The Naked King

by Sally MacKenzie

  People might call Stephen the King of Hearts, but men called Brentwood the king of another female body part. More and more of society’s doors were closed to him. He was a very dirty dish—and a constant source of heartache for his mother.

  Lady Brentwood was just completing her business. She turned and smiled at him, though her smile looked rather tired and sad. “Mr. Parker-Roth, how pleasant to see you.”

  “Lady Brentwood.” Had he felt Anne stiffen even more? He glanced at her. Her face was ashen. He put his hand on her elbow in case she needed support. “May I present my companions Lady Anne Marston and her sister, Lady Evangeline?”

  Evie smiled easily, but Anne stood like a broken puppet. What was the matter with her?

  “Lord Crane’s daughters,” Lady Brentwood was saying. “So nice to meet you. Your cousin Clorinda is a particular friend of mine, so I knew you were expected in Town.”

  “Ah,” Anne said. Her lovely voice sounded strangled, but Lady Brentwood seemed not to notice.

  “I’m giving a card party this evening—just a small gathering. Perhaps you can attend?” Her smile flickered. “I will confess I’m not completely without ulterior motives. I’m hoping my son will be there. As you may discover some day, mothers never give up on their children’s happiness. I keep praying he will find a woman to marry.”

  “Oh,” Evie said, obviously delighted at her first London invitation. “May we go, Anne?”

  “I do not know our plans,” Anne said. “We have just arrived in London.” Her voice was tight now; clearly she’d gleaned Brentwood’s reputation from the gossip columns.

  Lady Brentwood’s expression drooped. She’d noted Anne’s reserve—unfortunately, Stephen would wager she was all too familiar with that reaction. “I had hoped . . . Clorinda said . . . well, she happened to mention you were still unwed, Lady Anne.”

  Something about Anne’s stillness made him fear she was going to explode at any moment. Poor Lady Brentwood did not merit that.

  “Ah, but Miss Strange was missing a few facts, Lady Brentwood,” he said quickly. “Lady Anne isn’t wed, but she is betrothed . . . to me.”

  He heard Celeste and her assistant, patiently waiting nearby for them to finish their conversation, suck in their breath. Lady Brentwood merely smiled, this time with genuine happiness.

  “How wonderful. My sincere congratulations to you both. Your parents must be delighted.”

  Mama certainly would be delighted . . . if she knew.

  Evie was opening her mouth, probably to enlighten Lady Brentwood concerning the somewhat sudden nature of the betrothal announcement. He felt very sure they could leave that detail to the gossips.

  “Indeed,” he said before Evie could speak. “And that is why—as you can see—I’m selfishly depriving Miss Strange of the pleasure of shopping with the ladies”—Anne snorted, but he felt it wisest to ignore that—“and have brought them to Celeste so she might work her magic on their wardrobes.”

  “Very good.” Lady Brentwood’s eyes actually twinkled. “And I know Clorinda was delighted to cede this duty to you, sir, though I suspect she never intended to accompany the ladies in the first place.” She turned to Anne and Evie. “Don’t worry; I believe you can put your faith in Celeste. She is an excellent dressmaker”—she laughed—“and Mr. Parker-Roth will give you splendid advice. I do hope, once you consult your appointments, that I might see you tonight, even if my original hope will be unrealized.”

  Evie made a credible curtsey and Anne managed to produce a polite murmur as Lady Brentwood departed.

  What was the matter with Anne? He would have thought she’d have been a bit more gracious. Well, there was no time to consider the issue; Celeste was upon them.

  “Ooo, Monsieur Parker-Roth!” Celeste said, hands outstretched. “Eet is tres magnifique to see you—and with two belles jeunes femmes aussi!”

  She was almost leaping with joy; he felt like the Prodigal Son. It had been only two months since he’d parted ways with his last mistress, but Celeste had clearly been missing his blunt.

  Her sharp eyes studied Anne; she raised her eyebrows slightly—not surprising as Anne had chosen to don a dress almost as hideous as the abomination she’d been wearing this morning in Hyde Park.

  “As I’m sure you’ve surmised”—by what Celeste saw as much as by what he’d said—“Lady Anne and Lady Evangeline will need all new clothes for the Season.”

  Celeste knew that however crazy Crane was, his pockets were deep. Her smile widened, if that were physically possible. “Bon!”

  Anne squared her shoulders, taking a deep breath as if readying for battle. “My sister is the one making her come-out, madam. She will need . . .”—she paused, glanced at him, and then frowned at Celeste—“whatever one needs for such an undertaking.”

  Celeste clapped her hands. “Mais oui. Ball gowns and walking dresses and . . . oh, so many things.” She surveyed Evie. “You are tres jolie, mademoiselle, but my dresses—they will make you even more beautiful. The London bucks will be dazzled; they will throw themselves at your feet. Your papa will have many, many offers for your hand.”

  Evie smiled and blushed. “Thank you, Madam Celeste, though I can’t imagine . . . well, I hope there’s some truth to what you say.”

  “Of course there is! Ask monsieur.” Celeste turned to him. “Is it not the case that my dresses are sought after by all the London ladies?”

  “Yes, indeed. I wouldn’t have brought you here, Evie, if I didn’t know Celeste to be extremely skilled at what she does.”

  He thought he heard Anne mutter something about the King of Hearts and legions of women, but he ignored her.

  “Just so.” Celeste turned to Anne. “And for you, my lady? You must also need many things?” She carefully avoided looking directly at Anne’s dress.

  Anne made an annoyed little sound, almost a growl. “I suppose I’ll have to get a few dresses, but I’ll not need as many as Evie.”

  “Not true, my love,” Stephen said, tweaking one of her curls, and then removing his hand before she could swat his fingers. He noted Celeste’s delighted gaze. If his ears didn’t mislead him, her assistant sighed behind them.

  “Lady Anne will have to play the chaperone, but I’m hoping her sister won’t need too much supervision.” He leaned closer to Celeste, dropping his voice conspiratorially. “I’m planning to lure my betrothed into as many darkened gardens as I can manage.”

  Celeste giggled. “Oh, the other ladies, they will be tres desole that le Roi de Coeurs has finalement lost his heart.”

  He’d swear Anne was vibrating with anger beside him—she wouldn’t darken his daylights here in Madam Celeste’s shop, would she? He looked down at his bride-to-be in what he hoped was a besotted fashion. She was not holding up her end of things—her eyes were narrowed, her nostrils flaring, and her lips were pressed into a tight, thin line.

  “When is the wedding to be, monsieur?” Celeste asked, obviously hoping to have the making of Anne’s dress.

  “We haven’t set a date. I’m, of course, anxious to wed as soon as possible, but my sweet termagant is threatening to make me wait till the end of the Season.”

  He kissed Anne’s fingers—she tried to snatch them from his grasp, but he was stronger than she—and then smiled at Celeste. “We haven’t yet put a formal announcement in the papers. The earl had to go out of town rather unexpectedly, and Lady Anne naturally wants to wait until her father is back to make our engagement common knowledge. I’m sure we can rely on your discretion?”

  “Mais oui. Certainement. I am most discreet. Do not worry, monsieur.”

  He didn’t worry. He knew Celeste would spread the news far and wide as soon as they left her shop, but as Lady Dunlee and Mrs. Fallwell had already been busy about that errand, her efforts would amount to only a very small swell in the tidal wave of gossip.

  “Mr. Parker-Roth.” Anne sounded as if she were speaking through clenched teeth.

  Celeste took one loo
k at her and took Evie’s arm. “Come, mademoiselle,” Celeste said, “permit me to show you some of my sketches whilst monsieur speaks with your sister.”

  Celeste took Evie over to a table covered with pattern books to begin choosing dress styles, colors, and fabrics. If Evie were like most women he knew, she’d be occupied for quite awhile.

  They were barely out of earshot before Anne exploded. “Are you insane?” she hissed. “The news will be all over London by nightfall.”

  This female was definitely not like most women of his acquaintance. She almost reminded him of his sister Jane, though he had far from brotherly feelings for Anne, of course. “It already is all over London. Remember Lady Dunlee?”

  Anne groaned. “Oh, blast. What are we going to do?”

  He glanced at Celeste. She met his gaze over Evie’s bowed head and smiled saucily, winking as if she thought Anne was suffering from frustrated desire. If only.

  “We are going to be betrothed, at least for this Season,” he murmured by Anne’s ear. Hopefully Celeste would assume he was whispering love words. “Your reputation—and your sister’s Season—will be ruined if we aren’t. Remember the scene that necessitated this charade?” And what happened later in the odd harem room, but he chose not to mention that. He certainly remembered. He’d been reliving every exquisite detail from the moment he’d left Crane House—the sweet, heady scent of Anne’s skin; the damp heat of her mouth; the pressure of her body against his.

  He’d had his share of women over the years—all right, maybe more than his share—but he hadn’t been this intrigued by a female in a long, long time, if ever.

  “Of course I remember. How could I forget? I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.”

  He wasn’t usually attracted to viragos. Some men thought fiery women burned up the sheets once on their backs, but in his experience women who argued and nagged in the drawing room did exactly the same in the bedroom. Anne was different though. He’d wager his annual income her prickliness sprung not from bad temper but from something else . . . at a guess, something to do with the Marquis of Brentwood.

  “I can’t believe I participated in such a scene,” she was saying, shaking her head. She frowned at him. “If you hadn’t been drunk—”

  He put his finger on her lips and felt her breath suck in. Her eyes widened.

  “If you’d slapped me soundly, Anne, I would have stopped. Even drunk, I would have stopped. As I told you before, you don’t have to fear me.”

  She jerked her head back. “I’m not afraid of you, you big coxcomb.”

  She was lying. She was afraid, if not of him, then of something. What?

  He would find out eventually—but not now. He grinned instead and tilted her face up with the edge of his hand. “You seem rather . . . jumpy around me. Was your sister correct? Have you been pining for me?”

  She flushed and her eyes slid away from his. “Of course not. I just met you.”

  “True. But I’ve observed sisters usually know the worst truths.”

  Her gaze flashed up to meet his and then dropped again. He released her, and she stepped away, turning her back on him and walking toward Evie and Celeste. “Have you found the perfect dress yet, Evie?” Her gay tone sounded more than a little forced.

  Lady Anne Marston was an interesting puzzle. Spirited and shy; bold yet timid. Maddening.

  It was a good thing he liked puzzles.

  “Many dresses, Anne.” Evie was breathless with excitement. “Carriage dresses and evening dresses and ball dresses and walking dresses. Oh, look at this darling habit.” She sighed. “I do wish we’d brought horses to Town.”

  “Well, we didn’t, and a good thing it is. Think of the expense. Horses eat their heads off.” Anne sounded so waspish Celeste and Evie stared at her.

  It was going to be a very interesting Season if Anne was determined to pick fights with everyone she encountered.

  “I don’t have horses in Town since I’m not here much,” he said, “but I have friends who keep a full stable. I’m sure I can find you a mount, Evie.”

  “Mais oui, mademoiselle.” Celeste nodded vehemently. “You must go riding in the Hyde Park. Eet is de rigueur.”

  Celeste was, of course, trying to coax a few more pence into her purse, but she was correct. “In any event you’ll need a habit for all the house parties you’ll attend.”

  Evie’s face lit up—and Anne stiffened like a poker.

  Hmm. His betrothed obviously did not approve of house parties, and since it sounded as if the only house party she’d ever attended had been Baron Gedding’s ten years ago . . .

  He must find out what had happened at that ill-fated gathering. Gedding was in Town—and Stephen prided himself on his ability to extract information from people so discreetly they weren’t aware of what they were revealing. The man was such a jaw-me-dead getting him to talk would not be a problem; steering him in an informative direction, however . . . that would be the challenge.

  “And you, Lady Anne,” Celeste was saying, “you must also have dresses. Pardon-moi, but this”—she gestured at the rag Anne was wearing—“eet will not do at all.” She chose a few sketches and offered them to Anne. “Regardez these, s’il vous plait.”

  “No, I . . . that is, I won’t . . .” Anne looked at the papers in Celeste’s hand as if they were poisonous snakes.

  “Let me see.” Stephen took the sketches and flipped through them. He stopped at one of a ball gown with an especially low bodice. “Here you go. This would look splendid on you, Anne, in moss green to match your eyes.”

  Anne glanced at the drawing. “No, I don’t think so.”

  He frowned at her. “Why not?” He held it up for Evie and Celeste to see. “Don’t you think this gown would suit Anne?”

  “It would not suit me.” Anne almost strangled on the words. For a man with a supposedly discerning eye, Mr. Parker-Roth had failed to discern an obvious problem—her poor little breasts were far too small to be displayed in such a way, even with the heroic efforts of an exceptional corset.

  “It’s very pretty, Anne.” Evie studied the picture. “It hadn’t occurred to me—I mean it’s nothing like what you usually wear—but I think Mr. Parker-Roth is right. It would look very good on you. What don’t you like about it?”

  “Oui, Lady Anne, what is the problem?” Madam Celeste smiled, but Anne could hear a touch of exasperation in her voice. “The dress is tres jolie—you will be beautiful in it. All the men will envy monsieur.”

  They were all mad—or blind. “The dress is very pretty; it just will not look good on me.” She felt herself flush, damn it.

  Mr. Parker-Roth—and Evie and Madam Celeste—all stared at her as if she were a bedlamite. “Let’s see what else there is.” She grabbed for the sketches, but Mr. Parker-Roth held them out of her reach.

  “Enlighten us, Lady Anne,” he said. “Why won’t the dress look good on you?”

  She turned to Madam Celeste. The woman was a dressmaker; she must understand. Mrs. Waddingly, the dressmaker back home, certainly had. She was always adding another row of lace, a bow, or a knot of ribbons to Anne’s bodices in a vain attempt to hide her deficiencies. “You must have something of a more modest nature.”

  “Modest?” Madam Celeste looked from Anne to Mr. Parker-Roth. “I do not comprehend. What is not modest?”

  Surely the woman wasn’t going to force her to spell it out? “Something with a higher neck, perhaps?” She smiled somewhat desperately she feared. “I’m only a chaperone, you see. I don’t wish to bring attention to myself.”

  Madam Celeste’s jaw dropped. “Only a chaperone?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s my sister’s come-out after all, not mine. I will be sitting along the wall with the other mature women.” That had certainly been her plan as soon as she’d realized Georgiana was leaving her in charge of Evie’s Season. And especially now that she knew Lord Brentwood was here; she would rather not encounter the man.

  “But you are
monsieur’s betrothed! All the eyes of London will be upon you!”

  “Surely not.” Anne felt ill.

  “I’m afraid Celeste is probably correct, Anne,” Mr. Parker-Roth said. “People do take an inordinate amount of interest in my life—you saw how often I was mentioned in those infernal gossip columns. It’s extremely annoying, but inevitable whenever I’m in London.”

  “Oh.” This just got worse and worse. How was she ever going to survive this Season? “But can’t they look at me in a dress with a high neck and long sleeves? I get chilly so easily.”

  Madam Celeste looked horrified, probably wondering how much she could pay Anne not to tell anyone who had had the making of her dresses.

  Mr. Parker-Roth laughed. “You won’t get chilly in a London ballroom. Trust me, they are stifling.” He shook his head, but his eyes were uncomfortably penetrating. “You don’t want everyone whispering I’m marrying a quiz, do you? Not that I care what the society cats say, but the gossip and sniggering will cause you and probably Evie some discomfort, and I confess it will make me angry on your behalf.”

  “And there is no need for it,” Madam Celeste said. “Pardonnez-moi, my lady, but you are being tres silly. Everyone will envy you; you are the betrothed of le Roi de Coeurs. You have succeeded where so many others have failed. Why would you not wish to wear a gown that matches your beauty?”

  “Oh, dear heavens.” Anne sat down abruptly. This was shaping up to be a complete nightmare.

  Mr. Parker-Roth sat down next to her. “It won’t be so bad, Anne. I’m sure Madam Celeste is overstating the case. Yes, people will be curious, but many will be happy for me—for us.”

  “Um.” She stared at the table, though she didn’t see it. It would be bad enough if she were really Mr. Parker-Roth’s betrothed, but she wasn’t. She would be forced to act that part with all the ton—all the nasty, gabble-grinding ton—watching her every move.

  She was going to be ill.

  She covered her face with one hand and waved the other in Madam Celeste and Mr. Parker-Roth’s direction. “Why don’t you just pick out a few things for me?”