The Naked Prince

by Sally MacKenzie

Lord Kenderly wasn’t a midget. He must be over six feet tall; her eyes had been level with his mouth. Mmm, his mouth . . .

  She had no business thinking of his height or his mouth. He was an unprincipled rake, like all of Lord Greyham’s male guests.

  Becky was staring up at her, brows raised, clearly saying—without uttering a word—that Jo was acting like a great ninny.

  “And Rosalind married and moved out ten years ago,” Jo said. “Even I know any clothes she left behind would be sadly outdated.”

  “Aye, but I’m very clever with my needle.” Becky moved to open the valise and pull out Jo’s dinner dress. She shook it out and looked at it doubtfully. “This is yer best gown?”

  “Yes.” Her poor frock did look a bit woebegone.

  Blast it all, she knew she should have refused the invitation to this scandalous party, though she hadn’t anticipated her wardrobe as well as her reputation would come under siege.

  “At least it’s not too creased.” Becky frowned. “I wouldn’t have thought this shade of pink would suit ye.”

  “It’s fine,” Jo said, grabbing the stupid dress from Becky and putting it on. She looked in the mirror.

  She’d forgotten how consumptive it made her look. She’d bought it because Mrs. Wiggins, the local dressmaker, had purchased too much cloth for another order and so was willing to make her a gown for almost nothing.

  “I don’t have occasion to wear it often.” Jo averted her eyes from the mirror. “It serves its purpose.”

  “And what would that be? Giving the gentlemen nightmares?”

  “Oh, come, Becky.” Jo scowled. This was the problem with growing up in the area; the servants had no compunction about sharing their opinions. “I’m twenty-eight years old. I’m sure I don’t appear in any gentleman’s dreams.”

  Becky glared back at her. “Yer female—that’s enough for most men.” She stood back and looked Jo up and down. “And yer not bad looking—or wouldn’t be if ye weren’t wearing that ugly dress. Ye could even be pretty, if ye made a little effort. Now come sit at the dressing table, and I’ll try to put yer hair into some order.”

  Jo sat and watched Becky brush her unruly curls. She would like to be pretty, just for this house party. She’d like to appear in Lord Kenderly’s dreams....

  No. She mustn’t forget he was a rake. She’d been misled by his letters; apparently scholars could be as scandalous as any man. “I have no illusions as to why I’m here. I’m merely a poor relation invited to make up the numbers.”

  “Aye, and ye’ll never be more than that if ye keep thinking that way.”

  Jo pressed her lips together. There was no point in arguing further; Becky was—

  “Ouch!”

  Becky was wielding the brush with a little too much enthusiasm. Her efforts to dispatch one particularly difficult tangle brought tears to Jo’s eyes.

  “There ye go. At least ye don’t look like ye was dragged through a bush backward anymore.”

  “Thank you. I’m just glad you left a few hairs still attached to my head.”

  “Aye. I had to leave a few for the cats downstairs to rip out, don’t ye know.”

  Jo lifted her chin, ordered her stomach to stop jumping about like a mouse trapped in the bottom of an empty jug, and headed for the door. “I am not afraid of any London cats.”

  She stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind her, but not quickly enough to miss Becky’s muttered words: “Ye should be.”

  “Who was the Amazon you had in your arms, Damian?” Stephen took a sip of his Madeira.

  “Miss Atworthy. Her father is a Latin scholar and one of my father’s Oxford classmates.” Damian surveyed the room. Miss Atworthy had not yet made her appearance. Had she recovered from her faint? He hoped so. He couldn’t very well go up to her room and check—well, perhaps he could at this scandalous gathering.

  The assembled guests were an odd assortment of dirty dishes. Mr. Roger Dellingcourt, Viscount Sheldon’s disreputable heir, was laughing uproariously at something Baron Benedict Wapley had said. As Lord Wapley was not considered a wag, chances were good Dellingcourt had got into Greyham’s brandy early. Sir Humphrey Edgert, baronet; Mr. Arthur Maiden—an unfortunate surname; and Mr. Percy Felton, one of the Earl of Brent’s many sons, were lounging by the fireplace and, well . . . giggling was the word that came to mind.

  The women were no better than the men. Maria Noughton sat next to Lady Blanche Chutley, whispering in her ear, probably trying to get her to lure Damian away from Stephen so Maria could carry out her nefarious matrimonial plan unimpeded. Ursula Handley and Sophia Petwell, both nominally widows though no member of the ton had ever met their likely mythical husbands, were standing by the door, talking to Lord and Lady Greyham. Completing the assembled guests were the pleasant-looking, portly Mrs. Butterwick and Lady Imogene Silven, Lady Mardale’s daughter, with, rumor had it, one of her footmen.

  “Ah,” Stephen said. “So you’d made Miss Atworthy’s acquaintance before?”

  “No, I saw her for the first time today.” He smiled. She’d looked so fierce and full of passion. His smile broadened. She was full of passion. He hadn’t been able to get their kiss out of his mind.

  “Ha!” Bloody hell, Stephen was almost crowing. “But you’re looking forward to seeing her again, aren’t you? Seeing and touching and . . . other things.”

  Damian shot Stephen a pointed look. “Miss Atworthy is not available for ‘other things.’”

  Stephen grinned. “Oh, don’t lose hope. I grant you she didn’t look like a highflyer, but perhaps looks are deceiving in this case. She is here, isn’t she?” Stephen glanced around and shrugged. “Well, not here at the moment, but here at this party.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I told you this gathering would be good for you.”

  “I am not looking for dalliance.” Well, he hadn’t been, but now—

  No. He suppressed his baser urges. He was a scholar; he was used to taming the needs of his body to achieve loftier, intellectual goals.

  This time his body grumbled more than usual.

  He gave Stephen a long look. “I am here to ensure you don’t fall prey to Maria Noughton’s machinations. You aren’t helping matters, by the way. I noticed how you dashed in to see her as soon as you climbed out of the carriage.”

  Stephen laughed. “Listen to yourself, Damian. You sound like my mother, though Mama is far less of a wet rag than you.”

  Damian opened his mouth to blister Stephen’s ears with his opinion of that statement but was deterred by Lord Greyham clapping him on the back.

  “Kenderly, Parker-Roth, so good to have you here.”

  “Our pleasure, Greyham,” Stephen said.

  Damian only managed what he hoped was a civil nod. He was still trying to get his spleen under control.

  Greyham dropped his voice and stepped closer. “I wanted to have a word with you, Kenderly, before the party gets under way.”

  “With me?” Damian glanced at Stephen; he looked mystified as well.

  “Yes. It’s about Jo.”

  “Jo?”

  “Miss Atworthy.”

  “Ah.” Of course Lord Greyham wished to ascertain his guest hadn’t sustained an injury, though it would make more sense for the man or, better, his wife to go up and speak to Miss Atworthy directly. “I was happy to be able to save her from what could have been a very serious accident.” Had Greyham heard about the kiss? Better not mention it.

  “Er, yes,” Greyham said. “Glad you could be of help. Wouldn’t want Jo getting hurt, of course.”

  “Of course.” Damian waited. Lord Greyham cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot. “Was there something else?”

  The baron tugged on his waistcoat. The man’s belly had grown significantly in the last few years. “Yes, actually. I wanted to tell you—” He coughed. “This is a little awkward, but given your reputation—your current reputation, that is, not your old reputation as Prince of Hearts, heh heh.”

  D
amian and Stephen just stared at him.

  “Yes, well, given your current reputation, I assumed you wouldn’t mind.”

  Lord Greyham smiled. Damian blinked. “Mind what?”

  “That I’ve paired you with Jo.”

  An embarrassing bolt of lust shot through him, lodging in the obvious organ. “Oh.” It was his turn to clear his throat. “Why would I mind?”

  “Well, you see, the thing is we invited Henrietta Helton to be your, er, valentine. She’s a knowledgeable widow and would have been very”—Greyham winked—“accommodating. But then she took ill at the very last minute. Literally. By the time I got word, there was no hope of inviting a suitable substitute. The Widow Bellingham, who sometimes attends our parties, was off visiting her daughter in Manchester, and none of the other mature ladies in the area would ever deign to darken our door. They’re a nasty bunch of puritanical prudes; they turn their blasted supercilious noses up at us.” Greyham shrugged. “My only option was Jo. Her father’s a distant cousin; they live on the estate.”

  “I see. And Miss Atworthy doesn’t share the local prejudice against your parties?” Damian asked. She’d looked a bit like a prude in her outdated outfit and severe expression when she’d arrived in that cart, but she hadn’t felt—or tasted—like a prude when he’d had her in his arms.

  “Oh, she probably does. I took the precaution of asking her father before I sent the invitation. He said he thought he could convince her, but frankly, I was shocked to hear she’d come—I’d expected to get my invitation back torn up into tiny pieces.” He shrugged. “Just wanted to warn you, she’s not up to snuff, no matter that she’s not a dewy young miss. To tell the truth, she’s a bit of an ape-leader. Past her prayers, don’t you know.” He grinned suddenly. “Or maybe that’s why she came—to find out what she’s been missing all these years. If so, you’re just the man to educate her, aren’t you, Kenderly?” He waggled his brows. “You two can do a little conjugation together.”

  Stephen choked on his Madeira; Damian scowled at the baron, even while an evil little voice in the randy section of his brain pointed out Miss Atworthy had shown great promise while kissing him. A confirmed prude would have slapped him soundly.

  Greyham looked over Damian’s shoulder and frowned. “Damn.” He sighed. “I’m afraid Jo looks exactly like the stuffy, dull Latin tutor she is.”

  Damian turned and felt another jolt of lust.

  Miss Atworthy stood in the doorway, wearing perhaps the ugliest gown he’d ever seen—a hideous pink frothy affair with a high neck, long sleeves, and far too many ruffles. But above the nauseating pink cloud, her eyes flashed with nervous challenge, her firm chin tilted defiantly, and her rebellious curls twisted in whatever direction they liked.

  She might be an impoverished Latin tutor, but her attitude was that of a duchess.

  Or a countess?

  Good God, where had that thought come from?

  Her eyes met his, and she flushed a bright red before looking away.

  Lust exploded in his gut.

  Bloody hell. Perhaps it was time he put away his Latin texts to study the needs of his body.

  Chapter 4

  Jo wanted to hit something, preferably this beautiful raven-haired woman who, like a fox sensing an easy kill, had almost run to her, her equally unpleasant companion close behind, the moment Jo had entered the blue parlor. They’d introduced themselves as Lady Noughton and Lady Chutley.

  “What an interesting frock, Miss Atworthy,” Lady Noughton said now, derision clear in her voice. “Wherever did you get it?”

  Was she hoping Jo would say she’d made it herself? “From Mrs. Wiggins, our local dressmaker.”

  “You know, I think I once had a gown that was just that shade,” Lady Chutley said. “It was a very popular color four or five years ago, wasn’t it?”

  More than likely, since that was when Jo’d had the dress made. She forced a smile. “Was it? I’m afraid I don’t follow the fashion magazines.”

  Lady Noughton tittered. “That’s rather obvious, isn’t it?”

  Both women tried—not very hard—to choke back laughter.

  “What’s so amusing, Maria?”

  Jo glanced over to see who had spoken. An attractive man with shaggy, sun-streaked hair was approaching—with Lord Kenderly at his side.

  Damn. She felt her cheeks flush again. She looked back at Lady Noughton. Perhaps Lord Kenderly would assume her heightened color was due to anger.

  “Oh, Stephen, Blanche and I were just making Miss Atworthy’s acquaintance. She is so refreshing—but then, provincials often are, aren’t they?” Lady Noughton laughed. “I venture to guess she’s never been to London.” She glanced at Jo. “Am I right, Miss Atworthy?”

  “Yes, I’ve not had that pleasure.” Jo tried to relax her jaw so it wouldn’t sound like she was speaking through clenched teeth.

  “Then you will have to visit someday, Miss Atworthy,” Lord Kenderly said smoothly as if he couldn’t tell she wished to kick Lady Noughton in the shins. “If you can put up with the dirt and the noise, London has much to recommend it.” The corners of his eyes crinkled in a very appealing fashion. “But I’m afraid my manners have gone begging. Let me make known to you my good friend Mr. Stephen Parker-Roth. I believe he would agree with you that the country is preferable to Town.”

  Mr. Parker-Roth had been frowning at Lady Noughton, which had put the old cat in a pout, Jo was happy to see. Now he smiled at Jo.

  “Most definitely. You show excellent sense, Miss Atworthy, in favoring the country.”

  “Oh, Mr. Parker-Roth,” Lady Chutley said—Lady Noughton was apparently so disgruntled she could only glare—“you must admit society is so much more stimulating in London.”

  “On the contrary, I find London society too often ‘full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.’”

  “Oh, but Stephen—”

  They were saved from hearing what Lady Noughton had to say by Lord Greyham’s booming voice.

  “Welcome, everyone! Lady Greyham and I are delighted you could be here to celebrate our favorite holidays of love—”

  “And lust!” one of the men standing by the fireplace shouted. Licentiousness suddenly permeated the air. Everyone except Jo—and Lord Kenderly and Mr. Parker-Roth, thank God—cheered and clapped.

  “You’ve heard about our little celebrations, have you, Felton?” Lord Greyham said.

  “From my brothers and their friends. It’s no secret Greyham Manor’s the place for some fun, especially in February.”

  The other men by the fireplace hooted and cheered. They had clearly been making free with the brandy decanter.

  “I’m so happy our gatherings have got such glowing reviews. For those of you who may not have heard the reports Mr. Felton has been privy to, let me explain. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day—”

  The men—and some of the women—called out in a completely hurly-burly manner.

  “No, really?”

  “You don’t say!”

  “I never would have guessed.”

  Lord Greyham held up his hands for quiet. “Yes, and the day after we celebrate Lupercalia.”

  More cheering. Good God, surely Lord Greyham didn’t mean the men of the party would run naked over the grounds hitting women with goatskin thongs to ensure fertility? How horrible.

  Jo sent a sidelong glance toward Lord Kenderly. Perhaps not so horrible. The earl would strip to advantage—

  Blast it, what was the matter with her? She’d never had such a shocking thought in her life.

  She snorted. Of course not, given the quality of the local males. A naked Mr. Windley, for example; she shuddered. But a naked earl . . .

  She cast another glance at Lord Kenderly. His arms and chest had felt so hard when he’d carried her; his shirt and waistcoat must cover muscles as impressive as those of Michelangelo’s David. And his face, with its strong chin, high cheekbones, long lashes, clever lips . . .

  A strange, liquid heat curl
ed through her.

  “But first,” Lord Greyham said, “we must have the lottery.”

  “Huzzah!” the men by the fireplace yelled. “The lovers’ lottery!”

  It was as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped on her. A lottery? Good God! What if she was paired with one of the idiots by the fire? She looked around the room. None of the men besides Lord Kenderly and possibly Mr. Parker-Roth was the least bit acceptable.

  Lord Greyham turned to his wife. “The vase, my dear.”

  Lady Greyham stepped forward with a remarkably obscene bit of pottery: two jugs fused together and shaped like female breasts, with the handles—a hot flush swept up Jo’s neck and cheeks—resembling a distinctive part of the male anatomy.

  “I will pull a gentleman’s name from one side of the vase,” Lord Greyham said, “and Lady Greyham will draw a lady’s name from the other. The two shall be a couple for the duration of our festivities.”

  The gentlemen made a number of enthusiastic, if rude, noises; the ladies giggled and preened. Jo swallowed her nervous stomach.

  “The gentlemen will have tomorrow, Valentine’s Day, to woo their ladies,” Greyham continued, raising his voice over the commotion. “If they are successful, they’ll have Lupercalia to”—he grinned and waggled his eyebrows—“celebrate.”

  More cheering and catcalls.

  Damian flinched, cursing inwardly at the rising chorus of lewd comments. Why the hell had he let Stephen drag him to this infernal house party?

  His reason was right in front of him. Lady Noughton was doing a credible impression of ivy, wrapping her fingers around Stephen’s arm and attaching herself to his side. Happily, Stephen didn’t look very pleased. Maria had made a serious mistake in her treatment of Miss Atworthy; Stephen detested that kind of sly cruelty.

  Damian glanced down at the oddly dressed woman. Perhaps she would turn out to be his best weapon in his battle for Stephen’s continued bachelorhood.

  Lord Greyham drew the first name. “Mr. Roger Dellingcourt.”

  Damian saw Miss Atworthy tense. She didn’t think Greyham had really left the pairings to chance, did she?