somebody had to talk to Jack, make him see the error of his ways—and soon, before hints of this reached Bertie’s ears.
Inspiration struck. Family. That was what St. Lawrences prized above all else. Jack’s eldest brother Jared lived just west of London.
If he left first thing in the morning he could be there by noon.
ONCE THEY were married, he was going to have to foot these bills, Jack thought the next morning as he stood in a shoe shop, watching her wade through a sea of shoes: house slippers, day boots, pumps, slides, walking shoes, riding boots… French heels, wedges…kid, satin, brocade and patent leather. It was sobering, even worrisome in light of the fact that his family would likely disown him. But the sight of her shapely ankles burned itself into his brain and he soon was aching to carry her back to their hotel and ravish her within an inch of her life.
Colliding with Mercy’s glare doused that untimely ardor. The salty old servant was looking at him as if he had grown a second head.
Was it his imagination that the head porter at the hotel had stared at him oddly, too? And that the waiter in the breakfast room seemed to find him suddenly amusing? He checked his trouser buttons, collar and glanced at his hair in a lobby mirror. Finding nothing amiss, he’d shrugged it off.
Then there was that officious wretch at the linen draper’s shop, who kept ogling Mariah as if she were made of sugar. That he could understand. She was pure honey-blond radiance. Sunlight trapped in human form. He found himself smiling wistfully at her and feeling a little foolish…but only until she smiled back and he felt his heart swell.
Things improved after a bracing cup of tea and some sweets and savories in a Knightsbridge tea room. But they were soon off to the dressmaker’s to check on the progress of her purchases, and he was back to holding packages and nodding politely. She insisted he see every style she chose, which meant he had to sit idly in the close, over-perfumed fitting room with Mercy…who kept looking askance at him.
Something was bubbling to the old servant’s surface. He tried to ignore it, but she dropped the carpet bag she habitually carried and a thimble rolled out and across the polished floor. He was forced by both breeding and conscience to retrieve it…which brought him face to face with her.
“Don’t think it ain’t writ all over ye,” she whispered with a scowl.
“What is ‘writ’ all over me?” he said, under the misapprehension that she wouldn’t dare raise a truly personal topic with him.
“How ye spent last evenin’,” she whispered, eyes darting at the fitting-room doorway. “I ain’t blind, ye know. I just got the lumbago.”
After a week closed up in a coach, train and sundry cabs with her betters, familiarity apparently had bred contempt.
“How I spent the evening?” He stiffened, gripping the knob of his walking stick. “I worked at the Stephens factory until nearly midnight.”
“I heard ye, late, in th’ hall.”
“I have no idea what you’re on about.”
“Shame on ye, sarr. She be a decent woman havin’ to get married ’cause o’ money troubles.” She squared her shoulders, looking as if she’d just eaten a sour persimmon. “Ye want her carryin’ a bundle to th’ altar?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He could feel himself paling. A bundle?
“Plain as th’ hair on the old Queen’s chin, it is. Yer glowin’ like daisies, the both of ye.”
“Really, this is most improper,” he said, trying for the glower that had never failed to put servants in their place, until now.
“Marry the lass, sarr. Make a honest woman o’ her.” Her tone was sharp enough to draw blood. “Or make yer John Thomas happy yerself.”
Jack froze, hearing the first words echoing in his head and telling himself surely he had mistaken the last. Make an honest woman of her.
Marry the lass, sarr.
Hearing those words spoken outside his head was jarring.
The harsh light of logic fell on the sweet, irrational hope of his heart.
Marrying Mariah. The whole of his life was weighted against it. His family expected him to turn Bertie’s favor and influence into a marriageable asset. But he’d failed to carry out Bertie’s special mission and—worse—usurped Bertie’s pleasure. He’d seen how the prince cut off men and families who failed to show him proper respect. He didn’t want to imagine the prince’s outrage upon learning that Jack had wedded the woman he had claimed as his mistress.
The day’s bright prospect suddenly dimmed.
There was no way to have both her and the prince’s favor.
17
MARIAH stepped out from behind the changing screen in a half-sewn blue satin dinner gown that displayed her figure to spectacular advantage. She twirled around, holding the train up as she might while waltzing.
“What do you think?” she asked, coming to a stop in front of them.
“A pure vizhun, miz.” Mercy beamed.
“Needs more fabric.” Jack stared at her bared bosom. “A lot more.”
She gave a throaty laugh and her eyes danced with a hint of mischief.
“Well, I am reliably informed that this style is de rigueur for ladies of quality at fine restaurants and the opera.”
“Ever been to an opera?” he asked with exaggerated distaste. “The audience should be allowed to wear nightcaps and bedclothes.”
She burst into laughter and gripped the waist of the gown as if afraid the temporary stitching might not hold. He joined her, and after a moment, so did Mercy, though she seemed to be wondering what she was laughing about. When they sobered, Mariah settled a warm smile on him.
She didn’t know when she’d felt so good or enjoyed someone’s company as much as she did Jack’s. He constantly surprised her with droll comments on London society. In him, a lively curiosity was mated with a rebellious and rigorous intellect that viewed matters from odd angles. The result was that he, like the rest of the male sex, was beset by internal contradictions that sometimes embarrassed him.
He was supremely self-controlled, but he was as fond of pleasure as any man alive. He refused to subscribe to popular thought without critical analysis, but he was careful to observe social conventions as though they were immutable laws. It was as if outward conformity was the price he paid to allow himself the freedom to think and feel for himself.
Wanting her was the ultimate expression of that tension inside him. To admit he loved her would be to risk losing the benefits of birth and social standing he’d enjoyed his entire life. To have her, to truly make her his, he would have to turn his comfortable, predictable world on its ear.
Do you love me that much, Jack? she asked with her eyes. You’ve pulle
d me from my safe, secure life and made me want a love, a family, a lifetime with you. Are you willing to leave your safe, secure world to have those things with me?
His ragged, desire-filled sigh muted every worry clamoring inside her. Being with him, wanting him and loving him…that was what was important. They had a week left. Seven days. It might be selfish, but she wanted every precious minute of every precious one of them with him.
PROMISING Jack an easier time of it at Harrods, Mariah shopped next for the fine linens and pillows she had developed such a fondness for at the hotel. The store was elegant and overwhelming…packed ceiling to floor with fine foods, elegant china, figurines, clothing, inventions and household items of every purpose and description.
Mercy complained of her lumbago and seemed on the verge of her first ever collapse due to “vapors,” when Mariah discovered some adorable bonnets. The parlor maid cum traveling companion was miraculously revived by a new hat and a finely crafted pair of walking shoes.
The rest of the day they spent seeing more of London’s sights by carriage: Hyde Park, the Crystal Palace and, for good measure, Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum. There, they disembarked and paid for admission. Mercy required smelling salts outside the Chamber of Horrors and refused to continue the tour. They left her in a lady-seat by the entry and went on to see the rest of the exhibits…holding hands when they were out of her sight, and talking and laughing with their heads together, looking very much like the lovers they were.
Later, during tea at the hotel, Jack conferred with the concierge and returned to the table to announce he had acquired tickets to a concert at Royal Albert Hall. Mariah couldn’t speak as she stared at the tickets he presented her. When she looked up, she knew her pleasure shone in her eyes.
“I recall how much you like music,” he said wryly.
“I do indeed.” She grinned. “An orchestra at Royal Albert Hall!” She had a sobering thought. “But I don’t have an evening dress to wear.”
“Sunday clothes will do. It’s a large hall and not half so socially demanding as the opera.”
“Ye’ll be needin’ me to come.” Mercy speared Jack with a look. “Right?”
He exhaled quietly.
“Of course.” Mariah spread the tickets in a fan to show that Jack had indeed purchased three.
That was how they came to be sitting that night in the vast, gaslit expanse of the empire’s crowning architectural wonder. It was an oval-shaped amphitheater capable of seating thousands in classical opulence, but tonight, the hall was far from full. Jack had been able to get prime seats on the tier just above the main floor and fairly near the stage.
They arrived in time for a quick tour, but not in time for a ride in one of the hydraulic lifts that carried patrons up to the art-filled gallery that ringed the uppermost level. That, Jack declared, would have to wait until intermission. When Mercy learned that a hydraulic lift was essentially a box in which you rode a hundred feet straight up, she looked a bit conflicted and then declared she was willing to forego that excitement.
As the musicians took the stage and the lights dimmed, Mariah put her hand on Jack’s arm and left it there throughout the first two selections. As the varied program continued with works from Brahms, Beethoven and Liszt, she spent as much time watching Jack as she did the performers.
The dim lighting and evocative music of so many strings gave the experience an intimacy that made Mariah long to be someplace not so public. When she looked up at Jack, the sight of his jawline sent a ripple of sexual excitement through her that made her gasp. He turned to see what had caused it and she lowered her eyes, a bit embarrassed.
She clasped her hands and pressed her knees together, taking deep, slow breaths. Fortunately the music slowed and grew dreamy and pastoral. She was starting to relax, when a snort from Mercy made her jump. She turned and Jack leaned out to look past her at the maid…who was snoring.
“Brahms,” Jack whispered with a chuckle. “He does it every time.”
When the lights came up at intermission, Mercy roused, blinked, and allowed herself to be persuaded to sit while they stretched their legs with a trip to the Gallery. As they waited in line for the lift, Mariah was even more aware of Jack’s handsome male presence and grew a little breathless.
They stepped out and began to walk along the broad, art-lined Gallery. Longing shot through her as she saw and felt his muscular strides and the subtle sway of his shoulders. Her body vibrated with a delicious private knowledge of the sexual prowess of the man at her side.
When they stopped with a small group of other theatergoers to study a painting, she settled herself in front of him and brushed the front of his trousers. A flash of desire rushed through her, brightening her eyes. She felt him stiffen, though his expression didn’t change. Then he leaned to her ear, his eyes lidded and unreadable.
“You are a naughty girl, Butterfly,” he whispered.
She smiled and struck off for another painting. Under the guise of making room for other patrons, he pressed against her back…and ran a hand up the side of her waist. Yet another painting and their legs brushed. Still another, and she turned and slid by him, body pressed to body, hand dragging covertly over the ridge developing in his trousers.
“A pity they don’t have a tea room here,” she said, glancing out over the hall itself. “I would love some tea and a petit four. How about you?” She flicked a gaze at him from the corner of her eye. “Would you like a luscious little cake with white frosting and taut pink rosettes?”
He pulled her behind a large potted palm and kissed her. She laughed and ducked out of his embrace to stroll further down the gallery. He was only a step behind her as she paused before another painting.
“Perhaps I can arrange a little tea party in my room tonight,” she said quietly, feigning absorption in the rather garish landscape.
“Wicked woman,” he muttered next to her ear. “I’m already—”
“St. Lawrence?” A strident male voice shattered that delicious moment. They started apart and looked around to locate the source.
“It is you!” A familiar face had appeared a few yards away in the middle of the gallery. “I thought you were somewhere in the country, growing moss.”
The dapper, elegant man Mariah had hosted in her inn as Jack A. Dandy was suddenly closing on them with a bluff, confident smile and an outstretched hand. She stifled the urge to hide her still-tingling lips and straighten her clothes.
“Cranmer. Imagine seeing you here.” Jack’s chin rose as he retreated into well-practiced reserve. “I never took you for a music lover.”
“Well, you know how it is.” The dapper earl gave a wicked grin and tossed a glance over his shoulder to indicate several men gathered around a portly figure in a dark suit. “Where he goes, we go.”
Mariah’s heart stopped as her gaze fell on the group’s central figure. He was of average height, considerable girth and sported a closely cropped pointed beard that she recalled all too well.
“St. Lawrence?” the prince called.
The heir to the throne and his companions bore down on them from across the gallery. Her first impulse was to run, to grab Jack’s hand and just flee for her life. But Jack was planted firmly at her side with his hand searching between them for hers. A brief squeeze was all he could manage before the prince and his men were upon them.
“And Mrs. Eller. What an unexpected pleasure!” Bertie’s face lit as he reached for her with both hands. She laid her hands in his and gave a small curtsy. “What a sight you are—even lovelier than I remembered. What the devil are you doing here in London?” This last he aimed equally at Jack, who stood at attention.
Jack didn’t look at her; he was focused fully on the prince.
“Seeing the sights, Your Highness, and shopping,” she answered for them both. Her face felt as though it might crack from the force a smile required.
“And taking care of a certain legal matter,” Jack added.
“By God, yo
u look scrumptious. Doesn’t she, lads?” There was enthusiastic agreement as he looked her over thoroughly and introduced her to his group, which included Jack Ketch and Jack Sprat and Jack A. Dandy. Titled men, every one. “Quite a stunner you’re escorting here, Jack.”
“So she is, Your Highness,” Jack responded. With a countenance now resembling granite, he made no move to interfere as the prince transferred her hand to his arm so he would be free to clasp her waist. But then she spotted a familiar twitch in Jack’s jaw…saw his hand curl into a fist.
Gordon Clapford’s bloodied face rose in her mind, and her heart lurched back to duty, racing to make up for lost time.
“Well, my dear, have you found our fair city to your liking?”
Sliding determinedly into the worldly persona that had allowed her to handle the prince before, she managed to wedge her arm between herself and Bertie’s middle and make a bit of room.
“I cannot speak for the entire city, Highness, since I haven’t seen it all. But I certainly have found Harrods a delight.” She hoped her eyes twinkled. It must have worked; the prince and his companions seemed charmed. “Do you know they have telephones? I had never seen one. And an American phonograph that plays recorded music and political speeches.”
“Political speeches?” The prince laughed heartily. “Pray that doesn’t catch on. There’s entirely too much ‘speechifying’ in politics as it is.”
“And this afternoon, we took in Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum. Quite the chilling experience, if I do say so. My maid, Mercy, was quite overcome and had to be revived with smelling salts.”
There was more laughter, which would have been a relief if the prince hadn’t chosen that moment to turn to Jack.
“Where are you keeping her, St. Lawrence?”
“Claridge’s,” Jack said tautly.
“Excellent. Know it well.” A canny look came over the prince. “You needn’t worry. I’ll see she gets home safe and sound.” He tucked Mariah’s hand into the crook of his arm. “Come, my dear. Let’s have a stroll and see a bit more of this art.”
