Betina Krahn - Make Me Yours

She frowned, wondering if he had taken leave of his senses.

“My husband, sir, is deceased.”

“Of course he is.” The baron gave a tense little laugh and she saw St. Lawrence stiffen. “I meant to say your new husband.”

Just then Old Robert rushed in with a silver teapot that he had forgotten to pick up with a mitt. The old fellow dropped it onto the table with a sloshing thud—“Tea be sarved”—and then tottered out, grumbling as he nursed his overheated hand.

“My what?” She turned to the baron, her blood stopped in her veins.

“Your new husband, madam.” The baron straightened, pulling authority around him like a cloak. “The prince would never enter into relations with an unmarried woman. That would never do. To leave a woman he is associated with unprotected and exposed to the world…the prince would never be so callous.”

Her jaw loosened but thankfully did not drop.

“I am a widow, sir,” she said, leaning forward. “I live independently and have no husband to object to such an arrangement. How can the prince possibly imagine I would wish to acquire one now?”

“But you must acquire one, madam, or relations with the prince cannot proceed.” The baron looked scandalized by the prospect. “The prince has made it his firm—and most wise—practice to spend time only with ladies whose husbands can provide comfort for them once his time with them is done.” The baron produced a handkerchief and dabbed his moist lip.

“This is absurd,” she said, looking at St. Lawrence, who took up the argument.

“If I may be blunt.” He clenched his jaw, looking as if he’d just sucked a lemon. “There is always the possibility of consequences from such relations. The prince has left no ‘consequences’ in his path to date, and is determined to see that any born to his special friends will have fathers of their own. As heir to our good queen’s throne and the future head of the Church of England, to do otherwise would be unthinkable to him.”

Mariah felt the flush of color she had just experienced now drain from her face. Consequences: a polite way of saying children. The prince intended to leave no royal bastards in his wake. Fastidious of him, she thought furiously, to take his future roles as seriously as he took his pleasures. He bedded women thither and yon but insisted, whether from fear of public opinion or his own moral quirk, that the natural consequences of those liaisons never be laid at his doorstep.

“Why on earth would I wish to exchange vows with a man, only to betray them with the prince?” she demanded, gripping the edge of the table.

“Because,” St. Lawrence said tightly, “it is necessary. And if you are anything, Mrs. Eller, you are a woman who recognizes the necessary and turns it to her advantage.”

She felt struck physically by that assessment. Rising abruptly from the table, she went to the long windows that overlooked the side yard. Anger roiled in her as she gripped the sash. So that was what they thought of her. Clever. Contriving. Conveniently amoral.

The full weight of the situation bore down on her. She was a woman whose behavior had left room for assumption. A woman with no man to “protect” her. A woman who could be acquired, used and discarded like a pair of outmoded trousers. Her insignificant life could be turned upside-down without a second thought should she fail to cooperate. To accept such conditions would mean that she would be the one to pay for the prince’s pleasures…with a lifetime of marital servitude.

All because the prince fancied her.

Eyes burning, she turned to look at them. The baron sat with his arms crossed and St. Lawrence toyed with a teacup from the tray. Neither seemed at all chagrined by the demands they placed on her.

Then it occurred to her in a stroke: if she couldn’t find a husband, the prince might be forced to call off the notion of bedding her.

“I fear, gentlemen, we are at an impasse. I know of no man willing to marry me and then loan me out for a spell to the Prince of Wales.”

“I expect that is true.” The baron’s composure bordered on the smug. “We, on the other hand, know quite a few.”

She was stunned. In the silence that followed, she realized that there was still more to come. With each new requirement they had slowly painted her into a corner.

“As we have said, the prince is generous,” the baron continued. “There are numerous men of his acquaintance who would be willing to do him just such a favor.”

“And what sort of men would they be? Barking madmen? Wastrels? Misers who would sell their grandmothers for a profit?”

“I assure you, madam—” the baron rose, looking as sincere as a weasel can look “—the men on St. Lawrence’s list are gentlemen, one and all.”

She looked to Nimble Jack, who pulled an envelope from his inner breast pocket and laid it on the tea table beside her china cups. The cad! He had arrived that morning with a list of agreeable cuckolds in his pocket!

“You came prepared,” she said, struggling with rising outrage.

“The prince surrounds himself with resourceful men,” Jack said.

“Resourceful,” she echoed. So that was how the wretch saw himself.

She turned back to the window and clamped her arms around her waist. The prince had a whole kingdom of “resourceful” men to see to his welfare. She, on the other hand, had no one. No parents, no brothers or sisters, no uncles or aunts to intervene on her behalf. That was how she had fallen into the squire’s hands in the first place. The magistrate overseeing the sale of her deceased father’s property had insisted that, as a girl alone, marriage was her only option. And as it happened, his friend Squire Eller was in need of a wife. In the end, she was just one more asset the judge dispersed to a man whose good will would ease his own way in life.

But she was not that naive little seventeen-year-old girl anymore. She had learned the ways of the world and the men who ran it. The years of hard work since her husband died had stunted her reactions, dulled her responses. But no longer. Resourceful? She’d show the wretches resourceful.

She’d find a way to get out of this intolerable fix or die trying!

“No matter what you think of me, gentlemen, the prince’s proposal is shocking to a woman of my background and experience. Make no mistake, I would not consider accepting the overtures of a married man, even those from His Highness the Prince of Wales, if I had a gracious way of declining them.

“I must, however, demand a choice in those small matters which are of interest to no one but myself. The prince may be my friend and supporter for a few months or even a year or two, but I will remain wedded to this ‘husband’ for the rest of my days. Therefore, I insist upon the right to choose the man I will marry.” She pointed to the envelope. “I cannot continue unless I am assured that I may reject those men with impunity.”

The baron looked anxiously to St. Lawrence, who frowned at this new wrinkle and studied her openly.

“And if you refuse all of the men on this list, what then?” he asked.

“We must have some assurance,” the baron said, mopping his lip again, “that you will show good faith in seeking a husband elsewhere.”

“I give you my word, sir, that I will. If that is not enough, then you must return to the prince and explain to him your predicament—that you do not believe the woman he selected as a mistress is worthy of your trust.”

There was an awkward silence as they grappled with her demand.

“A time limit, then,” the baron said, proposing a compromise. “Say, a fortnight. You must pledge to find and accept a husband within a fortnight.”

She looked from one man to the other, turning it over in her mind.