by Julie Kenner
18
IT COULDN’T have been clearer that Jack was being dismissed. Mariah tried to catch his eye, but his gaze was lowered as he nodded, backed a step, and then turned on his heel. She watched him head for the lift with a sick feeling. It was all she could do to attend to the prince’s question.
“So, is Jack looking after you well?”
“Yes,” she said, afraid to say more lest her voice give away her feeling for him. As they walked, the prince’s companions began to fall discreetly away. Soon, with only Jack Sprat and Jack A. Dandy for company, Bertie began to explore his latest acquisition.
“And what of the legal matter Jack mentioned?” the prince asked as his hands drifted over her. “Has that been settled to your satisfaction?”
“Interesting that you should mention that, Highness.”
“Bertie, please,” he said, leaning so close that she could smell the tobacco and brandy on his breath.
“Bertie. It seems we’ve run into a bit of a snag. There were four possibilities on the list—but I mustn’t bore you with such details.”
“No, no, I want to know. I am deeply interested in your welfare, my dear.” His hand tightened on her waist and his voice lowered. “Deeply.”
“The first candidate, a solicitor from Lincoln, was already contracted to marry someone else…well and truly off the market. The second prospect, the soon-to-be Baron Clapford, was an arrogant, overwhelming boor, who very nearly cold-cocked me when we met.”
“He what?” Bertie stopped dead, drawing the others to a halt.
“Clapford? The MP from Grantham? He’s got a nasty temper,” Jack Sprat declared, “but I wouldn’t have taken him for a woman bully.”
“To be fair, I pushed him into his fish pond first.” They gaped at her. “In my defense, I thought he was going to hit me. So, it was instinctive, not malicious.” The prince hooted and she realized that laughter was the key to forestalling his advances. “I don’t think you should count on getting any fancy goldfish from him to stock your garden ponds, Your Highness.”
“I’ll remember. No goldfish,” he said, grinning. “Surely there was someone more suitable.”
“We went to Cambridge next, where I met Professor Winston Martindale of Magdalene College.”
“Martindale? Wait—I know that name.” Bertie looked to Sprat and Dandy for help. “Where do I know that name from?”
They shook their heads.
“Your husband list?” she prompted. “It seems he’s been on it before. Winston Martindale, of the deplorable dental hygiene?”
“Oh, my God!” Bertie recalled with shock. “Toothless Winnie! He’s still around?” He looked to the others, who apparently also recalled the professor. “Who the devil gave Jack old Winnie Martindale’s name?”
The others were too busy laughing to reply.
“I believe it was the Earl of Chester’s son,” she ventured.
“I might have known.” Bertie looked genuinely annoyed.
“But Martindale is no longer toothless,” she said brightly. “He has a new set of teeth from Germany. ‘If you ever need a new set of choppers,’ he said, ‘the Huns make the very best.’” She made her bucktoothed face. “You should see them. Big as fence posts.” The prince’s friends leaned against the wall, weak with laughter. “He’s generous with them, too. Took them out and offered to let me give them a try.”
She was laughing such that she had to wipe the corners of her eyes.
“I declined. Seeing as half his dinner was still in them.”
“Ha-ha-ha-ha-haaarghh!” Bertie laughed so hard he started to cough. The others patted him on the back, until he got control and waved them off.
When he’d sobered, he settled a perceptive gaze on her.
“You’re quite an unexpected treat, my dear. Don’t know when I’ve laughed like that.” He pulled out his handkerchief, dabbed his eyes, then took her arm through his again. “So, who did you finally settle on?”
She winced.
“No one, I’m afraid.”
He halted to look at her, holding her arm a bit too tightly.
“You mean to say you have no plans to marry?” The consequences of that were made plain as his fleshy features sharpened and his eyes took on a cool displeasure. She couldn’t allow him to think Jack had failed.
“Well, as it happens, I do have a matrimonial candidate in mind. Someone quite acceptable to me. But—” she gave him her most appealing smile “—I fear you may not approve. And I do so want you to approve.”
“Don’t be silly.” His affability returned in a rush that made it less than convincing. “I’m sure anyone you want will be perfectly fine with me. After all, my dear, I want you to be happy. He will make you happy, won’t he?”
“I believe so. I mean, he’s not a handsome prince.” She sighed, hoping he would be flattered. “But, I think there’s enough there to work with. Given time, I can shape him into a suitable husband.”
“Consider it done, then. If you think he’ll do, then by all means marry the blighter.” He leaned closer, and closer still. “The sooner the better.”
It was only then that she realized he had maneuvered her into a niche between a column and a large potted palm. The music had resumed in the concert hall, drawing the rest of the audience back to the hall. They were virtually alone.
His mouth descended on hers and the wrongness of it shocked her motionless.
If she had ever entertained any notion of complying with the prince’s demands and becoming his mistress, that kiss would have quashed it. His lips were thick and rubbery and his mouth was beard-scratchy and wet; she was simultaneously drowning and being devoured! Only the strongest self-control allowed her to remain trapped in his embrace.
When he raised his head, his features were coarsened by lust alloyed with power.
“And what is the name of this lucky lump you’ve decided to mold into a domesticated male?”
She prayed she wasn’t making the mistake of her life.
“Jack St. Lawrence.”
Her heart stopped as he froze. The surprise on his face deepened, and he pulled away and looked her up and down.
“My Jack St. Lawrence?” he said, clearly taken aback. After what seemed a small eternity, he produced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Have you spoken with him about this?” he demanded.
“Heavens, no. I haven’t mentioned the word marriage. He’s not the most conversational of fellows. Besides, I believe it’s always best to let a man think matrimony is his idea.”
She gave a nervous laugh that she didn’t have to fake.
“If you have someone better, I’d be happy to entertain another option. I have another whole week, I believe.” She ran a flirtatious finger down the buttons of his waistcoat. “To prepare.”
“It’s just… Jack St. Lawrence. It’s somewhat unexpected. He’s not known to be much of a ladies’ man.”
“Precisely what will make him a proper and dutiful husband. A man who is too successful with the ladies finds it difficult to be satisfied with the monotony of home life.” She slipped her arm through his and pressed against his shoulder to distract him from realizing that he was the prime example of that axiom. As they turned toward the lift she assured him, “Trust me, Highness. I have experience in these matters.”
JACK HAD STUMBLED from the lift and managed to make his way back to the seats he and Mariah had shared minutes earlier. Images of her trapped at Bertie’s side blinded him to all but the most rudimentary of sensory input. He collected the protesting Mercy, bundled her into a cab and deposited her on Claridge’s doorstep…then headed for his club and a bottle of Scotch.
Halfway through the first glass he found it impossible to swallow any more of the stuff. He’d failed her, failed himself, even failed Bertie in a way. If he’d been truthful about that night at the inn, Bertie wouldn’t have started this whole damnable thing. And if he’d kept his hands and his lips to himself…
; …he’d be even more miserable than he was now.
Loving Mariah Eller was the best thing that had happened to him in his entire life. She made him laugh as well as think, she challenged his assumptions and gave him a reason to wake up in the morning. He truly loved her. And he’d been too afraid of the damnable “consequences” to tell her that. Even after she’d bared her soul to him. Even after she’d given him all the love and passion she possessed. Even after she’d opened his eyes and heart and life to the possibilities all around him.
What the hell was wrong with him?
Leaving the nearly full bottle on the clubroom table, he stalked out into the street and began to walk. Professor Jamison’s words came back to him: a man has obligations to himself as well as to his country and his family. Mariah’s observations followed close behind: he needed someone to encourage him to rebel, to try new things, to live life on his own terms instead of his family’s. No truer words were ever spoken. And the “someone” he needed was Mariah.
She was the one who saw not only the man he was, but the man he could someday be. And she loved both. If he didn’t make her his, legally and morally, he would be consigning himself to a life half lived in the service of others’ ambitions and desires.
When he came to his senses some time later, he found himself back at Claridge’s. He looked up at the lights coming from the upstairs windows and his heart beat faster at the thought that she might be there. He knew then that his heart would always beat faster at the prospect of her presence.
What the devil was he waiting for?
He practically leapt over the desk to get his key, then took the steps two at a time to her room. Her door was locked. She wasn’t there. The look in her eyes as Bertie had led her away returned to haunt him. He should have spoken up…should have done something…
Stomach in knots, he headed for his own room and found the door ajar. Bracing, he entered and slammed the door so hard that it bounced.
“Well, Jack, you’ve gotten yourself into a real mess this time.”
He straightened slowly from his defensive stance, scowling at the two men waiting for him by the hearth: the canny Baron Marchant and Jack’s eldest brother, Jared the Perfect.
“You’re supposed to be procuring a mistress, not poaching one,” Jared continued, unfolding his tall frame from a low stool by the hearth.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Jack demanded of his brother, then glowered at Marchant, guessing he was responsible.
“Saving your ungrateful arse,” Jared said irritably. “You should be kissing Marchant’s boots for alerting me to this insanity.”
“You can’t deny it, Jack,” Marchant charged. “I saw you with her.”
So Marchant had seen them together and gone to fetch his brother.
“You were sent to marry off the widow and decided to sample the goods yourself,” Jared snapped. “Stupid, but not fatal. I’m here to fix things so that the prince never finds out what an idiot you’ve been.”
“Go home, Jared,” Jack said quietly, feeling old angers rising. “This is none of your business.”
“Whatever affects my family’s reputation is my business, little brother. I won’t have you bringing the enmity of king and crown down upon our family just so you can have a roll in the hay with one of Bertie’s sluts.”
“Shut up, Jared.” Jack’s muscles coiled. “You don’t know what—or who—you’re talking about.”
Jared looked to Marchant, who was indignation personified. “Oh, I think I have a fair picture. I’ve been there myself, remember? The hunting trip. The nubile widow. It’s Bertie’s stock in trade. He has a rare talent for sniffing out women with more ambition than virtue.”
“You don’t know the first thing about her,” Jack said, quieting as he worked to control his anger. Jared stalked closer.
“So now you’re the tart’s champion and defender? Oh, God—don’t tell me.” Jared clapped his hand to his forehead. “You’ve gone and fallen for the chit. You’re in love, is that it?”
“I’m telling you, Jared, leave it. Go home to your wife and children. I’ll handle this my way.”
“She’s using you,” Jared snarled. “She’s a common trollop who wants someone who can pay the bills when Bertie throws her over.”
“Get out,” Jack snarled. “Before I throw you out!”
He grabbed Jared’s arm to drag him to the door, and the next instant, they were grappling, gouging, knocking over chairs and banging into a sideboard, sending crockery crashing.
19
THE PRINCE OF WALES sat in his coach outside Claridge’s, watching “Dandy” escort Mariah Eller into the hotel and feeling a twinge of relief. The dapper Dandy had been instructed to wait until she reached her rooms, then to see if Jack was in his room and bring him out for a talk with Bertie.
“She honestly proposed marrying St. Lawrence?” Jack Sprat, seated across from Bertie, reacted to the prince’s news with a loosened jaw that made his thin, dolorous face look even longer. “Iron Jack?”
“Doesn’t know him like we do, eh, Avery?” Bertie shook his head. “Thinks she can mold him into something ‘suitable.’”
“Humph. Not unless she’s got a hammer and tongs up her skirts.” Sprat sat forward to look out as Bertie sat back. “Never seen a man with more steel in his spine.”
“Twice the man his brothers were. Dependable as sunrise. Now and again comes up with a remark that lets you know those still waters run plenty deep.” Bertie tapped his temple. “Keeps his thoughts close, though.”
“Thinks too much,” Sprat diagnosed. “Not good for a man.”
“He’s seen me to my bed more times than I care to remember.” The future king turned somber. “Been a loyal and considerate fellow on all accounts. I’d hate to see him come to a bad end over a woman.”
“Still and all, she is a beauty,” Sprat ruminated. “And witty.”
“Too clever by half. Managed to dispense with the list in order to set her sights on him. Scheming minx. Not that I don’t admire ambition in a woman…just not in a mistress.”
“So, you’ve gone off her then?”
“I’ll see what Jack has to say.” Bertie sighed sharply. “If I do go forward with her, it will be short. Don’t sleep well beside a clever woman. Never have.”
“JACK! Stop!”
Mariah rushed into Jack’s room to intervene, but had to dodge the grappling men to avoid being knocked down. “Stop it, Jack—please!”
Her presence registered and his slackening hold gave his opponent space to wedge in a blow. His head snapped back and he staggered but kept his feet. She made for him, but he waved her back and charged the man again, this time landing a punch that knocked his opponent to his knees. She managed to grab him by the coat and pull him back toward the door.
“What’s going on, Jack? Who is this?”
“My brother…the honorable Jared St. Lawrence…come to see I don’t embarrass the family,” Jack said, panting as he wiped blood from his cheek.
Mariah recognized the similarity in size and coloring between the two men as Jared shoved to his feet and reached for his handkerchief, eyes blazing. But there the similarities stopped. Jared was Jack carved out of pure flint.
“This must be Bertie’s trull,” he said, raking her with a hostile glare.
“Her name is Mariah Eller. Widow of Sir Mason Eller.” Jack pulled her against his side. “Soon to be my wife.”
“For God’s sake, Jack!” Marchant stepped forward, mopping his brow. “She’s already Bertie’s mistress, for all intents and purposes. He expects to have her in his bed a week from now.”
Horror filled Mariah as Jack’s brother turned a scathing look on her. Jack’s friends…his family… Bertie…they all thought the worst of her. How long would it be before their common opinion overwhelmed Jack’s reputation and prospects and slowly poisoned him against her?
Even as her heart was sinking, Jack put an arm around her and pulled her against his
side. He was saying something about what Jared and the baron could do with—Wait. What was it he said a minute ago? She was going to be his wife?
She tried to get him to talk to her, but he ushered her forcefully out the door and toward her room. She caught sight of Mercy standing a few doors down, wearing her nightcap, quilted gown and a thick shawl.
“Get your mantle and a cloak for Mercy,” Jack said as they reached Mariah’s door. “She’s coming with us.”
“Coming where?” Trying to resist him was like trying to halt a locomotive engine with a full head of steam. “Tell me what you’re—”
“For once, just do as I ask, Mariah,” he said, ignoring the protests of his brother and Marchant spilling into the hall behind them. “I’ve had enough of people telling me what’s what tonight.”
He pulled her and Mercy with him down the stairs and through the lobby to order the night doorman to find them a cab, a wagon—anything with wheels. He was so intent on the rush of rebellion in his veins that he failed to see the familiar figure of Jack A. Dandy lounging by the reception desk or to notice the way the fellow snapped to attention at the sight of them.
WAITING across the street, Bertie and Sprat saw the doorman rush out of the hotel and give two short, sharp blasts of his whistle, summoning a growler. But after a look up and down the street, spotting none of the four-seater cabs, he blew a single sharp blast and waved on a smaller Hansom that was waiting down the block.
As the doorman rushed back to the lobby, the doors burst open and Jack and Mariah Eller emerged, dragging an old woman with them. The three crowded into the two-seater and took off at a fierce clip.
While they were staring after the cab, Dandy came running out and Sprat opened the door to admit him.
“What in hell’s going on?” Bertie demanded. “Where is he off to?”
“No…idea,” Dandy wheezed, trying to catch his breath. “I delivered her, she got her key… I gave her time to get to her room. I was starting up to fetch Jack for you when I heard some kind of a ruckus and he came rushing down with her and some old woman.”
