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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.
    “I think two weeks should be sufficient.”
    “Excellent.” The baron’s smile was full of relief as he rose and reached for her hand. “I’ll be off, then, to deliver the good news to the prince. St. Lawrence here will see to the details. He has access to funds and the special license and will ensure that you have whatever clothing and incidentals you desire.” There was a hint of challenge in his tone. “He will see to it that you are wedded within the agreed-upon time.”

4
    J ACK WATCHED with an unsettled expression masking pure inner turmoil as the baron took his leave.
    Damn and blast Marchant, saddling him with marrying off Mariah Eller! He had agreed to compile a list of suggested men for her to marry when it became clear that the prince was determined to go through with this idiocy, but he had never imagined it would come to this.
    She’d already declared her opposition to the whole notion. What in hell made Marchant think she would actually do the deed? When he looked back at Mariah, she was settling at the table