To Pleasure a Prince (14 page)

“Yes, but even she can only go so far to sway the rest of them.”

“I thought they tend to approve men of title because they’re good catches.”

Byrne snorted. “Somehow I doubt that the term ‘good catch’ includes men who bear nicknames with the word ‘dragon’ in them. Or who wear thick beards. Or dress in clothes more outdated than the lowest servant’s. Or—”

“Enough. I take your meaning.” Confound it all, the man was as bad as Regina. “I can’t do anything about what I’m called, but I thought you might suggest…that is, if you have a tailor you use regularly—”

“Certainly,” Byrne said, thankfully staving off the rest of his humiliating speech. “My fellow will get you fixed up in no time or kill himself trying.”

“I’ll need the voucher—and the clothes—for the assembly Wednesday.”

“You don’t ask for much, do you?” Byrne sighed. “I can’t get you a voucher by then, but I can get you a Stranger’s Ticket. Assuming Louisa receives her voucher, you can attend as her guest…
if
you pass muster when you present yourself to the patronesses.”

Present himself? Like some schoolboy? Marcus nearly told Byrne to forget the whole thing. But to get Regina back, he had to do this right. “Fine.”

“You’ll have to promise to behave with decorum.”

“Of course.”

“Are you sure you know how?”

Not entirely.
Now that his initial anger at Regina’s comments had waned, he realized there was some truth to her words. It had been years since he’d even attempted to be correct in society. What if he’d forgotten how? What if he made a fool of himself?

He snorted. As if they cared how he behaved—no matter what he did, they would shun him. But he had to make the attempt, for Louisa’s sake.

“Marcus?” his brother prodded.

“Yes, with decorum. You’ll have to remind me what that is.”

His brother grinned. “Certainly. To the extent that
I
know what it is.” His grin faded. “There’s more, however. You’ll have to cut your hair.”

“I know.”

“And get rid of your beard.”

Damn.
He’d started growing it on the day a maidservant fainted at the sight of his scar. The whiskers had covered his face for nigh on nine years now. “My scar will show,” he said tightly as he picked up the poker to stoke the fire.

“The Lady Patronesses care less about scars than fashion. And with the war over and our brave soldiers coming home, scars are all the crack.”

He doubted that his would be, but he had no choice. “Fine,” he said, staring down at the hot poker. “I’ll shave off the beard.”

A long silence passed before Byrne said, “She really got to you, didn’t she?”

Lost in the past, he said, “Who?”

“La Belle Dame Sans Merci.”

Marcus thrust the poker onto the rack. “Don’t be absurd.”

“She’s quite a beauty. And I suppose she knows it, too.”

You want only my body…

He stiffened. “Yes, she knows it. But she’s not vain about it, if that’s what you mean.”

“Ah. And is she as heartless as they say?”

“She’s refused eleven proposals of marriage,” he said evasively. “What do you think?”

His brother stood and lowered his voice. “I think you should be careful, man. The woman was bred for better fellows than you.”

Marcus rounded on him with a glower. “First you, then Iversley. What sort of sniveling coxcomb do you two take me for? I told you this is just a bargain. I’m only courting her to keep an eye on Foxmoor.”

“So you say. But she’s brought many a man to his knees in the past.”

“I know how to guard myself against her kind of woman, for God’s sake. I was twenty-two when I left society. Before then, I suffered often enough through jokes about my size and my lack of interest in the fine arts of cravat-folding, card-playing, and empty flattery.” He gave a harsh laugh. “Then there were the many girls too high in the instep to countenance the attentions of a young man with a Jezebel for a mother. Even though the law considers me legitimate, I’ve had gossip about my parentage whispered by plenty of those ‘refined’ girls—”

“So have I,” Byrne broke in. “But I spent years learning how to turn my unfortunate birth to my advantage. I’ve figured out what makes those ‘refined’ women want a man, and I use it to have them groveling at my feet.”

“Behind their husband’s backs.”

“And in front of them, if I can get away with it.” Byrne’s eyes sparked blue as sapphires. “No one calls me bastard to my face anymore, you can be sure of that. Most of them can’t afford to get on my bad side.” For a moment, he looked more menacing than any demon spawned by hell.

Then he forced a smile. “But you, dear brother, have spent the last third of your life in a cave. And now a stunning female has deigned to let you court her, which you can’t help but find flattering—”

“I am not the smitten fool you and Iversley take me for,” Marcus snapped. “I have matters well in hand. So do I get my Stranger’s Ticket for Almack’s or not?”

“I’ll do my best.” A grin creased his face. “But God help Almack’s if I succeed.”

One is always safe with one’s charge at Almack’s.

—Miss Cicely Tremaine,
The Ideal Chaperone

R
egina’s fingers flew over the strings of her harp as she searched for the configuration of notes that would express her discontent. But the harp just wasn’t made for that sort of music. What she needed was a soulful violin. Or cymbals. That she could bash upon a certain man’s head.

“Are you sure you don’t want some tea?” came a plaintive voice from the table across the room.

Cicely was scribbling in that little book she always carried, the one that she called a diary. Regina wondered, rather unkindly, what Cicely could possibly have to write about in a diary. Her life lacked any real excitement.

Rather like Regina’s. She scowled and attacked her favorite piece of music with a vengeance, wishing it sounded less…pretty. “I’m not in the mood for tea.”

“Perhaps you would like me to read to you—”

“No!” When Cicely winced, she softened her tone. “I am definitely not in the mood to hear a book read.” Or to remember that Marcus preferred them to her.

Her fingers fell slack on the strings.

“You’re better off without him, you know,” Cicely said.

Regina’s head shot up, and she colored to see her cousin eyeing her as if she could read every thought in her head.

“That’s why you’ve been snapping at everyone lately, isn’t it? Because the two of you argued and Lord Draker ended your courtship?”

“Don’t be absurd. He didn’t end it;
I
did.”

“Because he wouldn’t do what you wanted.”

And because he was lying to her for his own horrible purposes. She’d tried to wound his pride, make him admit that he’d been using her to drive Louisa and Simon apart. But instead of wounding
his
pride, she’d shattered her own.

It had been four days since he’d stormed out of here. Since then, not a word. How could Marcus abandon their agreement so casually?

“I don’t know why it disturbs you so,” Cicely went on. “He’s not good enough for you. You’ve ignored many a finer gentleman. Why, you generally don’t even spare a second thought for a man after he leaves your presence.”

True. But those gentlemen generally pined for
her.
And that’s what Marcus should be doing, crawling back to her on his knees, begging her to forgive him.

She snorted. Dragons didn’t beg. They consumed and devoured and lumbered about, setting fire to things for the sheer fun of it.

The way Marcus had set fire to her passions.

I stood in chains, envying that damned harp for getting to lie between your thighs and brush the very places I wanted to touch…

As heat flamed in all those places, she jerked back from the harp, nearly oversetting it. Dratted oaf. Wasn’t it enough that he invaded her sleep, provoking dreams of wildly improbable situations that all ended with his doing naughty things to her? Must he now intrude upon even her favorite pastime?

Every time she settled the harp between her legs, she remembered his hand rubbing her down there, firm and warm and erotic. Every time her breasts brushed the gilded sound box, she imagined his mouth sucking her nipples…

She groaned. This was ridiculous. “I wouldn’t care in the least what Lord Draker did if not for how it affected Simon and Louisa,” she told her cousin.

Cicely eyed her closely. “It doesn’t seem to have affected them at all. Granted, Miss North has claimed to be indisposed for the past three days whenever your brother called on her. But apparently he was allowed to see her today.”

This was the first she’d heard of any of that. She’d put off telling Simon about her argument with Draker, expecting him to mention it any moment. Yet he hadn’t. “How do you know?”

Cicely shrugged. “Simon told me he was going there when he asked my advice regarding a gift he was bringing her.”

“Why didn’t he ask me?”

Cicely busied herself with straightening the sheet music. “He said he did not want to tempt your foul mood.”

“Well, he might have gone to see her, but that doesn’t mean he was allowed in.”

“He must have been. He told me later that his gift was a success.”

“Oh.” Falling back against her chair, Regina stared blankly into space. When Marcus had stomped out of here, he’d said he would put an end to any courtship between Simon and Louisa. Yet he hadn’t. What did that mean?

“What are you two doing in here at this late hour?” said a voice from the doorway to the music room. “It’s nearly five o’clock.”

Regina jerked her head up to see her brother leaning in. Ignoring him, she returned to practicing her harp.

“Hello, Simon,” Cicely said.

He glanced over to her. “Aren’t you going to Almack’s this evening?”

Cicely looked expectantly at Regina.

“No,” Regina said. “I’m not in the mood.”

“She’s not in the mood,” Cicely repeated primly.

“Deuce take it, Ciss, I heard her.” He stalked in and headed for the harp. “Regina, you always go to Almack’s when there’s an assembly.”

Regina’s fingers fairly flew over the strings. “I’m skipping a night. What do you care?”

“Don’t take that tone with me. What the devil did
I
do?”

Thanks to you, I entered the dragon’s lair and came out singed.

She couldn’t entirely blame him for that. “I’m sorry. I don’t feel like going out tonight, that’s all.”

The thought of making small talk for the millionth time with people who cared only about their fashions and the latest
on-dit
held less appeal than it used to.

Simon jerked her harp forward, leaving her fingers plucking thin air.

“Simon!” she protested as she reached for the instrument.

He hefted it out of her reach. “You
have
to go. I’m taking Louisa tonight.”

How could that be? “You hate Almack’s.”

“Yes, but she just received her voucher, and she’s dying to attend, so you and Cicely must come along to chaperone. Lady Iversley is indisposed, probably with the same cold that plagued Louisa this week. But Draker said it would be all right as long as the two of you come, too.”

Her heart pounded. “Lord Draker was at the Iversleys? You talked to him?”

“Of course. He was being his usual rude self, insisting that Louisa could only go if you went, but that shouldn’t surprise you. That
is
part of your bargain with him, isn’t it?”

Not anymore.
Why hadn’t Marcus told him? Could the man have changed his mind about Louisa and Simon? And if he had, what did it mean? That he had relinquished the battle entirely to her?

Impossible. The man was too thickheaded to do such a thing. But if he had some other purpose for this new tactic, she could not figure out what it might be.

“Does Lord Draker mean to go to Almack’s, too?” she asked, trying for a nonchalant tone. “He told me he doesn’t have a voucher.”

“I suppose that’s true. And he didn’t mention going, so he probably isn’t.”

Now she was thoroughly confused. If he didn’t go, then he was entrusting Louisa to her and Cicely and Simon. When he didn’t trust
any
of them with his sister. What was she to make of that?

“But he did ask after you,” Simon went on. “Said he’d been too busy at Castlemaine to come to town the past few days.”

“I see,” she said dully. Oh, yes, she understood perfectly.

He’d simply decided to ignore her for a while. The wretch refused to do as she asked, but he probably thought to weaken her resolve with this gesture. Perhaps he assumed that a few days apart from him would soften her temper.

Arrogant beast.

“So there’s no reason for you not to come with us tonight,” Simon went on. “You can enjoy yourself without Draker around to muck things up.”

“While that is an appealing prospect, I am not in the mood to field people’s sly questions and comments about him. Besides, you really don’t need me along. Cicely is sufficient as a chaperone. And since Lord Draker won’t be there, he won’t care that I’m not.”

“He said you had to come.”

“Then he knows what he has to do to gain my compliance.” Realizing how much she’d revealed, she rose to retrieve her harp.

Simon eyed her closely. “I take it that something serious happened between you and Draker at the opera.”

She clasped her harp by the neck. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He glanced over to where Cicely was drinking in every word. “Ciss, go dress for Almack’s. Regina will be there in a moment.”

“I will not,” Regina protested, but their cousin was already headed out the door. She never disobeyed a direct command.

As soon as she was gone, Simon faced Regina. “I saw Whitmore today.”

Alarm seized her. She forced her voice to sound calm. “Did you?”

“He took me to task for letting a man like Draker spend time with you. I explained to him about our wager—”

“You
what?”
She shot him a glare. “What right did you have to do that?”

“I was doing you a favor. He wants to marry you, and I didn’t want to ruin your chances by letting him think you’re seriously considering marriage to Draker.”

“For your information, Henry has already asked me twice to marry him, and both times I turned him down.”

“I see.” Simon surprised her by smiling. “I can’t say I’m disappointed. The man’s a silly ass, but since you prefer silly asses in general—”

“I do not.” A blush suffused her face. How could her brother understand her so little?

But then, they hadn’t exactly spent much time together. By the time she’d grown old enough to know him, he’d already gone off to Eton. After his return, he’d spent all his time with the prince and his friends. Even after Father died a few years ago, and Simon became head of the family, he’d taken for granted that she could handle her own affairs and left her to do pretty much as she pleased.

Until recently.

“All the same,” Simon went on, “Whitmore made some vague statements about Draker’s not being a gentleman worthy of you. And when I pressed him, he wouldn’t give any details.”

Thank heavens. “He’s only jealous.”

Simon arched an eyebrow. “I asked Cicely about it, and she claimed not to know what happened. Either she’s lying, or she really doesn’t know, and since Cicely never lies to me, it must be the latter. So I expect
you
to tell me.”

Dropping her gaze from his, Regina ran her finger over the harp’s intricately carved and gilded neck. “Henry insulted Lord Draker, and the viscount was his usual rude self. That’s all there was to it.”

“I doubt that.” Stepping up to the harp, Simon set his hand on the gilded wood next to hers. “Since Whitmore will be at Almack’s tonight, perhaps I should speak to him again. He might be more forthcoming about what happened if I offer him some incentive, like a promise that I will fully support his suit.”

Her gaze shot to his, and the sudden steely blue of his eyes made her shiver. “You wouldn’t tell him such a thing—why, you just called him a ‘silly ass.’ ”

“True, but who knows what I’ll say if I’m bored. Without you and Cicely and Louisa at Almack’s to distract me, I’ll have nothing to do but talk to Henry.”

She glared at him. This was blackmail. Very effective blackmail. She wasn’t entirely certain Marcus’s dire threats would keep her jealous cousin from voicing his nasty suspicions if he thought it might profit him. “All right, I’ll go to Almack’s. But I can’t promise to be good company.”

He shrugged. “I don’t need you to be good company. I just need you to be there.”

When he turned and sauntered out of the room with his usual smug assurance that he’d gotten his way, she succumbed to the childish urge to stick out her tongue at him.

Drat her brother. And drat Marcus, too, for putting her in this position. She couldn’t let Simon find out the truth about the encounter between Marcus and Henry. He would almost certainly make a fuss about it.

But hours later, as she and the rest of their party approached the grand staircase through the crowded foyer, she regretted letting Simon bully her into coming here. What was wrong with her? She liked assemblies. She enjoyed the dancing and the conversation; she delighted in seeing who was wearing what.

If it had all grown a little wearisome in recent years, it was only because she worried about whom Simon might marry and bring into their household. It had nothing to do with boredom on her part. No, indeed.

So why were her spirits flagging just at the sight of the long, spare ballroom with its six towering windows that loomed like dreary sentinels above the throng? Why did even the orchestra sound tinny tonight?

This was absurd—she refused to let Simon or Marcus or Henry or any of the men bedeviling her life destroy her enjoyment of an evening of dancing and music. She would dance her feet off tonight if it killed her.

She danced with Mr. Markham, widely considered to be a wit, then picked apart his every bon mot. She danced with Lord Brackley, and then couldn’t follow his intricate footwork, although she generally matched him step for step.

An interminable hour had passed by the time the smooth-tongued Lord Peter Wilkins took her to the floor for a reel. Thank heavens the reel allowed for little conversation. If she heard one more high-flown compliment voiced by one more gushing gentleman eager to impress her with his superior wit, she’d surely scream.

Whatever had happened to actual conversation? Or for that matter, blunt honesty? And why did she suddenly crave such a preposterous thing?

“You’ll never believe who just came in,” Lord Peter murmured, as they took their places and waited for the music to begin.

“Who?” she asked, though she doubted it was anyone she cared about.

“Your latest beau. Draker.”

She froze. How could
he
be here? Louisa had said nothing, and the Lady Patronesses would never have given him a voucher, even if he’d been willing to ask for one.

On the other hand, was even Marcus insane enough to force his way into Almack’s? Half-afraid to look, she turned toward the door, her heart pounding. Then her breath caught in her throat. Because the man who skirted the ballroom was not the Lord Draker she knew.

This man was a prince’s son, regal in manner and walk and appearance, especially appearance. He wore the latest fashions, and his unkempt, overly long hair had been cut and styled in waves that framed the stark contours of his now-shaved face.