The Naked Baron

by Sally MacKenzie

  “I don’t think so. After all, I am only taking my lead from you. You were very slow removing my breeches.”

  “I’m sure I was mis-GUID-ed.” His hands had slid up over her thighs to her hips and his tongue—“Ah!”—his tongue was…oh, dear God. She grabbed his head. “What are you doing?”

  “What do you think I’m doing? See if you can describe it.” He ran his tongue over a very sensitive spot by the place where…

  She pulled on his hair. She now completely understood his need to assume a prone position. “The bed. You wanted to go to bed.”

  “Yes. In a moment.”

  “Now.”

  “No.” He leaned back and grinned up at her. “I strongly suggest that you allow me to take the lead in this game for a while. I’m certain you will enjoy it.”

  She was certain she would, too, but she wasn’t about to say that. “Well, aren’t you cocky?”

  He laughed. “Indeed. Very cocky. Painfully so, love, thanks to your tender ministrations.”

  Kate felt her face flush. “I have no idea what you are alluding to.”

  “No? I shall be delighted to show you in just a very little while.” He slid her nightgown higher, over her stomach, over her breasts. She raised her arms so he could pull it off entirely, but he stopped, holding her arms up, the nightgown over her face.

  “Come on, Alex. What are you—eek!”

  He was kissing her breasts, laving her nipples with his tongue, and then sucking each one into his warm, wet mouth.

  Her knees gave out. If he had not been holding her, she would have fallen.

  He pulled the blasted nightgown fully off and lifted her into his arms.

  “I believe you wished to retire to bed, my lady?”

  “Yes, you idiot.” Her body was on fire. The place between her legs was wet and throbbing and hot. She had never felt this way before. “Now. Immediately. I need you.”

  “You do? An old woman such as yourself?”

  “Yes!” She half screamed the word. He was not moving quickly enough.

  He laughed. “I find this old man agrees with you wholeheartedly.”

  He finally reached the bed and put her down in the center of it. She didn’t want to be apart from him, even for a second. She raised her arms, and he came to her, bearing her down onto the mattress. His weight felt good—so good. There was no need for further play. There was no time. She was mad for him. Desperate for him. She opened her legs, and he slid into her all in one motion. She started to come apart immediately. She grabbed his hips, moaning, twisting, pressing closer. He moved once, and she shattered completely.

  In the midst of her storm, she felt him pulse in her, hot and deep.

  For a few moments, there was only panting and extreme lassitude. Kate could not have raised her head if her life depended on it. Every inch of her body felt satiated. Sleep beckoned. Then Alex laughed breathlessly.

  “Ah, Kate.”

  She smiled lazily and cracked open one eye. He kissed the tip of her nose.

  “I’m too heavy for you.”

  He was, but she wasn’t going to say so. She loved having his body on hers. Breathing was much overrated. She hadn’t the air to talk, so she made a low, almost purring sound. He laughed again and lifted himself off her.

  She frowned. “I’m cold.” She was. Her body, damp from their loving, was chilled by his absence.

  “We can’t have that, can we?” He pulled up the covers and gathered her into his arms. “Better?”

  She closed her eyes again. “Mmm. Much better.”

  “You are not being very articulate.”

  What was there to talk about? She was exactly where she most wanted to be—naked, in bed, her head on Alex’s shoulder, his arms around her, his hand stroking her back. She was in heaven. She kept her eyes closed, turned her head, and kissed his arm.

  “We should talk, Kate.”

  His voice had a very serious tone to it. Unpleasantly serious.

  She didn’t want to talk. Talking meant thinking about the past or the future. She did not want to think. She wanted to ignore everything but the present. This perfect moment. She burrowed closer into his warmth.

  “Sleep,” she murmured.

  “I can’t sleep, Kate. What if I sleep the night away? What if your maid—or Grace—discovers me here in the morning? Or what if one of the servants finds my coat and waistcoat by the tree? I have to go, sweetheart.”

  “No. Stay.”

  “I can’t. We have to be discreet, Kate, unless…”

  She frowned, opening her eyes. Obviously the fairy tale was over. “Unless what?”

  “Unless you marry me.”

  The past and future came crashing in on her. They were far heavier than Alex had been. She sat, pulling a corner of the sheet up to cover herself. She should put on her nightgown so Marie wasn’t scandalized in the morning. “You know I can’t marry you.”

  Alex sat up, too, but he didn’t bother with the sheet. It pooled below his waist, leaving his shoulders and arms, his lovely chest and belly completely exposed. She reached out to touch him, but he captured her hand in his a little roughly.

  His face bore a distinctly mulish expression—eyebrows lowered, lips tight, jaw tense. What was the matter with him? Weren’t men supposed to come happily to any widow’s chamber, delighted to have some uncomplicated, unencumbered bed play? But Alex was…he certainly looked angry.

  Well, she was angry, too. She had never given him any promises, nor had she asked any of him. She’d always known this was to be a one night affair, a secret—a bit of magic—stolen from the very real, completely unavoidable everyday events of their lives.

  “I know no such thing.” Lud! He was almost growling. “You are of age and a widow. I am not married. What is the impediment?”

  Surely he saw the obvious? “Alex, it’s Grace’s first Season—most likely her only Season. My brother has found her a neighbor to wed—the man’s estate marches with Standen—who hates London. When—if—she marries him, she’ll be stuck in the country until she dies.” She leaned forward. He still had not relinquished her hand. “Don’t you see? I want her to have the chance I didn’t. I want her to meet other men—”

  “You met other men, Kate. You met me.”

  “Yes, I know, but…” It was too hard to explain. Or maybe it was too simple. Maybe she just hoped, if given the opportunity, Grace would have more courage than she had had. Grace was older after all—twenty-five to her seventeen. Perhaps Grace would follow her heart instead of Standen’s will.

  “Splendid.” Alex’s hand on her fingers tightened to the point of pain. “So Lady Grace will be able to make some poor idiot like my nephew fall in love with her and then break his heart when she marries another, just like you did.”

  “No.” She felt as if he had slapped her. Worse. As if he had squeezed her heart as hard as he was squeezing her fingers. “I didn’t.” She sucked in her breath as his grip tightened even more. “Ouch! Alex, you’re hurting me.”

  He almost snarled, but he loosened his hold, moving to put her hand flat against his chest. She could feel his heart hammering against her palm.

  “You think you didn’t break my heart? God, Kate.”

  She tried to laugh. The mood definitely needed lightening. “Of course I didn’t. It is beating quite vigorously now.”

  It was as if she hadn’t spoken.

  “You have no idea, no bloody idea, what I felt when Standen told me of your engagement. I wanted to die.” He looked away. His nostrils flared, his mouth formed a thin, white line.

  She dropped her eyes to stare at his hand where it pressed hers to his chest. His heart still raced under her fingers.

  Her own heart lurched in sickening thuds.

  “Why didn’t you tell me, Kate? Why did you lead me on, let me hope, let me embarrass myself in front of your brother? How he must have been laughing in his sleeve.”

  Kate found her voice. “I didn’t lead you on.”

&
nbsp; He skewered her with his eyes. “Damn it, Kate, the bloody announcement of your engagement to Oxbury was in the paper that very morning. I saw it when I got back from my interview with your brother. And then you married so quickly. The gossips dined out on that for weeks, everyone giggling over how Oxbury’s lusty passions must have necessitated such a hasty wedding.”

  “No.” How horrible. Thankfully, she hadn’t known what tales the tabbies had been chasing. “They weren’t actually saying such things, were they?”

  “They were.”

  Kate looked so pale, so shocked, Alex felt a twinge of compassion for her. Only a twinge. She could never be suffering what he had suffered.

  He’d been so full of hope when he’d gone to visit her brother that day. He’d known he’d have rough ground to get over—he wasn’t a fool—but he’d truly thought love would conquer all.

  What romantic twaddle!

  And, idiot that he was, he hadn’t believed Standen when he’d said Kate was engaged. All the way back to Dawson House, he’d planned how he’d ride to the country and spirit her away to Gretna. He’d marry her over the anvil, officiated by the blacksmith, just as Luke had married Harriet, only he’d be smarter. He’d take her to the Continent until she’d given him a babe, maybe two, so Standen would have to recognize—or at least tolerate—their union.

  And then he’d seen the announcement in The Morning Post.

  Kate was tugging on his hand. She’d let go of the sheet, exposing her beautiful breasts.

  He didn’t feel even the slightest stirrings of lust.

  “Alex, I wasn’t engaged when I went into Alvord’s garden with you.”

  He snorted. Did she expect him to believe that Banbury tale? He’d been a fool once—once was enough.

  Or had he already been a fool again?

  “Why did you come to London now, Kate? To find a wealthy husband—or to be a merry widow?”

  “I came to chaperone Grace, of course.” Kate hesitated. Her face went still, as if she was coming to some decision—and then she smiled. God, she was so damn seductive, he felt her siren call even through his pain and anger.

  “But I find I like being a merry widow as well.” She ran her hand down his chest. “I liked what we just did very, very much. Shall we do it again?”

  He stared at her. How could she say that so lightly? All that had just happened between them—it must have been only physical for her, only bodies joining, his body as good as any other man’s. He was a fool.

  Damn it all, the pain was unbearable, worse even than when he’d learned of her engagement. He wanted to hurt her back.

  “No, once was enough for me.” She flinched—good. “I came just for old time’s sake, you know. To scratch an itch—see what I’d been missing. I’ve satisfied my curiosity, thank you. I’ve no need to repeat the experience.”

  He made himself climb out of the bed when he wanted to fling himself out. He ignored her shocked expression as he pulled on his clothes. Even knowing she didn’t have a functioning heart, it hurt him to hurt her. He was most definitely an idiot.

  He went out the window in a blur of agony. He was never going to speak—he was never going to see—Lady Oxbury again.

  Chapter 9

  “Where is your uncle?”

  Lord Dawson choked on a mouthful of champagne. He muffled his coughing with his handkerchief as he peered around a pillar to locate the source of the hissing. Lady Grace Belmont glared at him.

  Damn. He felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. She was so beautiful—so…vivid. She made all the other girls back in Easthaven’s ballroom fade completely from his thoughts—not that any of the insipid misses had managed to find a foothold in his brain box anyway.

  Grace was looking especially alluring tonight in a green dress with a deeply plunging neck that admirably emphasized her very large, very lovely—

  Her fan appeared to block his gaze. A pity, but just as well. He could not allow himself to be seduced. He was not in charity with her at the moment. He sent that thought directly, with emphasis, to his most argumentative organ.

  He might never be in charity with her again. He’d come tonight with the firm resolve to put her behind him and start his bloody matrimonial hunt all over. He was just having one more glass of champagne here in the refreshment room before venturing back into the terpsichorean fray.

  “And a very good evening to you, too, Lady Grace.”

  Her frown deepened—she had detected his sarcasm. Not surprising; it had been thick enough for the most obtuse member of the ton to perceive—and Grace was not obtuse.

  Damn. He would not think of Alvord’s garden and the way her expression had softened when he’d mentioned his mother. So the woman had a heart, unlike her father. Most women had hearts…though not encased in such lovely, sumptuous packaging.

  There, it was much easier to tame lust than…another emotion.

  Grace thrust her jaw forward. “I asked you a question, my lord.”

  “Did you? Then perhaps you noticed I did not answer it.”

  He thought for a moment she would haul off and punch him. No ladylike slapping for his—

  No, not his. Never his. He could not marry her; he could never marry a woman so closely related to the female who’d wounded Alex. He didn’t know the details, of course. Alex hadn’t said. Alex wouldn’t talk, but the look in his eyes the morning after Alvord’s ball when he’d left London had spoken more eloquently than any words. David hadn’t seen that look since Grandda and Grandmamma had died. Something—someone—had hurt Alex deeply.

  Lady Oxbury.

  It could not be a coincidence Alex had left Town the morning after he’d spent the entire night…where? David would wager his estate Alex had been with Grace’s aunt. The woman was as cruel as her brother, Standen.

  Was Grace that cruel as well?

  No. That he couldn’t believe. Grace had been only kind to him—

  Blast it, was he flushing?

  “Don’t be a complete ass.” Grace was still hissing like a snake. “We have to talk. Your uncle has hurt Aunt Kate horribly.”

  He almost dropped his champagne glass. “My uncle has injured your aunt?” He pressed his lips together. He was close to shouting. Two elderly women—Lady Amanda Wallen-Smyth and Mrs. Fallwell—stopped their conversation to look at him. He forced himself to smile politely until they moved off, then adopted his own serpent-like sibilance. “Are you insane?”

  “I most certainly am not. I—”

  “Here is your lemonade, Lady Grace.”

  They both turned to stare at the new arrival. Mr. Belham was not a feast for anyone’s eyes. His face was all nose. He had no chin to speak of, and his eyes were small and sadly dwarfed by his overwhelming snout.

  Grace snatched the glass from Mr. Belham’s hand.

  “Thank you, sir. If you will excuse me now, I have matters of importance to discuss with Lord Dawson.”

  Mr. Belham’s small chin dropped.

  “Go on.” She made a shooing motion with her hands. “You are very much in the way here. Go back to the ballroom and ask some poor miss to stand up with you.”

  “Ah.” Mr. Belham’s tiny eyes almost started from his head. “Er, yes. Of course. I’ll just be on my way then.”

  “Splendid. Do enjoy yourself.” Grace turned back to Baron Dawson as Mr. Belham stumbled out of the refreshment room. She was delighted to get rid of the annoying little man. He would never have trapped her into accompanying him if she’d had all her wits about her. But she’d been looking for Lord Dawson and so had missed Mr. Belham’s approach.

  It was just as well. The man had helped her find her quarry—her very angry quarry. What reason had he to be in such high dudgeon? It was her aunt who was suffering.

  She looked up at him, and her heart stuttered. He was so large and so incredibly handsome, even with a pronounced scowl twisting his features.

  When Papa got so angry, she always tried to placate him, even while her own anger twi
sted in her gut. She felt like a dog with its tail between its legs, cowering from the blows of his harsh words. She never argued with him, never defied him. The only time she’d ever let him see her temper was when she’d decided to come on this trip to London. Even then he hadn’t believed she’d actually go until she was seated in the carriage with the steps up and the door closed.

  But she didn’t feel like cowering before Lord Dawson. No, she felt like going at him hammer and tongs. Instead of anger or fear, she felt an odd thrill, a shiver of excitement. She wasn’t at all worried he would hurt her verbally or physically. Rather, she thought they would…after a healthy argument they would…

  Of course they wouldn’t! She ducked her head and took a sip of her drink.

  David smiled slightly. After riding roughshod over Belham, was his—no, not his—was the lady suddenly turning shy? It really was unfortunate he could not pursue her—she was such an enticing mix of fire and diffidence.

  It was so damn good to see her. He should be furious—he was furious—but he was also bloody delighted to be standing just inches from her.

  “Lemonade, Grace?”

  She flushed. “I find champagne does not agree with me.”

  “Shot the cat, did you?” He’d wondered if she’d had too much to drink at Alvord’s ball.

  She shot him a very quelling look. “You could have prevented me from consuming so many glasses.”

  “If you’ll remember, I did try to dissuade you, but you insisted you would be fine, that you had drunk champagne before.”

  “And I had. Just not in that quantity, apparently.” Grace shuddered slightly. “Well, it will not happen again. I am foreswearing the drink for as long as I live.”

  “Oh, I hardly think you need to take so extreme a course.”

  “You were not the one emptying—well, enough of that. As I said, Lord Dawson, we need to talk. It is vitally important.” She glanced around the room, her eyes pausing when they touched upon Lady Amanda and Mrs. Fallwell. “Somewhere more private, I believe.”

  “You are not afraid to be private with me?” He was teasing her now. He couldn’t help it. He’d work on being angry later, when he didn’t have her enticing, lovely, lush, wonderful body before him—and her delightfully prickly personality. Now he couldn’t help but be happy, couldn’t keep lo…lust from blooming in his…heart.