Page 14 of One Night with a Prince
Rosa ignored her, refusing to hand Christabel the fichu she generally wore with the gown. “You should at least show your bosoms. He is a man, after all.”
Christabel sighed. There was no question about Byrne’s manhood. And showing some bosom might allay his annoyance at her. “Very well.” She sat down at the dressing table. “But can you do something more sophisticated with my hair?”
“I shall try. But you should cut it off and curl it like the other ladies.”
Christabel bit back her retort. That was easy for Rosa to say—shehad natural curls, not Christabel’s straight hair. Christabel wasn’t about to let the feckless Rosa anywhere near curling irons. Or scissors, for that matter.
By the time Byrne and the dressmaker were announced, Rosa had piled Christabel’s thick, unruly hair rather presentably atop her head. Leaving the room, they headed off down the hall. But when Rosa spotted the man from the top of the stairs, she pulled Christabel aside. “Isn’t that the gambler you shot at last year?”
Would nobody ever forget that? “I’m afraid so.”
“Madre de Dios,he isforcing you to be his mistress, isn’t he, because of the shooting? I knew it! You would never take a lover by choice—you are too much the strict Englishwoman for that. But to be forced…no, I will not let him do this. I will march right down and tell that scoundrel—”
“You will do nothing of the sort.” Christabel grabbed her maid by the arm. “I’m not being forced. Have you ever known me to be forced into anything?”
When Rosa raised her eyebrows, Christabel added, “All right, so I did let Philip get around me occasionally, but he was my husband. This isn’t the same.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I find Mr. Byrne…interesting, that’s all. And youhave been saying that my life needs a change, that it’s too dreary.”
“Sí,but you should not make the change with a gambler!”
“He’s a man of property, not a gambler. He owns the Blue Swan.”
That gave Rosa pause. “Ah, I have heard of it. A very lofty gentlemen’s club. He must be quite rich.”
Rosa peered over the edge of the landing, her black eyes assessing Byrne with renewed interest. “I remember now—he’s the one they call Bonny Byrne. Well…heis rather handsome. A fine dresser, too.”
The maid frowned. “You really should have kept one of your pretty gowns undyed.”
“They weren’t all that pretty anyway.” It was hard to have pretty gowns when your husband spent all his money at the tables. “Now come on, let’s go down.”
“Perhaps the muslin gown would have worked when it was still pink,” Rosa went on as they descended.
“But no, a man like him expects something more.”
Truer words were never spoken. Did hehave to look so…so bonny? His auburn hair was wind-tossedGenerated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.htmlfrom his drive, but the rest of him…Lord help her.
The perfectly cut riding coat of dun kerseymere showed his chest and broad shoulders to fine advantage, especially since he eschewed the high, pointed collars and elaborate cravats most fine gentlemen seemed to wear. Instead of his chin being lost in a froth of linen, his modest collar and simply knotted cravat accentuated the masculine lines of his square jaw.
Even from here, she could see the dressmaker, a portly woman twice his age, casting him flirtatious smiles. Who wouldn’t? The man’s doeskin breeches could have been painted on him. Christabel had seen cavalrymen with less muscular calves and thighs—clearly Byrne did more with his days than sit at gaming tables.
The one thing she could find no trace of in his lean form was His Highness, his supposed father. Then Byrne shifted his gaze to them, and she saw the resemblance. It was in his eyes, the same unearthly blue as the prince’s.
Eyes that narrowed with disapproval when they spotted her gown. He waited until they’d approached and he’d introduced the dressmaker before saying, “I see you’re still intent on your widow’s weeds.”
“They suit me,” she lied.
“No, they don’t.” He added in a huskier tone, “You were made for satins and silks, Christabel.”
“Satins and silks are expensive, sir,” Rosa cut in.
As the dressmaker scowled at Rosa’s impertinence, Christabel said through gritted teeth, “Forgive my maid, but she’s foreign and has decided opinions.”
Byrne’s lips twitched as he turned his unsettling blue gaze on Rosa. “And where do you hail from, miss?”
“Gibraltar.” She presented it like a badge of honor.
He said something in a foreign tongue, and Rosa blinked. It was the first time Christabel had ever seen her maid startled.
“You speak Spanish, sir?” Rosa asked.
