The Naked Prince (6 page)

“Help yourself to some brandy; decanter's on the table.” Lord Greyham wrapped his arm around his wife's shoulders. “I have to get back to what I was doing.”

Lady Greyham giggled as her husband pulled her down and, blessedly, out of sight.

“You looking for a book, too, D-Damian?” Mr. Parker-Roth wavered a little on his feet. “Should be looking for a l-lady instead.” The man winked. “A w-wet and willing woman will help you sleep much better than some dry Latin text.”

“And you should be in bed, Stephen”—Lord Kenderly glared at Lady Noughton—“your
own
bed.”

Suddenly the couch started creaking in an alarming way; odd, breathy pants and grunts emanated from the other side, where Lord and Lady Greyham were obviously engaged in some strenuous activity.

“It
is
a bit crowded here, isn't it?” Mr. Parker-Roth executed a wobbly bow to Lady Noughton. “'Fraid my f-friend's right. Not feeling quite the thing. Excuse me?”

Lady Noughton almost growled. “No, I—”

“Oh, oh,
oh!
” Lady Greyham's voice rose, tight and vaguely desperate. There was something intense about her tone that made Jo feel extremely unsettled and, well,
hot
.

“That's it. That's the way.” Lord Greyham might have been urging on his hounds. His voice was strained, too. “Come on, old girl. Come on.”

“Oh, oh . . .
y-yes!
” Lady Greyham screamed. “Oh, God, Pookie!”

The couch shook more violently in sharp, hard jerks; Lord Greyham grunted . . . and then roared. “Huzzah!”

Jo's entire body flushed.

She glanced at Lord Kenderly; he was grimacing in what looked like pain. Then his eyes met hers, and her temperature shot up another hundred degrees.

A very embarrassing area of her person throbbed, wet and empty.

Dear heavens, was she like a dog in heat—could he
smell
the need consuming her?

“Well, at least someone is satisfied,” Lady Noughton said waspishly.

“If you hadn't decided to go h-haring off to the library, you could be, too.” Mr. Parker-Roth shifted on his feet as if he was uncomfortable. “
I
could be.”

“Yes, well, I believe it's past time we adjourned.” Lord Kenderly sounded angry. “I'll see you up to your room, Stephen.” He looked at Jo. His face was now expressionless. “Will you accompany us, Miss Atworthy?”

She certainly wasn't going to stay here. Lady Noughton looked as if she might explode, ripping apart anyone unwary enough to be nearby, and the thought of facing Lord and Lady Greyham after what she'd just heard . . .

“That was splendid, Pookie.” Lady Greyham's voice was almost a purr. “But do get off me now. We should attend to our guests.”

Jo shot out of the library ahead of everyone.

Damn. Damian sat up in bed and rubbed his hands over his face. His sheets were a twisted mess. He felt like he'd hardly slept a wink—and every time he had dropped off, he'd dreamt of a certain tall, prickly,
virginal
woman.

She was anything but virginal in his dreams. Those long legs . . . her full breasts . . .

He scowled down at his eager cock where it made an obvious bulge in the bedclothes. Stephen was right; he'd been far too long without a woman. Unfortunately, there was little chance he could cure that problem anytime soon. Miss Atworthy was not a candidate for seduction.

He rubbed the spot between his brows. Listening to Greyham and his wife last night had been torture, and with Valentine's Day and, worse, Lupercalia the focus of the next two days, lust would be so thick in the air, he'd likely choke on it.

He threw off the covers and walked carefully over to the washbasin. Good, the water was cold. He splashed it on his face; he should splash it considerably lower.

He'd tried to talk some sense into Stephen after they'd seen Miss Atworthy to her door last night, but the man had been too drunk to see reason, damn it. Until he could persuade him to look out for himself, he'd have to look out for him, as last night had demonstrated.

He yanked on his clothes and made quick work of tying his cravat. Whether the Greyhams witnessing whatever Maria had had planned would have resulted in her trap snapping shut, he couldn't say. But Stephen was so damn honorable, all the widow need do was convince him he owed her marriage.

Damian was bloody well determined to see to it that that didn't happen.

He shrugged into his coat, straightened his cuffs, and stepped out into the corridor.

“
Oof!
”

Miss Atworthy's delightful body collided with his.

He grabbed her upper arms to steady her and inhaled the scent of lemon and woman. His cock, which had finally assumed appropriate proportions, leapt with eagerness.

“Oh, I'm so sorry.” She was babbling, her lovely eyes wide, her cheeks red. “It was my fault entirely. I was woolgathering.”

She was close enough to kiss. He remembered the feel of her last night in painful detail. Her lips were soft; her mouth, warm and wet—

He coughed. “Are you all right?” She seemed to be struggling to get her breath; her bosom was certainly heaving delightfully.

“Yes.” She swallowed, and he watched her throat move. Her dress this morning was a great improvement over yesterday's monstrosity. All her graceful neck was exposed to his interested gaze as well as most of her lovely shoulders. And the nicely rounded tops of her br—

“I should have been paying more attention to where I was going,” she said. “That was so clumsy of me.”

“Don't give it another thought. I should have been more careful myself.” He looked down to be certain his wayward body wasn't announcing his admiration too obviously and noticed something had fallen out of the book she was carrying—a letter she'd apparently been using to mark her place. He stooped to pick it up.

He frowned. He recognized the handwriting. “This is one of my letters to your father.”

“
Ack!
” She grabbed it and thrust it back in the book. She was even redder than she'd been a moment ago. “Please excuse me. I was just on my way to my room.” She stepped to the side as though she planned to go around him.

He stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Did your father give you my letter?” He hoped she couldn't hear the hurt in his voice. He'd saved all the letters Mr. Atworthy had sent him, but if the man didn't value their correspondence the way he did, there was nothing he could do about it. He shouldn't be surprised or offended. It only made sense that what impressed a man of thirty as significant would seem banal to someone twice that age.

“No.”

“You just took it?” Miss Atworthy hadn't struck him as someone who had such little consideration for a man's privacy.

“No, of course not.” She fidgeted. “I, er, needed a bookmark, and, ah, well . . .” She shrugged.

Very odd. He would try another subject. “Did he tell you I would be here?”

Her eyes snapped up to meet his. “Of course not. Papa didn't know you'd be attending this house party.”

Why would she assume that? “Yes, he did.”

She shook her head, frowning at him. “No, he didn't.”

This conversation was beyond absurd. Certainly she must realize he would know the truth better than she on this subject. “Did a Mr. Flanders not stop to call on your father last week?”

Her brows met over her nose. “Yes, I believe he did. Is he a short man with reddish hair?”

“Yes. He helps with
The Classical Gazette.
He's the one who initially puzzled out who J.A. was; since the letters are sent to the
Gazette
offices, he knew what part of Britain they came from. As he happened to be passing through the area, he thought he should introduce himself. He told me your father was surprised and”—Flanders had said “over the moon,” but that had seemed an exaggeration—“pleased that I'd be in the neighborhood, though doubtful he'd be able to see me. I take it he doesn't get out much. Is he perhaps an invalid?”

Miss Atworthy muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “not yet” before she pushed past him and fled down the corridor.

 

 

Jo sat stunned among the women in the morning room, the gentlemen having been relegated to the study, and tried to appear as if nothing was amiss. Sheets of red paper, bits of ribbon and lace, and pots of glue were strewn over the tables. Her hand slipped and she cut the bottom off her paper heart.

She couldn't believe it. Papa had known Lord Kenderly would be here. Worse, he must know, after speaking with Mr. Flanders, that she'd been corresponding with the earl for some time.

Dear God, what must Papa think? Well-bred single women did
not
write to single men to whom they were not related.

“How are your valentines coming?” Lady Greyham asked. “You should have everything you need at hand.”

“I don't have any ideas.” Lady Imogene dropped her scissors, letting them clatter on the table. “I hate making valentines.”

“But you like getting them, don't you?” Mrs. Petwell asked as she cut out a large, red heart.

Lady Imogene shrugged. “I like gifts better. Chocolate and flowers.”

“Chocolate and flowers
are
very pleasant,” Lady Greyham said, “as I tell my dear Lord Greyham every year.”

“You just need to let yourself have some fun with it, Lady Imogene.” Mrs. Butterwick smiled in a motherly fashion. “See?” She held up the card she'd just finished.

Lady Imogene took it from her. “It's rather an odd shape, isn't it? Like a melted heart.”

It looked more like two red mountains decorated with snippets of ribbon and tufts of feathers.

“It's a dress,” Mrs. Butterwick said.

“A dress? It doesn't look anything like a dress.”

“It depends on your perspective. Open it.”

Lady Imogene rolled her eyes and opened the card—it was hinged on the mountain peaks so it lifted up. “Oh!” She started giggling.

Jo frowned. The second layer was all lace. Through the lace one could see the mountain peaks weren't peaks at all, but knees. And the sides were two legs spread—

Lady Imogene lifted the lace, gasped, and then shouted with laughter.

Oh, Lord. A hot blush flooded Jo's face. She must be redder than Mrs. Butterwick's valentine.

“Brilliant,” Lady Greyham said, clapping.

Mrs. Handley nodded. “It looks so real. How did you know what to draw? Can't say I've ever seen that part of me.”

Mrs. Petwell sniggered. “Sir Humphrey helped you, did he?”

“He did not.” Mrs. Butterwick took the card back from Lady Imogene. “I used a hand mirror. Haven't you ever looked at your female parts, Sophia?”

“No, why would I?” Mrs. Petwell grinned. “I'm far too busy examining Lord Benedict's male parts.”

“I think it's very clever,” Lady Imogene said. “And I'm sure Sir Humphrey will wish to see if your portrayal is completely accurate.”

“Of course he will. I'm expecting we'll repair to bed immediately so he can do just that.”

Everyone but Jo laughed.

“Well, ladies,” Lady Greyham said, “I believe Mrs. Butterwick has thrown down the gauntlet. Let us see if anyone can outdo her in creativity.”

“How will we determine the winner?” Lady Imogene asked.

“We will have to observe the gentlemen's falls when they read their valentines,” Lady Noughton said. “The card that provokes the largest, ah, reaction wins.”

“That's not entirely fair, Maria,” Mrs. Petwell said. “We all know men are not equally endowed. I've personally examined both Lord Benedict's and Mr. Maiden's . . . attractions. Bennie is much larger”—she smiled at Lady Chutley—“though both gentlemen satisfy. We ladies know size is not the important issue, don't we?”

Jo ducked her head and pretended to examine the assortment of ribbon in front of her, though what she was really seeing was gentlemen's breeches. Good God.

If she survived this party, writing letters to an unmarried male would be the least of the blots on her reputation. And to think Papa had urged her to attend, had even said a little sin would do her good! Had he had the slightest notion how thick sin would be all around her?

When she'd sat at her bedroom desk, she'd had a vague mental image of the gentleman she'd been writing to all these months. She'd pictured a pleasant-looking, bespectacled man, not young but not old, scholarly, with a gentle voice. But now that she'd met Lord Kenderly, she wanted to touch him, press up against him as she had behind the curtains last night, feel his skin on hers—and, yes, examine his most male organ. The thought was scandalous, shocking—and after less than twenty-four hours at Greyham Manor, it felt oddly reasonable.

Oh, damn, she was throbbing again. She pushed some bits of lace around, praying no one would notice her heightened color.

Of course God didn't answer her prayer. He must be laughing at the old spinster adrift in such sinful waters.

“Are we embarrassing the little virgin in our midst?” Lady Noughton's voice grated.

Jo ignored her and glued some lace to the heart she'd cut. Her valentine was insipid; before she'd seen Mrs. Butterwick's card, she'd thought all valentines insipid.

“Maria,” Lady Greyham said, “have done. You know Miss Atworthy is here only because Henrietta Helton took ill.”

Lady Noughton frowned and might have argued, but she was interrupted by Lady Imogene waving her valentine in the air for the ladies' reaction.

Jo let the other women crowd around. The tone of their laughter told her clearly she would not appreciate Lady Imogene's imagination.

What was she going to write to complete her boring card? She couldn't just wish Lord Kenderly well. This was a valentine, not a sympathy card. On the other hand, she certainly couldn't mention the odd throbbing heat he provoked in her. She bit her lip. What should she write?

She'd like to write something daring, though not as daring as what Mrs. Butterwick or Lady Imogene had written—or drawn.

She was twenty-eight. As Papa had pointed out, she wasn't getting any younger. She could use a little sin, a little pleasure, in her life. If she let this opportunity pass, she'd have only Mr. Windley at hand—dear God. Mr. Windley was penance, not pleasure.

She glanced over at Lady Noughton's card. The widow had written,
Meet me at the baths at midnight.

Could she ask Lord Kenderly to meet her somewhere secluded?

No. She hadn't the courage.

“I still don't have any ideas,” Mrs. Handley said. “I need some more inspiration.”

“How about some brandy? I often find a drop or two of spirits helps me think.” Lady Greyham pulled the decanter out of the cabinet. “Oh, bother, Hugh must have stolen the glasses.”

“We've teacups, don't we?” Mrs. Petwell said.

“Very true.” Lady Greyham passed the brandy around so everyone could fill her cup.

Jo took a splash to be companionable.
Dear Lord Kenderly,
she wrote,
Happy Valentine's Day.
She chewed on the end of her pen. What else?

Her mind was a blank—well, no, it was filled with scandalous things she could never write.

She heard laughter in the corridor. The men were here; her time was up. Her insipid card would have to do. The earl certainly couldn't expect professions of love. They were barely acquainted . . . except she felt as if she knew him so well from his letters. Or she'd thought she'd known him when she'd thought him older and plainer.

She signed the card quickly as the men came into the room.

“Did you miss us, sweets?” Lord Greyham asked, giving Lady Greyham an enthusiastic kiss on the lips.

“Mmm, of course, but we spent our time well, didn't we ladies?”

“Indeed.” Lady Chutley smirked. “I think you'll find our efforts most, ah, uplifting.”

The ladies giggled; Jo took the opportunity to move toward the windows. She noticed Lord Kenderly was standing a little apart, frowning, his hands clasped behind his back; he looked about as happy to be there as she was.

“And you'll find ours inspiring as well,” Lord Benedict said. The men sniggered.

“I'll confess it looked bleak at first when Greyham gave us
The Young Man's Valentine Writer
.” Mr. Dellingcourt laughed. “What a collection of trite and saccharine verses! I suppose they might appeal to very inexperienced young ladies, but I assure you there was nothing appropriate for
this
group.”