One Night With A Prince (25 page)

“Do they?” she whispered, surprised.

“And Stokely.” His gaze bored into hers. “I hate the idea of Stokely touching you.” He drove inside her again, so fiercely it made her gasp. “I’mthe only one who should touch you. I’m the only one who should kiss you.” His breath rasped against her ear. “I’mthe only one who should…put himself inside you…like this—” He nipped her earlobe, then soothed the nip with heated swaths of his tongue. “If I believed…for one moment that you…would really countenance another man’s—”

“No, never,” she vowed against his cheek. “It’s only you I want.” She wound her arms about his neck, arching up against him to find more of the glorious pleasure his delicious thrusts were rousing. “Only you.”

“Christabel,” he said hoarsely, then cast openmouthed kisses along her cheek, her jaw, her throat. “My God, Christabel…”

Byrne matched his kisses with wild, thundering thrusts, reaching down between them to rub her sensitive nub until she was falling, falling…falling into hell with the angel of darkness, the Prince of Sin himself. The man with no soul was plundering hers over and over, mercilessly, thoroughly, branding her with himself in every vein and muscle and limb, until she forgot where he ended and she began. Now she was truly in trouble. She fancied she could feel the heat of hellfire on her face, smell the brimstone in the air, yet it was as sweet as fragrant roses to her. Lord help her, she didn’t care where Byrne took her. Let hellfire consume her and the devil steal her soul. Because any hell with Byrne in it was better than a heaven without him.

“Damn you, lass,” he whispered, his voice harsh and guttural. “Christabel…my sweet…my darling…mine…mine…mine!”

It was the exultant cry of the devil claiming her soul, yet all she could think as he spilled himself inside her and her body burst into flames was,Mine, too, Byrne. You’re mine, too .

his former mistresses, in case I did not like

his answers.

—Anonymous,Memoirs of a Mistress

Gavin lay sprawled on his back, staring at the canopy above them as Christabel’s sweet form curved against him. He couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t still the thundering of his heart. And it had nothing to do with his exertions of the past few minutes.

It was her and the things she’d forced him to admit. Had that humiliating litany of jealousies really come out of his mouth? And he hadn’t even been lying to get her to share his bed—he’d meant every word. Damn the chit. Damn her!

Plenty of his mistresses had used lovemaking to coax him into giving them jewels or gifts or excursions to
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exotic places. But none had ever used it to turn him confessional. Of course, none had ever made him want to strangle a man just for looking at them with lust, either. What the bloody hell had come over him? He might as well slice open his chest and offer her his heart for the plucking.Here, my sweet, rip it out. Colonel Christabel wasn’t satisfied with only his body, oh no. She wanted everything. If he weren’t careful, she’d turn him into a besotted fool. He turned to stare at her, and his anger abruptly vanished. She certainly didn’t look like a wily temptress bent on his destruction. More like a purring kitten curled up against him, her face softly content, sleepily happy.

He was in trouble now. Because the truth was—he’d speak every humiliating word again just to see that look on her face. Imagine what it would be like to wake up to that look every morning. To have that smile shine for him every single day of his life.

His breath caught in his throat. Damn her for doing this to him! He mustn’t let her guess what she’d done, or next thing he knew, he’d be married to her and surrounded with a passel of puling babes—

“Bloody hell!” He jerked up in bed. “I can’t believe I forgot to use them!”

“Use what?” she asked, her contentment abruptly fading.

“Too late this time anyway.” He settled back against the pillow, drawing her up to lean against his chest.

“I forgot to use my French letters to prevent children, my sweet.” Something else that had never happened with any other woman.

“Well,” she said in a small voice, “it probably doesn’t matter. I suspect I can’t have children anyway.”

A strange tightness seized his throat. “Why not?”

“I never conceived in all my years of marriage. So I’m probably barren.”

“How do you know your husband wasn’t the one at fault?”

“Men never are, or so the doctors told me.”

He snorted. “What else would they say? If men could be at fault, women might start abandoning their husbands for not giving them children, and they couldn’t have that. But if it takes two people to create a child, then it seems to me either person could be at fault fornot creating one. That’s merely logical.”

“And you’re nothing if not logical,” she said dryly.

“Which is why we’ll use my French letters from now on. And you’ll use a sponge. I’m not taking any chances. I can’t believe I took one this time.” He stared down at her tumbled hair with an ironic smile.

“That’s what happens when a man goes days without a woman. He loses his capacity for logic.”

She eyed him askance. “That would certainly explain why you never fail to be logical. I doubt you’ve ever gone more than one night without a woman.”

For some reason, her assumption annoyed him. “I’ve gone weeks without a woman. I do have a life outside of the bedroom.”

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“I’d never know it, to look at Lord Stokely’s guests. How many of your former mistresses are here? Two? Three? Ten?”

“Four,” he grudgingly admitted.

She dropped her gaze from his, her hand tracing faint circles on his bare chest. “And…Lady Kingsley? How would you characterize ‘Anna’?”

He stiffened. “What did Stokely tell you? I know he told you something.”

“He said that you wanted to marry her, and she refused you.” Her voice lowered. “He said you wanted her fortune.”

“Damn the bloody arse. That’s just like Stokely to speak half the truth. I didn’t need her fortune, for God’s sake.”

“Perhaps he misunderstood her. He said he got the story from Lady Kingsley herself. Or perhaps that’s how she looked at it. Especially since you’d just begun your club, and—”

“If she said I was after her fortune, she lied,” Gavin ground out. “My club was already doing pretty well for the small concern it was, and she knew it. Nor did she refuse me, not at first. We were engaged. Secretly engaged. I’d already arranged for us to elope to Gretna Green, and she was ready and willing.”

He gritted his teeth, remembering. “Then the lofty Lord Kingsley came along, and her family pressured her into accepting his suit. And that was the end of our plans.”

He hadn’t realized how much bitterness was in his voice until she laid her hand soothingly on his shoulder. “You loved her, didn’t you?”

Somehow he managed a shrug. “I was a young idiot. I suppose I fancied myself in love.”

“And she loved you. She still does. I suspect she regrets letting her family convince her to choose Kingsley over you.”

“Then she’s a fool.”

She stared up at him, wide-eyed. “Why?”

“The world is made for men. Women only succeed by marrying well, and I could never have given her the status she instantly achieved by marrying Kingsley. She would have been Mrs. Byrne, the Irish bastard’s wife. Instead of Lady Kingsley, the Irish peer’s wife.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” she persisted. “You loved each other, and a woman should always choose love over other considerations.”

“That didn’t exactly work well for you, did it?” Her stricken expression made him curse his quick tongue. “I’m sorry, lass, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Why not? It’s true.” She shifted out of his arms to lie with her back to him on the bed. “I loved Philip, and he trampled on my love. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps a woman should choose a man for more practical reasons, like money or status.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Or how good a lover he is.”

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Yesterday, he would have exulted to hear those words. Now, all he could think was that he’d stolen something valuable from her—her wide-eyed belief in honor and beauty and…yes…love. He bit back an oath. He hadn’t stolen it—Haversham had. He was just furthering the education her husband had started.

That was a depressing thought.

“Byrne?” she asked.

He lay down beside her, tugging her body into the lee of his. “Yes, lass?”

“What happens now?”

“What do you mean?” he said, pretending not to know.

“With us.”

Hardly realizing he did so, he tightened his grip on her. “We enjoy each other,” he said fiercely. “We share a bed, we play whist, and we—”

“I mean later. After this is over.”

“Nothing will change. You’ll still be my mistress and share my bed.”

She was silent a moment. “For how long?”

Damn her for asking that. Why did women always have to anticipate the end? “For however long we both want.”

“But Byrne—”

“Enough,” he broke in, covering her mouth with his hand. “Just let it be what it is for a while, all right? Can’t you do that?”

She shifted to gaze up at him, her eyes glimmering with tears, but she nodded. He let go of her mouth. “Good.” He bent his head to kiss her, but she pressed him back.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“I don’t know, four-thirty. Five. Why?”

“We should go look for the letters,” she whispered.

For half a second, he thought she meant his French letters. Then it dawned on him what she was talking about, and a groan escaped his lips.

He really was far gone, to forget the very thing he’d come here to gain. That’s what came of letting a woman get under one’s skin.

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He glanced at the clock. “It’s nearly 5:00A.M . The servants will be stirring.”

“But we could wait until they’ve finished in the public rooms, then still have time to search the study or library while everyone is abed.”

“I suppose,” he said noncommittally. The truth was, he doubted they would ever find those letters by searching Stokely’s huge mansion. They’d be better off trying to strike a deal with the arse. No,he would be better off striking a deal. He still meant to gain those letters for himself. It shouldn’t matter to her in the long run—after he got what he wanted from Prinny, he would return them. But he could only bargain with Stokely if he knew what was in them, knew their worth. He pressed his lips to her forehead, then nuzzled her hair. “How many letters are there exactly?” He kissed a path to her ear, which he then caressed with the tip of his tongue until he felt her sigh beneath him. “How large a packet are we looking for?”

“I don’t…know. Ten…twenty…not large.”

Covering her lush breast with his hand, he kneaded the nipple until it hardened to a fine point. “Is it bound with anything? Like string or ribbon?”

“A…a…yellow ribbon. I think.”

He nibbled her ear. “I assume the letters are from your father to someone. A friend? The prince himself?”

Stiffening, she pushed him back. “You’re trying to seduce me into telling you what’s in them.”

Damn her for being too clever—and wary—for him. “I’m trying to seduce you, yes. But I don’t care what you tell me about the letters.”

“Liar.” She stared at him with an accusing gaze. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Try all you wish—I’m not going to tell you.”

Not now, anyway. He hovered over her, a faint smile touching his lips. “Does that mean you won’t let me seduce you either?”

The sudden spark of heat in her was unmistakable. “We should sleep,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction.

He bent his head to nuzzle her breast, then dragged his tongue over the nipple until she gasped. “We can sleep later,” he said hoarsely. Then he added, “I’ll be right back,” and left the bed to find his French letters.

But by the time he returned to the bed, her eyes had drifted shut and her slow, even breathing signaled the end to tonight’s lovemaking. He tossed the French letters on the bedside table with a rueful sigh. No matter; there was always morning. And tomorrow night. And the night after that. For how long?

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He shoved that question from his mind. But after he climbed into bed beside her, and was drifting off to sleep, it returned to haunt him.For how long?

mistress might tell you. Her motives for

what she says can never be pure.

—Anonymous,Memoirs of a Mistress

On the third morning after Christabel had thrown caution to the winds and become Byrne’s real mistress, she sat at the dressing table in her room, grimacing with every stroke of Rosa’s brush. “Ouch!” she cried when Rosa pulled a bit too hard. “Are you trying to murder me?”

Rosa clucked her tongue. “These are the sacrifices you make for having a lusty lover.” She cut her eyes slyly at Christabel in the mirror. “He makes love to you all night, no? That is why your hair is so tangled?”

“Notall night.” But often enough to tangle her hair. And ensnare her heart. A sigh broke from her. The trouble with Byrne was that whenever he made love to her, she could almost believe it meant something to him. He lingered over her for hours, bringing her to heights of pleasure beyond her most erotic dreams. After a while, she began to hope that he cared for her more than he let on.

But when they played whist with the others or when they searched Lord Stokely’s mansion, he was that other Byrne, the frighteningly efficient, calculating, ruthless gambler. And seeing that always plunged her into despair.

Wrapping a hank of Christabel’s hair about her hand, Rosa briskly worked her brush through the snarled ends. “You are fortunate to be here with Mr. Byrne and not one of those other fools. He’s good in the bedchamberand good at cards. Mr. Byrne will win you a fortune that you can well use.”