Chapter Three

from any liaison, for who knows how long

her charms will last?

—Anonymous,Memoirs of a Mistress

Don’t wear black tomorrow.

Right. Christabel surveyed the contents of her armoire with a sigh. Black muslin with lace trim, black dimity with braid trim, black fustian with pearl buttons. Even her riding habits were black. A truly dismal selection.

“I told you, milady,” said Rosa, her Gibraltan lady’s maid, “we dyedall your gowns black. Every one. You ordered it so.”

“And youlistened to me?” Christabel slumped onto the bed. “What were you thinking?”

Rosa had been with Christabel from the beginning of her marriage, first as a maid-of-all-work, then as a lady’s maid. Since they were nearly the same age, Christabel regarded her less as a servant than a sister. A very opinionated, often annoying, sister.

“I always listen to you,” Rosa retorted with a toss of her lush black curls. “Especially when you are—how do you say in English—pigheaded. You said you would mourn his lordship forever.”

Christabel winced. That was when she was still in the throes of grief, before she’d learned what Philip had been doing behind her back. Now another of her rash and impulsive acts had returned to haunt her.

“Go on, say it.” Christabel lay back to stare at the ceiling. “I was a fool. You disapprove of my not keeping at least one gown undyed.”

“It is not my place to approve or disapprove,” Rosa said primly. Christabel snorted. “And when did this sudden subservience make itself known? Shall I call in a doctor?”

“Very well, if you must know my opinion, life is too short to spend it mourning a man. Any man.”

Christabel sat up to hug her knees. “But especially Philip, right?”

Rosa’s manner softened. “Oh, my lady, he wasn’t worthy of you. You deserve a better husband. Perhaps this Mr. Byrne—”

Christabel began to laugh hysterically. “No, indeed. He’s not remotely the marrying sort.”

Rosa frowned. “But good enough to share your bed?”

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv Christabel stopped laughing. She hadn’t dared reveal the real reason for her sudden connection to Byrne—even loyal servants like Rosa gossiped, and this must be a masquerade in the truest sense. So she’d told her servant that she’d found a protector.

But that wasn’t the source of Rosa’s frown; oh no. Rosa believed that a woman should engage in scandalous liaisons whenever possible. It was part of the “life is too short” philosophy she’d embraced after her cheating soldier husband had got himself shot in a French brothel. Rosa was also practical enough to realize that a woman had to do what she must to survive sometimes. So something else must be bothering her. “I thought you approved of my taking a lover?”

“It is not for me to—”

“Stubble it, Rosa. What’s annoying you now?”

“I only want to make sure he’s a good man. And men who aren’t ever interested in marriage with anyone are generally…”

“Scoundrels. I know.” She managed a smile. “Does it help that he’s a charming scoundrel?”

Rosa eyed her askance.

“I don’t intend to remarry anyway, so it hardly matters.”

After this scheme with Byrne, no one of her rank would probably have her. Which was fine. Truly. She would return to traveling with Papa and spending her time with soldiers. What did she want with a lordly husband? She’d be better off with some sergeant who might appreciate her talents with firearms. And who would never presume to court a widowed marchioness. She swallowed the lump in her throat. She might consider remarrying if it meant she could have children. But she was clearly barren—ten years of marriage with no babes amply demonstrated that. Tears stung her eyes. No man with rank or property or any hopes for the future wanted a woman who couldn’t give him heirs.

So what difference did it makewhat she wore for an outing with that devil Byrne? She thrust out her chin. None whatsoever. And if it annoyed him, so be it.

Brushing away her tears, she left the bed. “All right, let’s get this done. Which of the awful things should I wear?”

“It matters not. They are all ugly in black.” Rosa shot her a sly glance. “Thank heaven your new lover is purchasing you gowns.”

“He’s not purchasing me gowns. He’s merely helping me choose them.” She only prayed she didn’t go too deeply into debt while buying them.

“What?” With another frown, Rosa took down the dimity gown and helped Christabel into it. “Will he expect you to pay for everything? You cannot afford—”

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“We haven’t worked out the financial arrangements yet.” She eyed Rosa askance. “And what happened to ‘it is not my place to approve or disapprove’?”

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-tossed Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv from 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.

“A bit.” His ingratiating smile took in both of them. “In my business, it pays to know a smattering of other languages.”

Rosa nodded, though she still looked wary. But when he rattled off more Spanish, she cast him a cautious smile. Her short response, however, must have been saucy, for he burst into laughter. After a second she even joined him.

Then he said in English, “Rosa, why don’t you show Mrs. Watts where we’ll be doing the fittings for your mistress’s gowns? Her footmen are waiting to bring in bolts of fabric.”

Before Christabel could stop her, Rosa took the dressmaker off. Christabel turned to Byrne with a frown. “I thought this was a consultation.”

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“It’s also a fitting. I want Mrs. Watts to get started on your gowns right away. She’s making it her first priority.”

“I can’t afford that!”

“Ah, but I can. And the quickest way for people to learn that you’re my mistress is if they hear I bought you expensive gowns.”

She considered that a moment, torn between pride and practicality, as footmen marched through the vestibule to the parlor, carrying bolts of muslin and sarcenet. “I suppose you do this all the time,” she grumbled.

He took that for the acquiescence it was. “Occasionally. Although fortunately, my mistress’s husbands generally pay for their gowns.”

She stuck out her chin. “Then I’ll pay you for mine later.”

“I’m getting a barony out of this—that’s payment enough.” He slanted her a glance. “Besides, if I letyou pay for them, you’ll probably buy the coarsest linsey and plenty of dimity and fustian.”

Because that was all she could afford. “That’s practical for the country. And we are going to be in the country, aren’t we?”

“Trust me, no one at this affair will be dressed in fustian. I mean to see you in gauze and silk and sheer muslin.” He bent close to murmur, “Verysheer muslin.”

Ignoring the sudden racing of her pulse, she said, “Is that what you said to Rosa in Spanish?”

“I told her I could afford satins and silks. And I told her I would treat you well.” His eyes gleamed with humor. “She said that if I didn’t, she’d feed me my privates for breakfast.” At Christabel’s groan, he chuckled. “Do you find your servants on the battlefield, for God’s sake? Do you test them on marksmanship and swordplay before you hire them?”

“Very funny. Rosa is a soldier’s widow. That taught her to be fierce.”

“Much like her mistress.” He drew her aside to avoid a footman carrying a particularly large bolt of rose satin. “God help the poor fellow who waylays you two in some dark alley. He’s liable to have his head shot off.”

She sniffed. “Sometimes a woman has to defend herself.”

“And sometimes, my sweet, she should allow a man to defend her.”

“As long as that man isn’t the same one she needs defense from.”

He shot her a seductive smile. “In which case, there are more effective ways of bringing him to his knees than shooting at him.”

She fought to ignore the sensual pull of his dark flirtations. “As if you would know—have youever let a woman bring you to your knees?”

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“I do it in bed all the time.” He scoured her with a wicked gaze, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “I can’t wait to be on my knees with you.”

A vivid image of him kneeling between her parted thighs rose in her mind, shocking her. “You’ll be waiting an eternity for that,” she shot back, as much to convince herself as him. He merely laughed. The audacity of the man! Did he haveno intention of holding to their bargain? Or could he simply not help trying to seduce any woman within reach? Well, it wouldn’t work with her. She refused to let his flirtations make her imagine what he’d be like in bed. Or wonder if he would be gentle or rough. If he would leave her feeling vaguely dissatisfied afterward the way Philip always had—

Oh, Lord, how could she even think about such things with her husband freshly in the grave? Byrne drew her into the nearby dining room out of the way of the trooping footmen. Glancing around, he caught sight of a portrait over the mantel that she’d brought with her from Rosevine. His eyes narrowed.

“Your father?”

“How did you know?”

“The uniform.” He smiled. “And the resemblance. You have his fierce green eyes and stubborn chin.”

“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.”

Blast him. She tipped up her chin, determined to have the last word. “I need my shawls. I get cold.”

“I’ll keep you warm enough, don’t worry.”

“Byrne—” she began in sheer exasperation.

“Oh, all right.” He turned to Mrs. Watts. “And a shawl.”

“Three shawls,” Christabel said.

“Oneshawl,” he countered. “In silk.” When she frowned, he added, “If you want more, you’ll have to pay for them yourself.”

He knew perfectly well she couldn’t afford such things. “Then I’ll just use my old ones.”

“Of wool, no doubt.”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

He groaned. “Fine. Three silk shawls.” Her triumphant glance made him add, “But don’t think I’ll let you wrap yourself up like a mummy after I’ve gone to the trouble of buying gowns that display your charms.”

He lowered his voice to a confidential murmur. “Either play the part or don’t. Stokely will be suspicious enough as it is.”

Her face fell. He was right. “Very well, one shawl will do, I suppose.”

The next hour was taken up in sorting through a dizzying array of fabrics, styles, and colors. The fabrics were the most exquisite she’d ever seen or touched. She’d never cared much about clothes, but then she’d never had gowns made of fabrics like these—silks that flowed over one’s hand like water, muslins so soft and delicate she feared tearing them with a single touch. As a lieutenant, Philip hadn’t been able to afford such. Then, along with his estate he’d inherited a mountain of debt, which he’d built higher every year.

But Byrne could clearly afford them. Either that or he was mad. Madnesswould explain his outrageously bold color choices—brilliant reds, vibrant blues, and dramatic greens. Didn’t he realize she wasn’t one of his stunning society ladies, who could easily wear clothes that drew attention to themselves?

When she protested, he told her, “Trust me, they’ll suit you perfectly.”

“But I thought pink and cream were the fashion.” That’s what Philip had always preferred her to wear. Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv

“For schoolgirls coming out, not for a grown woman. And certainly not for you.”

When Mrs. Watts held particular fabrics up to her face for him to choose, Christabel saw in the mirror what he meant. Even she could see that the rose satin made her cheeks glow a healthy color, and the holly green crepe made her eyes sparkle. She’d always looked rather sallow in her pink gowns. The fact that he’d been right perversely annoyed her. “You seem to know a great deal about women’s clothes.”

His slow smile sparked something hot low in her belly. “I know what I like.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “And what makes a man desire a woman.”

A delicious shiver coursed through her. Curse the randy devil, he also knew what made a woman desire a man. Him and his smiles and extravagant gifts and commanding voice—all designed to send a female’s pulse into a frenzied gallop and melt her resistance into a puddle. Well, he wouldn’t do that to her. No, indeed. She’d already allowed one man’s flatteries and flirtations to tempt her into an unwise marriage; she wasn’t about to let it tempt her into an illicit liaison with a devil who put his own gain above his conscience. If he even possessed a conscience. Once they’d settled on the gowns, Mrs. Watts drew out her measuring tape. “If you will come this way, my lady…” Mrs. Watts led her to a corner of the room where a little dais had been built to accommodate a previous resident’s passion for exhibiting. “Stand up here, please. And forgive me, but you must remove your gown so I can measure you in your corset.”

“Of course.” As she mounted the little steps, she glanced expectantly at Byrne, who responded by taking a seat in her favorite armchair. “Byrne! You can’t watch this.”

“Why not?” The sneaky devil had the audacity to smile. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

He was taking this role too far, and he knew it. “Which is why you don’t need to see it now,” she persisted.

“Ah, but I have to make sure everything is done to my specifications.” He glanced at the dressmaker.

“Don’t mind me.”

Mrs. Watts’s plump cheeks turned a rosy sheen, but she gave him a cursory nod. That’s what Byrne’s extravagance bought him—compliance from dressmakers and servants. Fine, she would let him watch her be measured. She couldn’t very well quarrel with him in front of the dressmaker. Besides, hewas paying for the gowns. She supposed he had a right to have a say in it. But his extravagance would not buyher . He’d find that out soon enough. Pretending she didn’t care in the least if he saw her half-dressed, she stared him down as the dressmaker helped her remove her gown. Watching him proved a mistake, however, for once she stood atop the dais in her corset and chemise, her pride forced her to keep looking as his gaze roamed wherever it pleased. It took all her strength to fight a blush. No man had ever gazed upon her like that before. Even Philip had never really taken the time to look at her. A lusty soldier, he’d been quick to join her in bed, and just as Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv quick to retire to his own when he was done.

Somehow she suspected that “quick” wouldn’t apply to Mr. Byrne. While Mrs. Watts took her measurements and scribbled them in her notebook, he did some measuring of his own. His eyes lingered on her bosom with disquieting interest, then examined her cinched-in waist and too-ample hips. When he was done with his thorough assessment, his heated gaze made a leisurely trip back up her body to fix on her face.

And in his eyes, she saw the truth that he wasn’t even bothering to hide. He would stop at nothing to have her in his bed, bargain or no.

She cursed as a wayward thrill coursed down her spine. The impudence of the man! Well, she would just showhim . She turned to the dressmaker with a smooth smile. “I do hope my friend hasn’t embarrassed you too much with his antics. Sometimes he can be most outrageous. I wouldn’t be surprised if after he chose all these gowns, he changed his mind about them and refused to pay.”

Mrs. Watts didn’t so much as frown.

Worse yet, Byrne merely chuckled. “Mrs. Watts has dealt with me often enough, my sweet, to know that I pay my bills with admirable regularity.”

Christabel glared at him. So much for trying to shame the man into behaving. Ignoring her frowns, he turned his attention to the dressmaker. “And speaking of payment, I’m willing to pay more to have these gowns finished in three days.”

Mrs. Watts eyed him with a wily gleam. “It will be a great deal more.”

“Whatever it costs.”

The woman smiled broadly. “Very good, sir.” Then she untied Christabel’s chemise and pulled it down to form a line across the very top of her breasts. “Now, milady, for your evening gowns, is this an acceptable neckline?”

“No,” Byrne said, before Christabel could even answer.

Mrs. Watts pivoted to him like a dog following the bounce of a ball. She pulled the chemise down a little more. “Here, then?”

“Lower,” he said.

As Christabel seethed, Mrs. Watts went down another half inch. “Here?”

“Lower.”

“Perhaps I should simply pop out my breasts and serve them on a platter,” Christabel grumbled. As the dressmaker coughed to hide her laugh, Byrne raised one eyebrow. “While that sounds intriguing, my sweet, when we’re in public you’d best keep them in a gown.”

“Inbeing the important word,” she retorted.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv Mrs. Watts continued to hold the chemise in its present position, her gaze fixed on him. “Sir? Is this all right or not?”

He glanced from the dressmaker to a glowering Christabel, then back to the dressmaker. “That’ll do for now, I suppose. We’ll see how the gowns look once they’re done.”

With a nod, Mrs. Watts finished her measurements. “Will that be all, sir?”

“No. She needs something to wear for the next few days, so if you could alter one of her old gowns, something she wore before she went into mourning—”

“She can’t,” Christabel broke in. “We dyed all my old gowns black.”

“Allof them?”

She stuck out her chin. “Yes.”

“Bloody hell. At least that explains why you persist in wearing them.” He turned to the dressmaker.

“Could you make her mourning gowns a bit less…severe? And have one of them ready in the morning?”

“Certainly, sir.”

He rose and strode to the door. “I’ll call her maid to fetch them.”

As he opened the door, Rosa practically fell into the room. Christabel rolled her eyes. Rosa would never go meekly off when there was gossip to hear.

“Forgive me, sir,” Rosa babbled, “I was merely coming to tell my lady—”

“It’s all right, Rosa,” he broke in. “Just go bring us the prettiest of your mistress’s mourning gowns, will you?”

“But they are all ugly, senor.”

“What a surprise,” he said dryly. “Very well, then take Mrs. Watts with you. She can assess which ones are best for alteration.”

Rosa and Mrs. Watts went off, and Byrne closed the door. Only then did she realize they were alone. And she was dressed most scandalously.

He seemed to realize the same thing, for his gaze took outrageous liberties as he surveyed her scantily clad form.

To her chagrin, her pulse leaped in response. “For pity’s sake, go see to your horses or something. We can finish this without you. Go on, go away and leave us in peace.”

“And let you dress yourself like a nun? I think not.”

His nonchalant assumption that this masquerade gave him the right to tell her what to wear frustrated her.

“I should warn you, just because I let you get away with these outrageous flirtations in public doesn’t Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv mean I’ll allow them in private. Furthermore,” she lied, “I shall elaborate on your abominable treatment of me in my written report to His Highness. And when your father hears—”

“What did you say?” He’d gone abruptly still, his eyes turning gray as a sudden tempest. Too late, she remembered that he had good reason to dislike his father. “I-I said I will make a report to—”

“No, you called His Highness my ‘father.’ ” He advanced up the dais’s steps swiftly, trapping her atop it. “If you’re to play my mistress, Lady Haversham, there are some things you should know about me. For one, His Highness is not my father.”

She blinked. “But I thought—”

“He did sire me, yes, no matter what the bloody arse claimed to the world. But there’s a vast difference between producing seed and being a father. Only one person raised me, and she’s the only one who counts. That fool at Carlton House had nothing to do with it, so I don’t give a bloody damn what you tell him.”

Backing her against the wall, he scowled down at her. “And one more thing—I don’t take kindly to threats. I respond by doing exactly what I’ve been warned not to do. And if you think my flirtations were outrageous before—”

Taking her off guard, he caught her chin in a firm grip and brought his mouth down on hers. The kiss was hard. Commanding. And very, very thorough. With provoking insolence, he sealed his mouth to hers as if he had every right to do so. But when he tried making the kiss more intimate, she wrenched her mouth from his.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, fighting to ignore the silly pounding of her heart and the deplorable quiver in the pit of her belly.

His smoldering gaze seared her wherever it settled. “I’m kissing my pretend mistress.”

“Stop it.” She cast a furtive glance to the door. “The servants might see us.”

“Good. Servants are notorious gossips, so let’s put on a good show for them.” Then he kissed her again. Except that this time he succeeded in invading her mouth with his tongue, erotically, possessively. And she didn’t stop him, blast it.

Worse yet, she liked it. She tried not to compare his slow, drugging kisses to Philip’s sloppy, eager ones, but it was hard to ignore the difference. Her husband’s kisses had always been a brief prelude to a quick tumble. Byrne’s kiss was an end in itself, hot, heady, and intoxicating. He fed on her mouth as if he’d been waiting half his life to taste it. The sensation made her dizzy. His hand skimmed down her throat, and she waited, on the edge of disappointment, for him to grab her breast and squeeze it roughly the way Philip always had.

Instead, Byrne curved his hand around the side of her neck, caressing her throat with his thumb, up and down, back and forth, to mimic the heated plunges of his tongue between her lips. Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv Oh, heavenly day. He drove the very air from her lungs, which might explain why her knees were going weak and her head growing faint. With leisurely care, he thrust, probed, caressed…made love to her mouth.

But only her mouth. How very intriguing.

Though he’d settled his other hand on her waist, he merely stroked her ribs with it. He didn’t paw her breasts or cup her between the legs or squeeze her bottom, all of which Philip would have done within seconds after starting to kiss her.

And Byrne’s peculiar restraint was having the oddest effect on her. She felt restless and unsatisfied. She found herselfwanting his hand on her breast. Lord help her—what kind of a wanton was she? She tore her lips from his, seeking breath and…respite? Relief from the liquid heat he fed with each newer, bolder thrust into her mouth? “That’s enough,” she somehow managed to whisper. “You’ve made your point.”

His breath warmed her cheek. “My point?”

He turned to nibbling her ear, and oh, what that did to her. She thought she would come out of her skin. She could barely think, much less answer. “That if I threaten you, you’ll feel free to…take…certain liberties.”

“Ah.That point.” He tugged on her earlobe with his teeth, then pressed an openmouthed kiss to her neck.

“So you can…stop now. I got your point.”

“And I got yours—that you don’t mind my taking certain liberties.”

The truth of it didn’t make it any less insulting. She jerked back. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” His smugly masculine smile roused her ire, especially when he followed it with a sweeping, proprietary caress of his hand from her ribs to her hip. “I dare say if I took you to bed right now, you wouldn’t protest.”

His arrogant assumption drove her over the edge. Reaching down, she grabbed his privates and squeezed, just enough to warn him. “I don’t take kindly to threats either, you randy Irishman. We made a bargain. You agreed to the terms, which didn’t include kissing or anything else. So if you try that again—”

“You’ll what? Maim me?” His voice held nothing but sarcasm. She blinked. Most men retreated when faced with serious bodily harm. But of course Byrne wasn’t most men, as evidenced by his erection, growing harder and thicker and heavier in her hand by the moment. Nor did his angular features show even an ounce of concern for his precarious position.

He actually leaned closer, shoving his…thinginto her hand. “Go ahead. I dare you.” His eyes were steely Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv bright as he lowered his voice to a menacing whisper. “See how far you get.”

Her mouth went dry. Dear Lord, what now?

She was saved by the door opening, and the dressmaker saying cheerfully, “I think we’ve found two gowns that will—Oh, dear. I-I’m sorry, I’ll come back.”

“No, stay,” Christabel called out, grateful that Byrne’s back was to the door. Releasing his privates, she started to withdraw her hand, but he gripped it before she could. When her gaze flew to his, he hissed, “Next time you touch my cock, it had better be under much more enjoyable circumstances. Understood?” Only then did he let go. As he turned to face the dressmaker and Rosa, cool as you please, it was all Christabel could do not to throw something at him. He was in for a surprise if he thought that she’d ever touch his cock inthat way. He’d just reminded her of the dangerous devil who lay beneath the smooth, charming façade, and there was no way she was ever sharing a bed withthat man.