The Naked Baron

by Sally MacKenzie

  She glanced around the room—and saw Alex.

  She whipped her eyes away and pretended to look out the window again. Would he ask her to dance or, worse, stroll in the garden?

  She moved her fan faster.

  He must have had innumerable conquests these twenty-three years while she’d been busy being a good wife—well, a wife—to her husband—her much older husband.

  Oh God, he was coming her way.

  She should join the other chaperones. There was safety in numbers. She glanced at the knot of older women. They were darting looks at her and Alex and whispering behind their fans.

  No, she wouldn’t join the chaperones.

  She watched Alex’s reflection. He was coming closer…

  She moistened her lips. Her stomach shivered. Her heart, even her—She blushed and fanned more vigorously still. Tendrils of hair flew about her face.

  Even the secret place between her legs, the place Oxbury had entered frequently in the early days of their marriage when there was still hope she could bear him an heir and not so frequently later—not at all in the last months when he’d been so sick—even that place shivered.

  It was as if she’d been asleep all these years and now she was waking.

  “Lady Oxbury?”

  He was standing right behind her. She turned slowly to face him. She stared at his white waistcoat. Her mouth was as dry as dust. She couldn’t speak.

  “Lady Oxbury, are you all right?”

  She tried to breathe, but the damn stays were too confining. “I…” She managed to raise her eyes from his chest to his lips.

  His mouth was firm, serious, his lips narrow…

  Did she remember how they felt? She would swear that she did. Their light, brief touch, brushing over her mouth, had ignited a fire that had smoldered for twenty-three years.

  She met his eyes—

  Ahh. Heat flared in those blue depths. His gaze was so intent.

  She moistened her lips again.

  The embers of that old fire were bursting back into life. The conflagration would incinerate her if she were not careful.

  Did she want to be careful?

  Was she a moth, flying to her death, or a phoenix, reborn by flame?

  “Come with me into the garden, Kate.” His voice, low, full of promise, melted any whisper of resistance her conscience might muster.

  That wasn’t all it melted. Her lips, her breasts, ached for his touch; the secret place throbbed, wept for him.

  Heat swept up her cheeks. She had been faithful to Oxbury all the years they were wed and the long year since his death. Was she a light skirt, then, to so easily consider going into the garden with this man?

  No. This was not any man—this was Alex.

  Moth or phoenix, suicide or rebirth, it didn’t much matter. She was going out into the garden with Alex, even if she had to drag him into the bushes herself.

  Chapter 3

  The terrace was markedly cooler, quieter—and darker. The ballroom candles cast only very small circles of light from the door and windows. There were lanterns, yes, but they seemed to create more shadows than they dispelled—if the murmurings Grace heard were any indication, a number of couples were delighted to take advantage of the dim light.

  She should go back inside. Now that she considered the matter, she realized it would be rather awkward to try to initiate a discussion with the baron out here. They had never been introduced, after all. Lord Dawson probably had no idea who she was.

  She flushed, remembering how he’d looked at her when she’d stood on the ballroom landing. His eyes had seared a path straight to her soul, if her soul was located—

  Oh! The place low in her…well, that place throbbed again. It could not be her soul—it was far too physical.

  “Pardon me, but are you going out, miss?”

  “What? Oh, er…” She was blocking the door, wasn’t she? A short, balding man wished to get through—a short, balding man who was now drooling on her bodice.

  She stepped back quickly and caught her heel in her hem.

  “Ack!” She flung out her hands to recover her balance, but it was hopeless. She was going down. She would indeed end in an ignominious heap, but at least not in the middle of the ballroom—“Oh!”

  A pair of strong arms caught her and hauled her up against a rock-hard chest.

  “Are you all right?” The voice was warm, deep, concerned—but with a hint of laughter.

  “Ah.” She blinked up at her rescuer—Lord Dawson, of course. “Er.”

  She couldn’t form a coherent sentence—she couldn’t think. She’d never been so close to a man before. A host of sensations overwhelmed her: the hard strength of Lord Dawson’s arms holding her as if she weighed nothing; the rough texture of his coat against her cheek; the clean scent of his linen and…him.

  She felt small. She had never felt small. Even as a child, she’d towered over the other girls and most of the boys. The feeling was completely disorienting.

  She concentrated on Lord Dawson’s face, but that didn’t help. If anything, such a close inspection caused her heart to pound harder and her poor brain to drift further into its stupor.

  He did have a slight cleft in his chin. And a dimple in his cheek. And long, dark lashes framing his eyes…

  His teeth were white and even in the shadows. Was he laughing at her? It wouldn’t be odd if he were. She was gaping up at him like a complete ninny.

  “Are you all right?” The laughter was more pronounced, but there was a different undertone now. The heat was back in his eyes.

  “Has she swooned, Dawson? Should I send someone for help?”

  “I don’t believe that will be necessary, Delton.”

  Good God, what was she thinking? Lingering in Lord Dawson’s arms was bad enough, but lingering on the Duke of Alvord’s terrace with an interested group of spectators gathered round, one of whom must be the husband of Aunt Kate’s friend—She didn’t need her aunt to point out she was flirting with social suicide.

  Grace struggled to right herself. Lord Dawson released her, but kept a steadying hand on her elbow. She should shake him off, but she did still feel a trifle in need of support.

  She straightened her skirt and lifted her chin. “I’m fine, sir. Thank you for your concern.”

  “I’m so sorry, miss. I…” Delton shrugged. He was clearly uncertain what he’d done to cause this particular disaster. Not surprising. He had merely been trying to pass through a doorway. It was unfortunate her bosom was on level with his face, but that was not his doing.

  “Please, don’t give it another thought,” Grace said. “It was my fault completely.”

  Lord Dawson squeezed her elbow. “Ah, but a lady is never at fault, is she, Delton?”

  “No, indeed. I take full responsibility.”

  “No, no. I should not have lingered in the doorway.”

  David smiled slightly. Was Standen’s daughter going to argue with Delton? He’d best get the girl off the terrace. They were beginning to gather a crowd.

  His smile widened. He’d be delighted to take her into the garden and begin his courtship. Very delighted. How fortunate he’d been standing in exactly the right place when the lady had stumbled.

  Mmm—very fortunate. Just as he’d expected, she was an entrancing armful. He’d been hard pressed not to steal a kiss in front of Delton and all their interested onlookers. With luck and skill, he might be able to steal one in the foliage. The lady had not been struggling to get out of his arms. No, she’d seemed quite content to remain there.

  He stepped back slightly, a little behind the girl and closer to the garden stairs.

  He definitely needed to retreat to the leafage—his enthusiasm was becoming a bit too apparent. He grinned. Fortunately, he could hide behind the lady’s skirts.

  And he needed to discover her given name. He could not keep thinking of her as Standen’s daughter.

  “Well, no harm done,” he said, interrupting the polite, but p
ointless apologies. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Delton? I believe the lady would benefit from a calming stroll through the garden, don’t you?”

  “Yes, indeed. Don’t let me delay you a moment longer. Just came out to blow a cloud, don’t you know? I’ll step out of the way then. So sorry for the accident. Do enjoy your walk—the greenery is very soothing.”

  “But—”

  Surely the girl wasn’t going to keep protesting her fault in the silly contretemps? Delton shot him a pleading look. He agreed. Someone needed to take the young lady in hand, and he was more than happy to be that person. He had his hand on her already. He exerted a slight pressure and directed her toward the garden steps.

  “We are attracting a small bit of attention, my dear,” he murmured. “I cannot think you will like that.”

  “Oh.” The girl glanced around the terrace.

  “A few moments admiring Alvord’s plantings will give you time to compose yourself and give the witnesses to our little—our very minor—scene time to lose whatever interest they have in you and your activities.”

  Her brows lowered into a frown. “But isn’t walking in the garden scandalous?”

  “Not at all. Do you think the Duke of Alvord would have lanterns hung along his garden paths if walking there were scandalous?” Of course, David did not intend to stay on the paths the entire time, but there was no need to mention that.

  “Oh. No, I suppose you are correct.”

  Aunt Kate would not approve, Grace thought as she descended the steps on Lord Dawson’s arm. Ha—there was an understatement! She had explicitly told Grace not to go into the garden with the baron. But Aunt Kate was overly nervous, and the baron had a valid point. If strolling amongst the plants was so daring, the duke would not have tempted his guests with lantern-lit walkways.

  Grace needed to talk to the man—she’d come out on the terrace with that specific goal. The privacy of such a perambulation would be perfect for getting to the bottom of her father’s strange antipathy and Aunt Kate’s odd nervous attack.

  She would behave perfectly respectably, and Lord Dawson wouldn’t offer her anything but conversation. Men never did.

  But if he did…

  She glanced up at the baron and felt a small frisson, a tiny shiver of excitement.

  They turned left at the bottom of the stairs and followed the path toward the main section of the garden, leaving the ball’s light and crowds behind. A slight breeze brushed Grace’s cheek. She could almost believe they were in the country now. Almost, but not quite. This was London after all, and London was never really quiet. The noise of the street—the creak and jingle of harnesses, the rattle of wheels on cobbles, the shouts of the coachmen—blended with the drone of conversation drifting from the open ballroom windows.

  They strolled past a rustic bench and paused by a small fountain with a statue of Pan capering in its center. Water cascaded from the god’s pipes and splashed merrily from a multitude of fishes’ mouths.

  Lord Dawson wandered over to the far side of the fountain to examine a fish that wasn’t spouting. Grace followed him. The vegetation was especially overgrown here—they were almost in a small bower. If John were present, he’d be giving her a lecture on every leaf and twig. She sincerely hoped Lord Dawson was not a botanist.

  “Is that a trout?” A stupid question—it was just a stone decoration. It could be a whale for all she cared.

  The baron shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not much interested in fish.” He smiled and turned to face her. Somehow her hand had ended up in his—and his was missing its glove. “But I am very interested in you. Will you gift me with your name? My Uncle Alex didn’t know it, and I cannot keep calling you Standen’s daughter or Lady Oxbury’s niece.” He rubbed his thumb over her palm.

  “Oh, ah.” Another, larger shiver of excitement teased her. She cleared her throat. “Grace—my name is Lady Grace.”

  He brushed a strand of hair back from her face. “And I am David Wilton, Baron Dawson of Riverview.” His voice deepened. “I am very, very glad to meet you, Lady Grace.”

  Grace withdrew her hand and gave the man a cautious look. They were secluded here, but not completely hidden. Anyone passing by on the walkway could see them, if they looked. Lord Dawson appeared relaxed and pleasant—not at all predatory.

  She was in no danger. It was perfectly safe to take advantage of the moment and ask about her father—and her aunt.

  Her hand still tingled from the motion of his thumb on her palm. She rubbed it against her skirt.

  And what if something besides information was exchanged?

  She moistened her lips. If such an opportunity presented itself…well, she would be daring and enjoy her brief window of freedom.

  She was twenty-five; she had never in all those years done anything the least bit scandalous. She was too old and sensible to allow herself to be led into complete ruin. There were hundreds of people nearby; if she became alarmed, she had a sturdy pair of lungs.

  David watched thoughts of caution flit over Grace’s face. He should not take advantage of her, she was so innocent. She had followed him so trustingly.

  But how could he not take advantage? It was dark, and they were in this sheltered spot. He would not hurt her. His intentions were only honorable.

  Hmm. Perhaps it depended on how one defined honorable. He would not take her beyond the point of no return, but he would take her as close to that point as she—and the vertical nature of their encounter—would allow. And he meant marriage, of course. He definitely meant marriage.

  A few creative uses for this splendid fountain popped into his imagination, but he suppressed them. Lady Grace was a virgin, and there were hundreds of the haut ton just yards away in the ballroom—as well as a few walking in the garden, no doubt. Once they were wed, once he’d accustomed her to marital relations, then they could attempt more inventive activities.

  Grace looked serious, as if she meant to get down to business—and not the business he would most like to get down to.

  “I came out on the terrace looking for you, Lord Dawson.”

  “You did? How splendid—and please call me David.”

  Her eyes widened. “I couldn’t possibly. I hardly know you.”

  “Oh, you will know me much better shortly.”

  She flushed as best he could tell in this dim light.

  “I—”

  “Shh.” He stepped closer. “Not so loud. Sound carries in the night air, you know.”

  “Ah—” She looked adorably confused. Her mouth was agape—He definitely had to take advantage of such an inadvertent invitation.

  He brought his head down slowly; he gave her plenty of opportunity to move, but she didn’t dodge out of the way. He saw in her eyes the moment she decided to take the kiss he was offering. He smiled as he closed the last few inches.

  Her lips were firm, smooth, sweet. And her mouth! He only used the tip of his tongue, tracing her lips, dipping past them just slightly. He wanted her enthralled, not frightened. She was so still it was clear this was her first time. Gently, he brought her closer until she was touching him from chest to knees.

  Who would have thought careful, restrained kissing could be so bloody erotic? He was restricting his lips to her face and his hands to her clothed, corseted back, but he was more aroused than he could ever remember being. And she was so responsive.

  Grace panted, making little mewling sounds. Once Lord Dawson’s—David’s—lips had touched hers, all thought had evaporated, leaving her lost in a whirlwind of sensation. His lips moved lightly, briefly, tantalizingly over her mouth, like a butterfly’s wings, teasing. Her own lips felt swollen; his tongue touched them, slid slowly over them.

  Heat pooled low in her belly, making everything in that region throb and ache. She wanted…she needed…what?

  His hands brought her body against his. Oh! This. She needed this—and still it wasn’t enough.

  He cradled her against his chest and moved to explore her e
yelids, her cheekbones. Was she moaning? Surely not.

  She felt a chuckle rumble through his chest as his hand cupped the back of her head.

  “Shh.” His lips brushed her earlobe, his words stirring her hair, tickling over her ear, sending shivers skittering down her spine. “Remember, sound travels at night. We don’t want anyone to find us.”

  No, that was right. No one should find them because…because they were…

  They were behaving scandalously in the foliage.

  She shoved hard against the miscreant’s chest. He loosened his hold immediately.

  “What seems to be the problem?” The oaf was grinning.

  What wasn’t the problem? She, the unmarried daughter of the Earl of Standen, was alone in the garden with a man her father hated. And not merely alone. No. She had allowed the fellow shocking liberties. She had had her person plastered up against his; she had allowed him to kiss her—

  She inhaled sharply and covered her mouth with her hand. She had allowed Lord Dawson to give her her very first kiss. Was she mad? Surely that favor should have been reserved for her intended, John Parker-Roth, and not this rogue. Certainly not this rogue. Perhaps Papa was right to hate his family.

  “What is it, sweetheart? Cat got your tongue?”

  Something about the way he said “tongue” made her flush. She tried to respond, but the noise she made was incoherent—a sound somewhere between a gulp and a growl. She tried again.

  “Lord Dawson, I…I…” What was the appropriate thing to say in this situation?

  There was no appropriate thing.

  She should slap him soundly, but that seemed unfair. He hadn’t been forcing his attentions on her—she had been a very active participant.

  “Ohh.” The thought caused a slow snake of shame to curl through her stomach. She dropped her face into her hands.

  “Grace.” She felt his arm come around her shoulders. He pulled her close. She should struggle, but she didn’t have the spirit to do so. Besides, his touch was comforting.

  “Grace, it’s all right. We did nothing wrong. My intentions are honorable.”

  She lifted her head. “Honorable?”