Page 16 of One Night with a Prince
“Thank you,” she said, pleased. Most people said she looked nothing like Papa, because he was tall and gaunt, with gray-streaked chestnut curls utterly unlike her long, dark locks.
“Does he know about your scheme?”
She eyed him warily. “How could he? He’s fighting the French right now.”
“But you didn’t write him.”
“I thought it best not to bother him.”
“And Prinny?” Byrne lifted one eyebrow. “When he learned that your ‘property’ had been sold, why didn’the approach your father?”
Because there was no time. In one month, Lord Stokely would make good his threats unless she stopped him. It would take a month at least just to reach her father and bring him back to England. But if she told Byrne that, it would raise more questions in his too-inquisitive mind. So she shrugged. “I suppose His Highness thought it best to deal with me, since it wasmy husband who sold my family’s property.”
Byrne flicked her a glance. “If your father did know of your scheme, what would he think of it?”
Trying to ignore Papa’s stern eyes staring down at her, she clasped her clammy hands together, and lied.
“I have no idea.”
“I doubt he’d approve of your sacrificing your reputation for ‘family property.’”
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“With luck, he won’t hear of it.” But of course he would. And no, he wouldn’t approve. She was his
“little soldier,” his “Bel-bel”—he would want no man sullying her good name. But what use was her good name when his was about to be destroyed? She refused to watch “Roaring Randall” be vilified in the papers as the man responsible for the greatest scandal in royal history. Worse, as the prince had pointed out, if the letters weren’t retrieved, Papa might very well hang for treason. How could she take that chance?
Papa should never have kept those letters after he’d been ordered to destroy them. But like any military strategist, he’d thought to protect himself—and his family—in case the drastic actions he’d taken on the prince’s behalf ever came back to haunt him.
Which was precisely what they’d done. Because of her husband, the man whom her father had cautioned her against. She only wished Papa had barred her from seeing Philip. Then she wouldn’t be in this position now.
She sighed. No, she would have found a way to elope. At the time, she’d chafed at Papa’s many restrictions. Never mind that they’d been designed to protect her. She’d wanted light, air, freedom. She’d found it in Philip, a gentleman officer too charming and solicitous for a woman of her limited experience to resist. What a naïve fool she’d been.
“Mr. Byrne? My lady?” came a voice from the vestibule. Grateful to be dragged from her thoughts, she walked out of the dining room with Byrne to find Mrs. Watts standing there. “We are ready for your ladyship’s fitting now.”
Once they were in the small parlor, the dressmaker banished Rosa with the excuse that there was no space for the maid. But after the maid stalked out, Mrs. Watts explained in a confidential tone, “I find that ladies’ maids only get in the way. Best to leave matters of dress to the experts, don’t you think?”
“Certainly,” Christabel replied, flummoxed by the dressmaker’s lofty pretensions. But as the dressmaker brought out a book of fashion plates for them to examine, it became apparent that the expert she referred to was Byrne.
While Mrs. Watts took notes, he flipped through the book, barking orders faster than the dressmaker could write them down. “She’ll need at least five chemises, seven evening gowns, three riding habits, eleven walking dresses with matching pelisses or spencers—”
“That’s too many,” Christabel protested.
“We’ll be in the country a week.” Skimming his hand down to rest just above her hips, he added, “And I intend to have you in and out of your gowns frequently.”
As the dressmaker discreetly dropped her gaze, Christabel glared at him. He was enjoying his role of lover far too much.
Leaving his hand on her waist, he went on. “She’ll need new petticoats—silk, preferably—a few nightgowns of very fine linen, and dressing gowns.”
“And shawls,” Christabel added.
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“No shawls.” Byrne dropped his gaze to her bosom. “A woman should flaunt her…assets.”
Heat rose in her cheeks despite her efforts to contain it. “Then perhaps I should do without gowns entirely,” she said sweetly.
His eyes gleamed. “An excellent idea. We’ll stay in my room the whole time.”
