The Naked Prince (4 page)

“With me?” Damian glanced at Stephen; he looked mystified as well.

“Yes. It's about Jo.”

“Jo?”

“Miss Atworthy.”

“Ah.” Of course Lord Greyham wished to ascertain his guest hadn't sustained an injury, though it would make more sense for the man or, better, his wife to go up and speak to Miss Atworthy directly. “I was happy to be able to save her from what could have been a very serious accident.” Had Greyham heard about the kiss? Better not mention it.

“Er, yes,” Greyham said. “Glad you could be of help. Wouldn't want Jo getting hurt, of course.”

“Of course.” Damian waited. Lord Greyham cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot. “Was there something else?”

The baron tugged on his waistcoat. The man's belly had grown significantly in the last few years. “Yes, actually. I wanted to tell you—” He coughed. “This is a little awkward, but given your reputation—your
current
reputation, that is, not your old reputation as Prince of Hearts, heh heh.”

Damian and Stephen just stared at him.

“Yes, well, given your current reputation, I assumed you wouldn't mind.”

Lord Greyham smiled. Damian blinked. “Mind what?”

“That I've paired you with Jo.”

An embarrassing bolt of lust shot through him, lodging in the obvious organ. “Oh.” It was his turn to clear his throat. “Why would I mind?”

“Well, you see, the thing is we invited Henrietta Helton to be your, er, valentine. She's a knowledgeable widow and would have been very”—Greyham winked—“accommodating. But then she took ill at the very last minute. Literally. By the time I got word, there was no hope of inviting a suitable substitute. The Widow Bellingham, who sometimes attends our parties, was off visiting her daughter in Manchester, and none of the other mature ladies in the area would ever deign to darken our door. They're a nasty bunch of puritanical prudes; they turn their blasted supercilious noses up at us.” Greyham shrugged. “My only option was Jo. Her father's a distant cousin; they live on the estate.”

“I see. And Miss Atworthy doesn't share the local prejudice against your parties?” Damian asked. She'd looked a bit like a prude in her outdated outfit and severe expression when she'd arrived in that cart, but she hadn't felt—or tasted—like a prude when he'd had her in his arms.

“Oh, she probably does. I took the precaution of asking her father before I sent the invitation. He said he thought he could convince her, but frankly, I was shocked to hear she'd come—I'd expected to get my invitation back torn up into tiny pieces.” He shrugged. “Just wanted to warn you, she's not up to snuff, no matter that she's not a dewy young miss. To tell the truth, she's a bit of an ape-leader. Past her prayers, don't you know.” He grinned suddenly. “Or maybe that's why she came—to find out what she's been missing all these years. If so, you're just the man to educate her, aren't you, Kenderly?” He waggled his brows. “You two can do a little conjugation together.”

Stephen choked on his Madeira; Damian scowled at the baron, even while an evil little voice in the randy section of his brain pointed out Miss Atworthy had shown great promise while kissing him. A confirmed prude would have slapped him soundly.

Greyham looked over Damian's shoulder and frowned. “Damn.” He sighed. “I'm afraid Jo looks exactly like the stuffy, dull Latin tutor she is.”

Damian turned and felt another jolt of lust.

Miss Atworthy stood in the doorway, wearing perhaps the ugliest gown he'd ever seen—a hideous pink frothy affair with a high neck, long sleeves, and far too many ruffles. But above the nauseating pink cloud, her eyes flashed with nervous challenge, her firm chin tilted defiantly, and her rebellious curls twisted in whatever direction they liked.

She might be an impoverished Latin tutor, but her attitude was that of a duchess.

Or a countess?

Good God, where had that thought come from?

Her eyes met his, and she flushed a bright red before looking away.

Lust exploded in his gut.

Bloody hell. Perhaps it
was
time he put away his Latin texts to study the needs of his body.

Jo wanted to hit something, preferably this beautiful raven-haired woman who, like a fox sensing an easy kill, had almost run to her, her equally unpleasant companion close behind, the moment Jo had entered the blue parlor. They'd introduced themselves as Lady Noughton and Lady Chutley.

“What an interesting frock, Miss Atworthy,” Lady Noughton said now, derision clear in her voice. “Wherever did you get it?”

Was she hoping Jo would say she'd made it herself? “From Mrs. Wiggins, our local dressmaker.”

“You know, I think I once had a gown that was just that shade,” Lady Chutley said. “It was a very popular color four or five years ago, wasn't it?”

More than likely, since that was when Jo'd had the dress made. She forced a smile. “Was it? I'm afraid I don't follow the fashion magazines.”

Lady Noughton tittered. “That's rather obvious, isn't it?”

Both women tried—not very hard—to choke back laughter.

“What's so amusing, Maria?”

Jo glanced over to see who had spoken. An attractive man with shaggy, sun-streaked hair was approaching—with Lord Kenderly at his side.

Damn. She felt her cheeks flush again. She looked back at Lady Noughton. Perhaps Lord Kenderly would assume her heightened color was due to anger.

“Oh, Stephen, Blanche and I were just making Miss Atworthy's acquaintance. She is so refreshing—but then, provincials often are, aren't they?” Lady Noughton laughed. “I venture to guess she's never been to London.” She glanced at Jo. “Am I right, Miss Atworthy?”

“Yes, I've not had that pleasure.” Jo tried to relax her jaw so it wouldn't sound like she was speaking through clenched teeth.

“Then you will have to visit someday, Miss Atworthy,” Lord Kenderly said smoothly as if he couldn't tell she wished to kick Lady Noughton in the shins. “If you can put up with the dirt and the noise, London has much to recommend it.” The corners of his eyes crinkled in a very appealing fashion. “But I'm afraid my manners have gone begging. Let me make known to you my good friend Mr. Stephen Parker-Roth. I believe he would agree with you that the country is preferable to Town.”

Mr. Parker-Roth had been frowning at Lady Noughton, which had put the old cat in a pout, Jo was happy to see. Now he smiled at Jo.

“Most definitely. You show excellent sense, Miss Atworthy, in favoring the country.”

“Oh, Mr. Parker-Roth,” Lady Chutley said—Lady Noughton was apparently so disgruntled she could only glare—“you must admit society is so much more stimulating in London.”

“On the contrary, I find London society too often ‘full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.'”

“Oh, but Stephen—”

They were saved from hearing what Lady Noughton had to say by Lord Greyham's booming voice.

“Welcome, everyone! Lady Greyham and I are delighted you could be here to celebrate our favorite holidays of love—”

“And lust!” one of the men standing by the fireplace shouted. Licentiousness suddenly permeated the air. Everyone except Jo—and Lord Kenderly and Mr. Parker-Roth, thank God—cheered and clapped.

“You've heard about our little celebrations, have you, Felton?” Lord Greyham said.

“From my brothers and their friends. It's no secret Greyham Manor's the place for some fun, especially in February.”

The other men by the fireplace hooted and cheered. They had clearly been making free with the brandy decanter.

“I'm so happy our gatherings have got such glowing reviews. For those of you who may not have heard the reports Mr. Felton has been privy to, let me explain. Tomorrow is Valentine's Day—”

The men—and some of the women—called out in a completely hurly-burly manner.

“No, really?”

“You don't say!”

“I never would have guessed.”

Lord Greyham held up his hands for quiet. “Yes, and the day after we celebrate Lupercalia.”

More cheering. Good God, surely Lord Greyham didn't mean the men of the party would run naked over the grounds hitting women with goatskin thongs to ensure fertility? How horrible.

Jo sent a sidelong glance toward Lord Kenderly. Perhaps not
so
horrible. The earl would strip to advantage—

Blast it, what was the matter with her? She'd never had such a shocking thought in her life.

She snorted. Of course not, given the quality of the local males. A naked Mr. Windley, for example; she shuddered. But a naked earl . . .

She cast another glance at Lord Kenderly. His arms and chest had felt so hard when he'd carried her; his shirt and waistcoat must cover muscles as impressive as those of Michelangelo's
David
. And his face, with its strong chin, high cheekbones, long lashes, clever lips . . .

A strange, liquid heat curled through her.

“But first,” Lord Greyham said, “we must have the lottery.”

“Huzzah!” the men by the fireplace yelled. “The lovers' lottery!”

It was as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped on her. A lottery? Good God! What if she was paired with one of the idiots by the fire? She looked around the room. None of the men besides Lord Kenderly and possibly Mr. Parker-Roth was the least bit acceptable.

Lord Greyham turned to his wife. “The vase, my dear.”

Lady Greyham stepped forward with a remarkably obscene bit of pottery: two jugs fused together and shaped like female breasts, with the handles—a hot flush swept up Jo's neck and cheeks—resembling a distinctive part of the male anatomy.

“I will pull a gentleman's name from one side of the vase,” Lord Greyham said, “and Lady Greyham will draw a lady's name from the other. The two shall be a couple for the duration of our festivities.”

The gentlemen made a number of enthusiastic, if rude, noises; the ladies giggled and preened. Jo swallowed her nervous stomach.

“The gentlemen will have tomorrow, Valentine's Day, to woo their ladies,” Greyham continued, raising his voice over the commotion. “If they are successful, they'll have Lupercalia to”—he grinned and waggled his eyebrows—“celebrate.”

More cheering and catcalls.

Damian flinched, cursing inwardly at the rising chorus of lewd comments. Why the hell had he let Stephen drag him to this infernal house party?

His reason was right in front of him. Lady Noughton was doing a credible impression of ivy, wrapping her fingers around Stephen's arm and attaching herself to his side. Happily, Stephen didn't look very pleased. Maria had made a serious mistake in her treatment of Miss Atworthy; Stephen detested that kind of sly cruelty.

Damian glanced down at the oddly dressed woman. Perhaps she would turn out to be his best weapon in his battle for Stephen's continued bachelorhood.

Lord Greyham drew the first name. “Mr. Roger Dellingcourt.”

Damian saw Miss Atworthy tense. She didn't think Greyham had really left the pairings to chance, did she?

“Lady Imogene,” Lady Greyham called out.

Lady Imogene squealed; Damian cringed. Squealing was one of the lady's most unpleasant traits, but Dellingcourt must not mind. The two of them had been scandalizing the
ton
for the last six months.

Had he heard Miss Atworthy sigh with relief?

“Mr. Arthur Maiden.”

As always, the men snickered and the women giggled at Maiden's surname. One would think everyone in society would have grown immune to that feeble double entendre, but one would be wrong.

Miss Atworthy's face paled. So she did think this was a real lottery.

“Lady Chutley,” Lady Greyham read from the slip of paper she'd drawn.

“Lucky me,” Lady Chutley said, an edge to her voice.

“What's the matter, Blanche?” Lady Noughton asked. “You were singing Arthur's praises to me just this afternoon. You almost made me envious.”

“That was before I realized the Prince of Hearts had come out of retirement.” She touched Damian's forearm and fluttered her lashes at him. “I'm sure Arthur won't mind sharing, my lord. We might even arrange an exchange with your partner, whoever she may be.” She glanced at Miss Atworthy. Blanche knew the pairs had already been decided. “Mr. Maiden takes great delight in sampling a wide variety of female—”

His stomach turned. “Thank you, but no.” Even when he'd merited his obnoxious nickname, he'd preferred not to share, and the thought of the disgusting Maiden touching Miss Atworthy in any way was revolting.

Lady Chutley's mouth hung open for a moment at his sharp tone.

“I'd say you've been put in your place, Blanche,” Lady Noughton said, her eyes lighting with what looked like glee at the perceived slight.

“No insult intended.” Lord Kenderly's voice still had an edge. “I wouldn't want to take you away from Mr. Maiden for a moment; I'm certain he would be most unhappy should I try to.”

“You needn't take me away.” Lady Chutley smiled. “As I said, Arthur likes variety. I'm sure he wouldn't mind if we all got busy together. He rather enjoys group situations.”

“Really?” Lord Kenderly's tone would have frozen water.

Mr. Parker-Roth filled the somewhat awkward pause. “You must know Damian has become a very dull dog, Blanche, though I'm not sure he was ever so exciting as you seem to think. Still, he's been spending all his time in his study with his Latin tomes recently. I dragged him here against his will to shake some of the dust off him.”

“Oh.” Lady Chutley's full lips curved in the slightest smile and her eyes slid briefly back to Jo. “I'm the first to admit I'm not a scholar, but my brother always said those Roman fellows were quite, quite adventuresome.” She tapped the earl's arm. “If—
when
—you change your mind, I'll be delighted to help welcome you back to the joys of the flesh,” she said before making her way across the room to where Mr. Maiden was waiting impatiently.

Lord Kenderly shook his arm slightly and straightened his cuff. He did not watch Lady Chutley's progress.

“Lord Benedict Wapley,” Lord Greyham called.

Oh, God. Jo tried to appear calm, but it was difficult when her stomach was shaking like a blancmange. She did not belong here. She was nothing like these other ladies. She didn't even understand what Lady Chutley had been hinting at. A group situation? The only notion that came to mind—no, that
must
be wrong.

And if she were ever in any . . . situation with Lord Kenderly—which, of course, she would never be—she would wish to have him all to herself.

“Mrs. Sophia Petwell.”

Thank God. Another nincompoop avoided.

At least it was almost dinnertime. She could get through this evening. She would keep her eyes open for the Ovid; Papa had said it was very distinctive. If worse came to worst, she'd plead the headache and go hide in her room until everyone was in his or her bed. She flushed. Or whosever's bed.

Once everyone was, er,
situated
for the night, she'd creep down to the library and look through the bookcases. And if she didn't find the Ovid, so be it. Her headache could turn into a serious illness requiring her immediate departure in the morning.

Papa had not been at all forthcoming about this Ovid; no, he'd been downright secretive. If Lord Kenderly, a noted Latin scholar, didn't consider the book valuable, it probably wasn't, though she must remember the earl hadn't actually seen the volume. Still, given Papa's behavior, it was most likely all a hum—certainly not worth risking her virtue over.

“Mr. Stephen Parker-Roth.”

Lady Noughton could not possibly get any closer to the man without climbing inside his skin. She'd be sadly miffed if Lady Greyham pulled someone else's name.

She didn't. “Lady Maria Noughton.”

Lady Noughton whispered something in Mr. Parker-Roth's ear that caused him to smile in an exceedingly warm, terribly unsettling way. Something dark and hot and sinful pulsed between them.

Something dark and hot throbbed deep in
her
. Sin. It was thick around her. And temptation in the form of the Prince of Hearts stood right at her elbow.

She must resist. She must remember her virtue. She would rather die than part with it.

Wouldn't she?

She glanced around the room as Lord Greyham pulled another man's name. Yes, of course. She'd defend her honor to her last breath if any of these idiots tried to take it from her.

“Lord Damian Kenderly.”

Oh! Except perhaps Lord Kenderly.

Her palms blossomed with dampness. What if her name wasn't chosen? She had only a one in three chance of being paired with the earl.

What was she thinking? She should be happy if one of the other ladies' names
was
called. Then she wouldn't be tempted to sin . . . but she'd be matched with the fat, balding man or the thin, spotted boy. Her stomach twisted.

“Miss Josephine Atworthy.”

She stopped breathing. The dark, throbbing, sinful feeling smoldered deep inside her. She closed her eyes.

“Are you all right, Miss Atworthy?”

Lord Kenderly's voice was quiet, concerned, deep, and male. It acted like wind on coals, causing hot need to blaze and roar through her.

Virtue. She must hold on to her virtue.

She swallowed and cleared her throat. “Yes,” she said and looked up at him.

Big, big mistake.

A man should not have such dark blue eyes and such long lashes. And his lips . . .

Dear God! She dropped her gaze to his cravat. She wanted to feel the touch of his lips again so badly she could taste it.