The coach turned and started up the long drive. Stephen leaned forward to tap Damian on the knee. “You do worry too much, you know. I’m the damn King of Hearts, aren’t I? I’m not about to be caught unawares.”
Damian shrugged. There was no point in arguing further. Stephen wouldn’t listen, and Damian couldn’t blame him. Until he had something more than vague worries to offer, he would do best to bite his tongue—and keep his eyes open.
Stephen sat back. “The real joke here is that I’ve been worried about you.”
“You have?” Damian frowned. “Why?”
“Because you’ve turned into a bloody hermit, that’s why. You used to be up for every frisk and frolic, gambling and drinking and wenching as much—or more—than I. You were crowned the Prince of Hearts, after all.”
“A nickname I hate as much as you hate yours.”
“Yes, but now they’ve taken to calling you Brother Damian, the monk.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Is it? You warn me against Maria, but when was the last time you took a woman to bed?”
“That’s none of your bloody business.” Damian felt a hot blush sweep up his neck; he turned to look out the window. Where the hell was Greyham’s damn door?
“Can you even remember the last time?”
Damian kept his eyes on the passing scenery. Thank God the coach was finally slowing and he could escape this inquisition. “I’ve been busy. This translation is very tricky.”
He was afraid he’d see Stephen’s jaw hanging if he dared look in that direction.
“A tricky translation,” Stephen said. “Good God.” He reached over and grabbed Damian’s shoulder. “Face it, man. When a jumble of letters written by some dead Roman is more interesting than a tumble between the sheets of a warm and lively lady you need help.”
“I—”
Stephen held up his hand. “Say no more. I’m convinced this house party is exactly what you need to cure you of your blue devils.”
“I am not blue deviled.”
“You certainly are if you can’t remember the last time you had any bed sport. But don’t worry. Greyham is certain to pair you with a pleasant girl unencumbered by morals. Enjoy her, Damian. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, and Lupercalia the day after. It’s a time for love . . . or lust.” Stephen grinned as the coach swayed to a halt. “I certainly intend to enjoy myself—and Maria—to the fullest.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Damian muttered as Stephen leapt from the carriage.
Damian descended more sedately, pausing to have a word with his coachman just as a cart clattered up next to him, blocking his path to Greyham’s door. Rude, but perhaps the driver thought Stephen had been the carriage’s only occupant. He turned to regard the man and bit back a smile.
The fellow—one of Greyham’s footmen—looked harassed, as if he were fleeing the Furies. Or perhaps he’d been condemned to escort one of the unpleasant sisters. The woman seated next to him certainly looked the part of an avenging goddess. Her old, ugly bonnet hid her hair so successfully he couldn’t tell its color—or if it were indeed a writhing mass of serpents—but her slightly bushy brows were a golden brown. At the moment, they met over her nose in a deep vee of temper, and her generous lips were pressed firmly together as if she’d just bitten into a lemon.
She wasn’t beautiful—her nose was too long and her chin too sharp, and she looked to be far too tall and thin—but she drew his attention like a magnet. Her eyes, even angry, were compelling. They were the same golden brown of her brows and were large and fringed with long lashes. Who was she?
Her worn, unfashionable clothing marked her as someone’s maid, but her demeanor gave the lie to that theory. Yet she looked nothing like Maria Noughton and her ilk. She couldn’t be a guest.
The footman whose job it was to help arriving ladies alight apparently was of the same opinion. He stayed on the portico, sheltered behind one of the pillars, out of the chill February wind.
“Jem!” The cart’s driver tried to get his attention, but the wind whipped his words away.
Well, Damian could help. He didn’t care if the woman was a duchess or a dairy maid; she was female and could use a hand in descending. He moved around the back of the cart to reach the passenger side.
The woman made a short, annoyed sound. “I can get down myself, you know,” she told the driver and began to suit action to words.
“Miss Atworthy, please—”
Everything happened at once then. The driver, distracted by his passenger, let his hands drop. The pony, beginning to shiver in the wind, took that as an invitation to bolt for the warm barn. Miss Atworthy, gathering her skirts and rising to depart, jerked backward as the cart lurched forward. Her hands flew up into the air, and she screamed as she tumbled over the side.
Damian leapt forward to catch her. A flailing froth of feminine skirts and curves plummeted into his arms.
“Oof!” He staggered back a step but managed to keep his feet and his hold on Miss Atworthy. She was not a featherweight. And she was not as thin as he’d guessed, or at least not thin in the important areas. Her bottom and breasts felt very nicely rounded.
She gaped up at him, clearly disoriented by her sudden change in altitude. At this proximity, he saw her eyes had flecks of gold and even hints of green in their depths. Golden brown curls, freed from her bonnet, tumbled over her forehead. He inhaled her scent—lemony, clean and fresh—and it hit his brain like brandy on an empty stomach. He was drunk on the feel and smell of her, and like a drunkard, he acted on his impulses. He bent his head and covered her wide mouth with his.
She stiffened, and he thought for a moment she’d push him away, but then she relaxed, so he let his tongue go where it wished—into her warm mouth.
She tasted sweet, full of promise.
Stephen was right: it had been far too long since he’d been with a woman. Perhaps he would enjoy himself at this damn house party—when he wasn’t keeping an eye on Stephen, of course.
Her tongue tentatively touched his.
Or maybe he’d let Stephen go to hell with Maria. He had more interesting things on which to focus. He drank in her warmth, her intoxicating sweetness, her maddening mix of innocence and desire.
He was lost in her until his body protested. His cock ached, but so did his back. Standing had never been his preferred position for lovemaking, and Miss Atworthy was far too heavy to hold for an extended period. It would not endear him to her if he dropped her on her delightful posterior.
He eased out of the kiss and raised his head. She blinked at him, eyes wide and slightly bewildered, and her finger crept up to touch her lips. He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring fashion as he let her legs slide slowly down his body, keeping his arm around her back. She felt very good indeed.
He grinned. “Curls, not snakes.”
“What?” She frowned as her feet touched the ground.
“Your hair.” He tugged on a lock that had fallen over her forehead. It sprang back as if it had a life of its own. “You looked like one of the Furies, sitting next to that poor footman in the cart.”
“I did not.”
“You did. You were scowling just like you are now.”
Her frown deepened—and then she apparently remembered he still had his arm around her. She flushed and jumped away, catching her heel on her hem.
His hands shot out to steady her. “Careful.”
“Miss Atworthy,” the driver called as he ran up, having finally got the pony under control and handed the reins off to Jem. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, thank you, but if it hadn’t been for Mr. . . .” She frowned again; the woman spent far too much time with her brows lowered. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name, sir.”
“Damian Weston.” He inclined his head. “Earl of Kenderly.” He turned to the footman. “I’ll see to Miss Atworthy; please have her things taken up to her room.”
“Yes, milord.”
He offered
Miss Atworthy his arm; she took it somewhat gingerly. Odd. She wasn’t a young miss, and after that kiss, he wouldn’t say she was shy—
No, that wasn’t accurate. The kiss had been hot, but not practiced; it had not been the kiss of an experienced flirt. And with the last name of Atworthy . . .
“Are you perhaps Josiah Atworthy’s daughter?”
She stiffened. “I am.”
Now why the hell did she suddenly look so guarded? He smiled in an attempt to put her at ease. “I hope to pay your father a visit while I am in the area. He and my father were classmates at Oxford; in fact, my father used to say he had a bone to pick with yours.”
“Oh?” Miss Atworthy looked straight ahead, her expression stony. It was hard to believe he’d just been kissing her. “I don’t believe I’ve heard Papa mention your father.”
“No? Well, my father claimed your papa borrowed his rare copy of ”—he paused; better not be too specific—“Ovid’s poems and neglected to return it.”
Her fingers tightened on his arm, and she shot him a quick, sharp glance before returning her gaze to Greyham’s portico. “That seems very odd. I wonder why your father never came to retrieve it if it was so valuable.”
Did the girl think he was prevaricating? “Oh, I rather doubt it’s valuable.”
She threw him another look. “If it’s rare, it must be valuable.”
“Not necessarily. A three-legged dog is rare but not valuable.”
“A book is not a three-legged dog.”
“True.” He shrugged. “All I know is my father seemed more amused than anything over the situation. I never asked him about it, though. Perhaps I shall ask your father. Did he not speak of it?”
“N-no.”
Now why did Miss Atworthy look so guilty? “Perhaps he didn’t think it a suitable topic for your tender ears.”
She made an odd gurgling sound. “Trust me, Papa doesn’t spare my sensibilities.”
“I think you do him an injustice. I’ve found him to be far more perceptive than I would have guessed, especially from hearing my father’s stories.”
Miss Atworthy stopped dead and stared at him. “Are you sure you’re talking about my papa?”
He laughed. “Well, it did take me a little while to puzzle out who J.A. was.”
Her face lost all its color, and she seemed to be having difficulty breathing. “J.A.?”
“Josiah Atworthy.” Was she a complete widgeon?
“Ah.” She was still staring at him with her mouth slightly ajar, an almost panicky look in her eyes.
“Your father wrote to me last year to comment on one of my articles in The Classical Gazette, and we started a correspondence.” He frowned. She definitely looked as if she was about to swoon. He shifted his hold to support her elbow. “I say, are you feeling quite the thing?”
“I’m f-fine.” She cleared her throat. “Can you tell me—I know it’s a silly question, but I’m curious—how did you sign your letters to Papa?”
“With my initial.” Her color did not look good at all, though his answer seemed to reassure her.
“Oh. ‘W,’ for Weston, then?”
“No, ‘K,’ for Kenderly.”
“Ah.” Her lips wavered into a smile, and then her eyes rolled up and she collapsed into his arms.
Chapter 3
If it were truly possible to die of embarrassment, Jo would have expired on Lord Greyham’s front drive.
She stared up at the bed canopy in one of Lord Greyham’s guest bedchambers. She’d not been able to escape her humiliation; she hadn’t even been able to maintain a nice, insensate swoon. Oh, no. She’d come to her senses—all her senses—almost immediately and had been completely aware of the servants and guests staring at her and whispering about her as the Earl of Kenderly carried her up the stairs and into this pleasant bedroom.
Jo covered her face with her hands. Yes, she’d been aware of the onlookers, but she’d been even more aware of Lord Kenderly—the strength of his arms; the broad, hard plane of his chest; the solidity of his shoulder where she rested her head; the firm line of his jaw with the faintest shadow of stubble against his snow-white cravat; the deep blue of his eyes. When she’d buried her face in his coat to hide from all the people staring at her, she’d breathed in his scent, a mix of clean linen, eau de cologne, soap, and man.
And when he’d laid her on the bed . . .
She bit her lip to stop a moan from escaping.
Dear God, she’d wanted to pull him down on the bed with her. She’d locked her hands behind his neck and held on a moment too long; he’d had to reach back and disengage her fingers to free himself.
The next moan would not be muffled. She flipped over and buried her face in the pillow.
The prince she’d fashioned out of air had stepped into her life, and he was far more perfect than she could ever have imagined. Her dreams tonight would be much more detailed than ever before.
And he’d kissed her. Heavens! Her very first kiss. She’d been almost too shocked and disoriented to appreciate it at first. Had he actually put his tongue in her mouth? It should have been disgusting, but it hadn’t been—not at all.
And then she’d tried to kiss him back. He must think her a complete hoyden or worse. What if he—
“Miss Jo.”
“Eek!” She turned over and sat up so quickly her head spun. She pressed her fingers to her temples and blinked at the short, round girl who’d come into the room. “Oh, Becky, you gave me such a turn. What are you doing here?”
Becky stared at her as if she’d suddenly sprouted a second head. “I work here; ye know that.”
She did know that. Becky was a year or two younger than she and had grown up on the estate; they used to play together when they were children. “Yes, yes, I mean, what are you doing in this particular room?”
“Mrs. Stutts sent me up. She said ye needed help.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Stutts, a gray-haired, somewhat dour woman, was the Greyhams’ housekeeper. “That was very kind of her, but what would I need help with?”
“With yer clothes and hair.” Becky was clearly struggling not to roll her eyes.
Jo stared at her for a moment, flabbergasted, and then laughed. “You know I make do for myself at home.”
Becky gave her a long look. “Begging yer pardon, Miss Jo, but ye do need help. All the other guests are from Lunnon. Ye don’t want to look a country mouse.”
“What do I care if all those London ninnies look down their noses at me?” Jo climbed off the bed and shook out her skirts.
“Oh, ye’ll care plenty. I’ve seen them do it afore. The poor girls those cats turn their claws on end up crying their eyes out.”
“Well, I’m made of sterner stuff.” She was not some delicate, young debutante, and she didn’t care about something as superficial as personal appearance. It was a person’s intelligence that mattered.
A certain gentleman’s image—a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman with dark hair and blue eyes—popped into her thoughts.
All right, it didn’t hurt if an intelligent man was also attractive, but it wasn’t important. She’d never have given Lord Kenderly a second thought if he had the mental acuity of stewed cabbage.
Well, perhaps she would have given him a second look. A woman would have to be blind not to—the man was as handsome as sin.
He kissed like sin, too, not that she had any experience in the matter. Still he’d definitely made her feel like sinning. Her breasts and belly . . . lower than her belly, actually . . . had felt very, very . . . odd. She—
She was as bad as a runaway horse, and if she didn’t rein herself in immediately, she’d come to serious trouble. Yes, the man was handsome; yes, he was intelligent. But he must also be a rake. He was at this disreputable party, wasn’t he? And as far as he knew, she was a complete stranger, yet he’d kissed her in that very intimate fashion. Clearly the actions of a rake.
She flushed. She hadn’t known who he was when she’d kissed him
.
“Mrs. Stutts told me to tell ye the guests are meeting in the blue parlor before dinner,” Becky was saying. “I’m to help ye change.” Becky looked around. “Where’s yer trunk? I hope we can find one dress that’s not too wrinkled.”
Trunk? Her entire wardrobe wouldn’t fill a trunk. “I didn’t bring many clothes.”
Becky’s eyes had found Jo’s bag. “Ye mean this one small valise is all ye have?”
They both stared at the bag in the corner where the footman must have deposited it. It had looked enormous at home, but now in this rather large bedroom . . .
“Yes. You know I’ve no call for fancy gowns, Becky. I’m a Latin tutor. My students come to me to learn their declensions, not study the latest fashions.”
Becky grunted. “Maybe they’d pay more attention to their studies if they didn’t have to look at ye in the dowdy dresses ye wear.”
Dowdy dresses? She should be insulted, but in the opulent surroundings of Greyham Manor, she was afraid Becky might have a point. The Windley hellions certainly weren’t impressed with Cicero or Virgil. “My dresses are perfectly serviceable.”
Becky limited herself to an expressive snort and started unfastening Jo’s frock. “Ye’ll never get through the house party with so few clothes.”
Jo sighed and let Becky help her out of her dress. “Unless you are a magician, I shall have to, shan’t I?”
Becky considered Jo’s poor little case again and chewed her lip. “Let me see what I can do. I think Lord Greyham’s sister was about yer size; leastways everyone always said she was a giant.”
Was Becky determined to insult her at every opportunity? It wasn’t her fault most of the females in the neighborhood were midgets—most of the men, too. “I am not a giant; I am merely taller than the average woman.”
The Naked Prince Page 2
