Make Me Yours. Betina Krahn

expected to choose without seeing, much less experiencing these men?”

      She leaned against the windowsill, her eyes darting over some private vision, running her hands up her arms. Nice hands. Long-fingered and graceful. Probably strong enough to—damn it!

      What was he thinking, giving her more than one name at a time? Women took weeks to make up their minds about a damned hat. But Bertie had said for him to cast about and come up with some names, plural. He had done so, never guessing that he would be the one to present them to the wily, audacious wid—Wait—what? He found himself bracing, scrambling mentally. Experiencing men?

      “I shall just have to see them for myself,” she said calmly.

      “Beg pardon?” He shook himself more alert.

      “I said, I shall have to see them for myself in order to decide which to marry. Where do they live? Surely you will be able to learn that much.”

      “What are you proposing?” Every inch of his skin contracted. He had gooseflesh all the way down to his John Thomas.

      “To visit these men, compare them and perhaps…sample a kiss.”

      “The devil you will.” He stepped closer, reaching for her before he checked that reaction and curled his hands into fists at his sides. “You cannot go gallivanting around the country demanding kisses from strange men.”

      “But they’re not strange men. They’re men who were selected for me. By you.” She edged closer, her face raised, her eyes bright with challenge. “I doubt they would shrink from providing a sample of their amorous skill. Men are usually eager to oblige in such matters.” She raked him with a look that could have ignited a wet lump of coal. “Most men, anyway.”

      His mouth opened, but after a moment shut. Heat was thundering through his veins. Frustration, annoyance and outrage, he told himself.

      “You managed to survive one of my kisses.” Her gaze landed on his lips as she wetted her own. “Can you honestly say it was objectionable or an imposition?”

      She was mere inches away, her eyes glistening, her cheeks rosy. Her lips—soft lips that had moved with such exquisite provocation over his—were moist and succulent and so very, very near.

      It was all he could do to do nothing at all.

      “I thought not.” Her voice seemed thicker, sultrier as she stepped back. “Then tomorrow morning we shall leave for Lincoln to find this Thomas Bickering, Esquire. You did come by coach, did you not?”

      He jerked a nod, realizing only now the full scope of the task before him. He was stuck husband-hunting with a woman who had beguiled and disarmed half a dozen men hell-bent on dissipation, with nothing more than a fiddle and a punch bowl. She was striking, sensual, self-possessed and had already proven she had as much command over his body as he did.

      “Excellent.” She caught his gaze and held it in triumph. “While there you can visit Barclay’s Bank and arrange the funds to cover my note.”

      She paused, waiting for a response that he refused to give her. With a growl, he turned on his heel and headed for the door.

      “Cheer up, Jack B. Nimble.” The satisfaction in her voice scraped his broad back like cat’s claws. “By tomorrow night you might be celebrating my upcoming nuptials.”

      5

      A GLOSSY, black-lacquered coach arrived at the front door of the inn the next morning at nine in sunny weather that belied the tightening chill of the season. Mariah sent her trunk out with Old Robert while she waited in the hall with Mercy, whom she had drafted to accompany her.

      The old woman tugged at her straining jacket, grumbling that it had somehow shrunk since she wore it last. Mariah smoothed her own navy woolen skirt, resettled her military-style jacket at her waist, and drew her kidskin gloves higher on her wrists. After a moment, she stepped back to check herself in the hall mirror. The vivid blue of her eyes and pink of her cheeks surprised her. She was positively glowing.

      Stop that, she ordered herself.

      An instant later, the sunlight coming through the open door dimmed. She looked over to find Jack St. Lawrence’s tall, broad-shouldered form silhouetted against the brightness. Her heart dropped a beat.

      “A steamer trunk?” His irritation seemed to push some of the air out of the hall as he leaned inward.

      “Who knows how long we’ll be gone?” she said, forcing a deep breath as she retrieved her reticule and lap blanket from the hall table.

      “One and a half days,” he declared. “Thirty hours, give or take. How many changes of clothing can you possibly need in thirty hours?”

      He was eager to be rid of her. Too blessed bad. She was in no hurry to select one of the men on his list as her lord and master. Her only hope, she had realized, was to draw out the process either until she could find someone she could bear to marry or until she exhausted the prince’s patience without simultaneously invoking his wrath.

      “That is an absurd time estimate under the best of circumstances,” she said. “Should Mr. Bickering prove suitable, there will be certain formalities to conduct, some of which may require days to complete. To say nothing of the shopping that will be required.”

      “Shopping?” His horror was palpable.

      “I believe the baron mentioned new clothing.” She lowered her voice and gestured to her serviceable but uninspired skirt and jacket. “I simply cannot undertake my new role in such garments. And should Mr. Bickering prove unsuitable, we shall have to go on to the next candidate.”

      Muttering something unintelligible, he turned and stalked down the steps to the coach. When she approached the vehicle with Mercy in tow, he suddenly registered the old girl’s hat and traveling gear.

      “What’s this?” He looked to Mariah in exasperation.

      “My maid.” She met his incredulity full-on. “A respectable woman never travels without assistance.”

      Mercy lifted her chins with exaggerated dignity and held out a hand for assistance in mounting the steps. Jack first extended his arm and then hefted and grappled and finally pushed her substantial frame through the door. Red-faced, he collected himself and then helped Mariah up.

      Mercy, unused to coach travel, had ensconced herself on the forward-facing seat. Mariah settled beside her without correcting her gaffe, leaving the rear-facing seat for Jack, who bit his tongue, settled back against the tufted leather, and rapped the upholstered roof of the coach with his walking stick. The vehicle lurched forward, pulling a gasp and giggle from Mercy.

      As it happened, Mariah needn’t have bothered with the lap blanket; the sun coming through the windows warmed the coach…too well. The smell of naphtha soon permeated the air, courtesy of Mercy, who had pulled her traveling clothes out of storage only that morning. The combination of riding backward and the smell of mothballs soon had Jack looking a little green. He let down one of the windows for some fresh air and it wasn’t long before Mariah was spreading that lap blanket after all.