The Naked Prince (5 page)

Perhaps a little sin wouldn't be so terrible. She was twenty-eight years old, after all. Her virtue was shriveling inside her like a grape forgotten on the vine. This house party would last only a day or two, and then she'd go back to her old life. If she was going to be condemned to the hell of cramming Latin verbs into Windley heads, she might as well have something interesting to atone for.

No mortal sin; just a few venial ones. What would be the harm in that? She'd get a little experience, a little tarnish on her reputation, but who would care? No matter what Papa said, just her being here would cause Mrs. Johnson and the other matrons to assume she'd done terrible, scandalous things. If her name was to be blackened anyway, she might as well do
something.

She could further her Latin scholarship. Lord Kenderly should be able to explain the confusing poetry she'd found in Papa's study and perhaps even demonstrate a verse or two.

She flushed. Well, perhaps not.

“And now that our lottery is over,” Lord Greyham said—dear heavens, she'd completely missed the last two drawings—“we can proceed to dinner.” He wrapped his arm around his wife's waist and bussed her noisily on the cheek. “Gentlemen, though it's not yet Valentine's Day, I'm sure no one will object if you begin your wooing now.”

“Huzzah!” Mr. Dellingcourt shouted, grabbing Lady Imogene in a most lascivious manner. All the men in the room except Lord Kenderly and Mr. Parker-Roth embraced their companions. Mr. Parker-Roth didn't have to; Lady Noughton threw her arms around him and pulled his head down for a kiss. His hands landed on her derriere.

Jo looked away. How mortifying. She quickly stepped back from Lord Kenderly. Was he going to maul her in the same fashion?

No, he merely offered her his arm. She took it, swallowing a ridiculous feeling of disappointment. She was relieved. Of
course
she was relieved. “I'm afraid I'm not used to . . .” She waved her free hand, not quite certain how to describe the scene.

“Yes, well, I'm not used to it either.” He was frowning at Mr. Parker-Roth and Lady Noughton.

“Then why did you come?” Dear God, Lady Noughton had her hand on the front of Mr. Parker-Roth's breeches.

Lord Kenderly put some distance between them and his friend. “To keep an eye on Stephen. I can't shake the feeling that Maria means to trap him into marrying her.”

Mr. Parker-Roth and Lady Noughton appeared to be on extremely intimate terms already. “Would that be such a terrible thing?”

“It would be a disaster.” He bent his head and dropped his voice so they wouldn't be overheard, not that anyone was paying them the least bit of attention—everyone else was far too involved in sinful behavior. Sir Humphrey had his hand on Mrs. Butterwick's breasts, and Mr. Dellingcourt was nibbling on Lady Imogene's ear as they made their way toward the dining room.

“Maria is a creature of London. She thinks Stephen would be happy living in Town; she seems not to have noticed he never stays there more than a few weeks before he's off searching for new plant species.”

“Oh.” Mr. Parker-Roth and Lady Noughton were strolling toward the door now. “Perhaps she could accompany him.”

Lord Kenderly snorted. “Pigs will fly long before Maria will set her expensively shod toe into the heat and mud of South America.”

“I see.” She watched Lady Noughton's elegant derriere swish out the door. He had a point.

“And Stephen comes from a large, close family. When he does wed, he'll want several children. Maria would never agree to so inconvenience herself or her figure.”

“Ah.” And how many children would Lord Kenderly like? He was an earl. He must plan to have an heir and a spare at least. She flushed. That was none of her concern. “But if Lady Noughton loves—”

Lord Kenderly scowled at her. “Maria loves no one but herself.”

Was the earl a dog in the manger? An unpleasant, but unfortunately reasonable thought. Lady Noughton was very beautiful in a brittle sort of way. “Then why would she wish to marry?”

“I don't know. The current Lord Noughton disapproves of her, so her funds may be in jeopardy. Likely it's desperation that persuades her she's in love with Stephen.”

“But how could she trap Mr. Parker-Roth? She's a widow, not a debutante.”

Lord Kenderly looked away—and must have realized they were the only people left in the parlor. He started toward the door. “I admit that has me puzzled.”

“Perhaps you are imagining problems where there are none.”

“I am not. I overheard Maria talking to Lady Greyham at the Wainwright soiree last week.”

“Eavesdropping?”

The man didn't even blush. “Yes. Unfortunately, I didn't hear the whole of it, so I don't know exactly what kind of trap Maria plans to set—which is why I'm telling you all this.” He looked down at her, his deep blue eyes intent. “I could use your help.”

The sinful heat flared low in her belly again. The rational part of her insisted this was none of her affair, but the other part—this strange, needy part that until now she hadn't known existed—was already nodding. “Of course. What do you want me to do?”

He smiled, just the slightest upturn of his lips, and his broad hand came up to cover hers where it rested on his forearm. He squeezed her fingers. “I don't know. Just keep your eyes and ears open. Maybe Maria will let some clue slip.”

“Very well.” She managed to get the words past her suddenly dry lips. The weight of his hand on hers was doing unusual things to her heart.

She was in very big trouble.

Jo listened as yet another set of footsteps crept past her door. If the frequent creaking of the corridor floor was any indication, everyone at the party had made his or her way to some other guest's bedchamber. Mr. Parker-Roth was likely already in Lady Noughton's room.

Whose room was Lord Kenderly in?

She tossed his letter onto her dressing table. She'd finally found time to read it, but now that she knew he'd thought he was writing to Papa, his words didn't captivate her as they had in the past. Oh, he was still witty and perspicacious, but she could no longer pretend he was writing to
her
.

She should throw it away. She picked it up again to do just that, but her fingers refused to crumple it. She glanced down at the vellum square. She still felt an odd thrill when she saw his strong, bold handwriting.

She was a fool, but she tucked the letter into the book she'd been reading. She would keep it with all the others, tied in a ribbon in her desk at home.

She turned and frowned at herself in the cheval glass. She raised her chin. She'd put her foolish tendre behind her. Where Lord Kenderly was and what he was doing with whom were none of her concern. She would wait a few more minutes and then make her own surreptitious way through Greyham Manor's darkened halls.

She wrinkled her nose at her nightgown-clad figure. She would not be headed to any gentleman's arms. Oh, no. She meant to search the library. With luck, she'd find the stupid Ovid. She'd like to take it home and wave it in Papa's face. But find it or not, she'd be gone in the morning.

And what about Lord Kenderly? He'd asked for her help. Was she going to desert him?

Yes. She thrust her arms into her wrapper. Indeed she was. He was the Prince of Hearts. She was merely a country spinster, very much a fish out of water at this gathering.

She'd never endured such a shocking meal as this evening's dinner. She hadn't known where to look. To her right, Mr. Dellingcourt was cutting Lady Imogene's food and feeding it to her from his fork. Across the table, Lord Wapley plucked grapes from Mrs. Petwell's bodice with his lips. And on her left, Lady Noughton ate a sausage so slowly and lasciviously, it was as if she were consuming something else entirely. Jo had bolted for her room at the first opportunity.

She glanced at the clock. It was almost midnight. The corridor had been quiet for the last ten minutes. She should be able to make it to the library without encountering anyone else.

She slipped out of her room. Just as she'd hoped, the passage was empty. The candles in the wall sconces provided plenty of light; she didn't need a candlestick.

She hurried past the closed doors, ignoring the laughter and moans that came from behind some of them, and went down the stairs. The library door stood open. Everyone at this party had far more interesting ways of getting to sleep than by reading a book.

She went in, pulling the door closed behind her. Moonlight flooded the room and a glimmer of color glinted in the grate where the fire's embers smoldered, but there was not enough light to find Ovid. She would need a candle after all. Where—

She heard a step in the hall.

Damn! Some randy gentleman was likely on the prowl. She didn't want to be discovered. Where could she hide? He would be in the library in a moment.

The window curtains—they would have to do. She darted behind their generous folds just as the door opened.

 

 

Damian stepped into the library. Thank God the room was empty; he'd no desire to encounter any of the other guests.

No, that was a lie. He had a burning desire to encounter Miss Atworthy. Far too burning—he'd been tossing and turning for the last half hour, and hearing people creeping up and down the corridor had only thrown kindling on the coals. He could imagine in painful detail exactly what everyone else was doing in bed, and it wasn't sleeping or reading.

Except Miss Atworthy. She must be lying demurely between her virginal sheets, sound asleep, unless she was bothered by salacious nightmares. The poor woman's eyes had almost started from her head during dinner.

Dinner
had
been quite a deplorable show. Even when he'd reigned as Prince of Hearts, he'd avoided such things. But then again, perhaps the appalling spectacle had done some good. Stephen had looked almost as disapproving as Miss Atworthy. Lady Noughton was doing an excellent job of killing his enthusiasm for her.

Damian frowned. The widow wasn't stupid. She must think she had a solid plan to trap Stephen. What could it be? He kept turning that question over in his mind, but he wasn't coming up with any answers.

Ah well, he wasn't going to solve the puzzle tonight. He needed to get some sleep so he could be alert tomorrow. A good book might distract him—he certainly hoped so. He walked farther into the library, lifting his candle to illuminate the bookcases.

Either the Greyhams weren't readers, or they kept their more entertaining books elsewhere. He had no interest in examining
Recipes to Ensure Improved Digestion
or
A Short Discussion of Sheep Shearing
. Short? This tome was a good three inches thick. A long discussion might crush an unwary reader. Perhaps if he—

Damn, were those voices? Yes, a man's and a woman's, loud and slurred. They were drunk and coming closer. He snuffed his candle. Bloody hell, he'd neglected to shut the door. The moment the couple reached the room, they'd see him. He had to hide and quickly, but where? He looked around. There was only one option.

He jumped behind the window curtain—and into a soft, feminine body.

“Ee—”

He silenced the woman's startled shriek in the quickest, most efficient manner he could think of: he put his candlestick-free hand on her back, pulled her against him, and covered her mouth with his.

She stiffened.

Who the hell was he kissing? None of the women at this party cared whom they frolicked with.

None except Miss Atworthy.

The height and the feel . . . and the innocent taste . . . of the woman were right, as was her scent—clean and fresh with a hint of lemon. His body certainly recognized her. It was reacting most enthusiastically.

She relaxed and opened her lips on a small sigh. He did not need a second invitation; his tongue swept into her warm, moist mouth while his hand slid down her back.

Mmm. It was definitely Miss Atworthy. No one else had such a lovely body. She was in her nightclothes, her stays discarded—and he was wearing only shirt and breeches, pulled on hurriedly over his nakedness. He could feel her every soft curve....

He drew his hips back quickly so she wouldn't feel his suddenly hard curve. She might be older than most debutantes, but she was clearly inexperienced.

He'd very much like to remedy that situation, immediately if possible. He could carry her up to his bed or just lay her down on the couch he'd noticed by the fire and—

And he'd best pay attention to what was happening on the other side of the curtain. He moved his lips to Miss Atworthy's ear. “I think we're about to have company.”

“Wha—” She stopped, then stretched to whisper in his ear, “Who?”

He almost missed her question, he was so entranced by the feel of her body moving against his. “I don't . . . ah.”

The newcomers' identities required no guesswork.

“I don't see why I have to sneak around my own house, Alice,” Lord Greyham said in a conversational, if highly annoyed and drunken, tone.

“Shh, Hugh. It's almost midnight. Maria and Mr. Parker-Roth should be down at any moment. We don't want them to know we're here.”

Maria? What was this? Perhaps he'd finally learn the widow's plan.

“I thought they wanted us here.” Greyham had dropped his voice slightly.

“Maria does.” Lady Greyham whispered loudly. “But we'll be a surprise for Mr. Parker-Roth.”

“An unpleasant one.” There was the sound of a stopper coming out of a brandy decanter. “No sensible man wants an audience for his proposal, Alice. And why he'd want to come down to the library when he could pop the question in a more comfortable, private location like a bedchamber is beyond me. I imagine he's already in Maria's bed.”

“Pour me some brandy, too, will you?” There was the sound of liquid splashing into two glasses. “You're acting just like a man, Hugh. This will be far more amusing.”

“Amusing for whom? Not Parker-Roth.” Greyham's voice slid into a leer. “And of course I'm acting like a man. I
am
a man, Alice. I'll be happy to give you another, even more forceful demonstration of that fact if it's slipped your mind.”

Miss Atworthy made a small sound of distress, and Damian pulled her tighter against him. Fortunately, he'd turned slightly, so she was against his side. She didn't need to have a close encounter with
his
male organ.

“Really, Hugh, you are impossible. Just think how romantic it would be to become betrothed in the first moments of Valentine's Day.”

Greyham snorted. “It certainly can't be romantic to have your host and hostess leap up to shout congratulations. I tell you, Parker-Roth can just as easily—far more easily—become betrothed in a nice warm bed and seal his troth with a long, thorough, sweaty bit of lovemaking.”

“Oh, pish. I think you must not have a single romantic bone in your body.”

“I do have a suddenly bonelike appendage that's very eager to show you how romantic I can be.”

Lady Greyham giggled amid sounds of a scuffle. “Mmm. Behave yourself, my lord.”

“I thought I was behaving myself.”

More giggling.

“Stop, Hugh.” Lady Greyham sounded rather breathless. “We have to hide. I promised Maria.”

Greyham sighed. “Very well. Shall we conceal ourselves behind the curtains?”

Miss Atworthy sucked in a small breath and her grip on Damian tightened. It
would
get rather crowded if the Greyhams chose this spot to secret themselves.

“No, I have a better idea,” Lady Greyham said. “See, this couch is turned so if we lie on it, we'll be hidden from anyone coming in the door.”

“What? You think I can't satisfy you standing up? I'll be happy to show you that you are mistaken.”

Lady Greyham giggled some more. “But then we'll make the curtains move. You know I can never hold still.”

“And you can never be quiet either, can you?”

“I'll try.”

Her accompanying shriek didn't speak well for her success nor did the groaning couch springs.

Frankly they were making enough noise to alert all but the deaf to their presence, but Damian couldn't leave anything to chance. Maria must be planning to trick a proposal out of Stephen—how she thought she'd manage that was a mystery—and by having witnesses, she'd either claim breach of promise or shame Stephen into standing by his offer. A ridiculous scheme, but if she'd managed to get Stephen drunk—a feat in itself—it might work. Stephen was honorable to a fault.

He had to do something, but what? He couldn't risk ruining Miss Atworthy's reputation. If he—

“Why the hell do we n-need to go to the l-library now, Maria?”

Damn it all, that was Stephen's voice. They were in the corridor.

“We have to save Mr. Parker-Roth,” Miss Atworthy whispered suddenly.

“Yes, but—”

She didn't wait to hear his thoughts; she grabbed the candlestick from him and stepped out from behind the curtain.

Jo was lighting the candle in the fireplace when Lady Noughton dragged Mr. Parker-Roth through the library door.

Lady Noughton stopped abruptly and glared. “What are you doing here?”

Jo raised her chin. “Looking for a book.” She wasn't going to let this sneaky, unprincipled snake intimidate her. “This
is
a library, you know.”

Mr. Parker-Roth laughed. “V-very true. Girl's got you there.” His speech was slurred. He must be exceedingly drunk. “F-frankly, I don't know why
we're
here. D-didn't think you wanted to read, Maria.”

“No, of course I don't want to read.” Lady Noughton patted Mr. Parker-Roth on the arm. “Remember, I wish to show you—”

“Surprise!” Lady Greyham popped up from behind the sofa back, her hair tumbled over her shoulders, her bodice drooping alarmingly low.

“I say, it's a party.” Lord Greyham appeared next to her. “And look, here's Kenderly as well.”

In the confusion, Lord Kenderly must have slipped out of the room. It looked as if he were just entering the library now.