The Naked Prince

by Sally MacKenzie

“Lady Imogene,” Lady Greyham called out.

  Lady Imogene squealed; Damian cringed. Squealing was one of the lady’s most unpleasant traits, but Dellingcourt must not mind. The two of them had been scandalizing the ton for the last six months.

  Had he heard Miss Atworthy sigh with relief?

  “Mr. Arthur Maiden.”

  As always, the men snickered and the women giggled at Maiden’s surname. One would think everyone in society would have grown immune to that feeble double entendre, but one would be wrong.

  Miss Atworthy’s face paled. So she did think this was a real lottery.

  “Lady Chutley,” Lady Greyham read from the slip of paper she’d drawn.

  “Lucky me,” Lady Chutley said, an edge to her voice.

  “What’s the matter, Blanche?” Lady Noughton asked. “You were singing Arthur’s praises to me just this afternoon. You almost made me envious.”

  “That was before I realized the Prince of Hearts had come out of retirement.” She touched Damian’s forearm and fluttered her lashes at him. “I’m sure Arthur won’t mind sharing, my lord. We might even arrange an exchange with your partner, whoever she may be.” She glanced at Miss Atworthy. Blanche knew the pairs had already been decided. “Mr. Maiden takes great delight in sampling a wide variety of female—”

  His stomach turned. “Thank you, but no.” Even when he’d merited his obnoxious nickname, he’d preferred not to share, and the thought of the disgusting Maiden touching Miss Atworthy in any way was revolting.

  Lady Chutley’s mouth hung open for a moment at his sharp tone.

  “I’d say you’ve been put in your place, Blanche,” Lady Noughton said, her eyes lighting with what looked like glee at the perceived slight.

  “No insult intended.” Lord Kenderly’s voice still had an edge. “I wouldn’t want to take you away from Mr. Maiden for a moment; I’m certain he would be most unhappy should I try to.”

  “You needn’t take me away.” Lady Chutley smiled. “As I said, Arthur likes variety. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if we all got busy together. He rather enjoys group situations.”

  “Really?” Lord Kenderly’s tone would have frozen water.

  Mr. Parker-Roth filled the somewhat awkward pause. “You must know Damian has become a very dull dog, Blanche, though I’m not sure he was ever so exciting as you seem to think. Still, he’s been spending all his time in his study with his Latin tomes recently. I dragged him here against his will to shake some of the dust off him.”

  “Oh.” Lady Chutley’s full lips curved in the slightest smile and her eyes slid briefly back to Jo. “I’m the first to admit I’m not a scholar, but my brother always said those Roman fellows were quite, quite adventuresome.” She tapped the earl’s arm. “If—when—you change your mind, I’ll be delighted to help welcome you back to the joys of the flesh,” she said before making her way across the room to where Mr. Maiden was waiting impatiently.

  Lord Kenderly shook his arm slightly and straightened his cuff. He did not watch Lady Chutley’s progress.

  “Lord Benedict Wapley,” Lord Greyham called.

  Oh, God. Jo tried to appear calm, but it was difficult when her stomach was shaking like a blancmange. She did not belong here. She was nothing like these other ladies. She didn’t even understand what Lady Chutley had been hinting at. A group situation? The only notion that came to mind—no, that must be wrong.

  And if she were ever in any . . . situation with Lord Kenderly—which, of course, she would never be—she would wish to have him all to herself.

  “Mrs. Sophia Petwell.”

  Thank God. Another nincompoop avoided.

  At least it was almost dinnertime. She could get through this evening. She would keep her eyes open for the Ovid; Papa had said it was very distinctive. If worse came to worst, she’d plead the headache and go hide in her room until everyone was in his or her bed. She flushed. Or whosever’s bed.

  Once everyone was, er, situated for the night, she’d creep down to the library and look through the bookcases. And if she didn’t find the Ovid, so be it. Her headache could turn into a serious illness requiring her immediate departure in the morning.

  Papa had not been at all forthcoming about this Ovid; no, he’d been downright secretive. If Lord Kenderly, a noted Latin scholar, didn’t consider the book valuable, it probably wasn’t, though she must remember the earl hadn’t actually seen the volume. Still, given Papa’s behavior, it was most likely all a hum—certainly not worth risking her virtue over.

  “Mr. Stephen Parker-Roth.”

  Lady Noughton could not possibly get any closer to the man without climbing inside his skin. She’d be sadly miffed if Lady Greyham pulled someone else’s name.

  She didn’t. “Lady Maria Noughton.”

  Lady Noughton whispered something in Mr. Parker-Roth’s ear that caused him to smile in an exceedingly warm, terribly unsettling way. Something dark and hot and sinful pulsed between them.

  Something dark and hot throbbed deep in her. Sin. It was thick around her. And temptation in the form of the Prince of Hearts stood right at her elbow.

  She must resist. She must remember her virtue. She would rather die than part with it.

  Wouldn’t she?

  She glanced around the room as Lord Greyham pulled another man’s name. Yes, of course. She’d defend her honor to her last breath if any of these idiots tried to take it from her.

  “Lord Damian Kenderly.”

  Oh! Except perhaps Lord Kenderly.

  Her palms blossomed with dampness. What if her name wasn’t chosen? She had only a one in three chance of being paired with the earl.

  What was she thinking? She should be happy if one of the other ladies’ names was called. Then she wouldn’t be tempted to sin . . . but she’d be matched with the fat, balding man or the thin, spotted boy. Her stomach twisted.

  “Miss Josephine Atworthy.”

  She stopped breathing. The dark, throbbing, sinful feeling smoldered deep inside her. She closed her eyes.

  “Are you all right, Miss Atworthy?”

  Lord Kenderly’s voice was quiet, concerned, deep, and male. It acted like wind on coals, causing hot need to blaze and roar through her.

  Virtue. She must hold on to her virtue.

  She swallowed and cleared her throat. “Yes,” she said and looked up at him.

  Big, big mistake.

  A man should not have such dark blue eyes and such long lashes. And his lips . . .

  Dear God! She dropped her gaze to his cravat. She wanted to feel the touch of his lips again so badly she could taste it.

  Perhaps a little sin wouldn’t be so terrible. She was twenty-eight years old, after all. Her virtue was shriveling inside her like a grape forgotten on the vine. This house party would last only a day or two, and then she’d go back to her old life. If she was going to be condemned to the hell of cramming Latin verbs into Windley heads, she might as well have something interesting to atone for.

  No mortal sin; just a few venial ones. What would be the harm in that? She’d get a little experience, a little tarnish on her reputation, but who would care? No matter what Papa said, just her being here would cause Mrs. Johnson and the other matrons to assume she’d done terrible, scandalous things. If her name was to be blackened anyway, she might as well do something.

  She could further her Latin scholarship. Lord Kenderly should be able to explain the confusing poetry she’d found in Papa’s study and perhaps even demonstrate a verse or two.

  She flushed. Well, perhaps not.

  “And now that our lottery is over,” Lord Greyham said—dear heavens, she’d completely missed the last two drawings—“we can proceed to dinner.” He wrapped his arm around his wife’s waist and bussed her noisily on the cheek. “Gentlemen, though it’s not yet Valentine’s Day, I’m sure no one will object if you begin your wooing now.”

  “Huzzah!” Mr. Dellingcourt shouted, grabbing Lady Imogene in a most lascivious manner. All the men in the ro
om except Lord Kenderly and Mr. Parker-Roth embraced their companions. Mr. Parker-Roth didn’t have to; Lady Noughton threw her arms around him and pulled his head down for a kiss. His hands landed on her derriere.

  Jo looked away. How mortifying. She quickly stepped back from Lord Kenderly. Was he going to maul her in the same fashion?

  No, he merely offered her his arm. She took it, swallowing a ridiculous feeling of disappointment. She was relieved. Of course she was relieved. “I’m afraid I’m not used to . . .” She waved her free hand, not quite certain how to describe the scene.

  “Yes, well, I’m not used to it either.” He was frowning at Mr. Parker-Roth and Lady Noughton.

  “Then why did you come?” Dear God, Lady Noughton had her hand on the front of Mr. Parker-Roth’s breeches.

  Lord Kenderly put some distance between them and his friend. “To keep an eye on Stephen. I can’t shake the feeling that Maria means to trap him into marrying her.”

  Mr. Parker-Roth and Lady Noughton appeared to be on extremely intimate terms already. “Would that be such a terrible thing?”

  “It would be a disaster.” He bent his head and dropped his voice so they wouldn’t be overheard, not that anyone was paying them the least bit of attention—everyone else was far too involved in sinful behavior. Sir Humphrey had his hand on Mrs. Butterwick’s breasts, and Mr. Dellingcourt was nibbling on Lady Imogene’s ear as they made their way toward the dining room.

  “Maria is a creature of London. She thinks Stephen would be happy living in Town; she seems not to have noticed he never stays there more than a few weeks before he’s off searching for new plant species.”

  “Oh.” Mr. Parker-Roth and Lady Noughton were strolling toward the door now. “Perhaps she could accompany him.”

  Lord Kenderly snorted. “Pigs will fly long before Maria will set her expensively shod toe into the heat and mud of South America.”

  “I see.” She watched Lady Noughton’s elegant derriere swish out the door. He had a point.

  “And Stephen comes from a large, close family. When he does wed, he’ll want several children. Maria would never agree to so inconvenience herself or her figure.”

  “Ah.” And how many children would Lord Kenderly like? He was an earl. He must plan to have an heir and a spare at least. She flushed. That was none of her concern. “But if Lady Noughton loves—”

  Lord Kenderly scowled at her. “Maria loves no one but herself.”

  Was the earl a dog in the manger? An unpleasant, but unfortunately reasonable thought. Lady Noughton was very beautiful in a brittle sort of way. “Then why would she wish to marry?”

  “I don’t know. The current Lord Noughton disapproves of her, so her funds may be in jeopardy. Likely it’s desperation that persuades her she’s in love with Stephen.”

  “But how could she trap Mr. Parker-Roth? She’s a widow, not a debutante.”

  Lord Kenderly looked away—and must have realized they were the only people left in the parlor. He started toward the door. “I admit that has me puzzled.”

  “Perhaps you are imagining problems where there are none.”

  “I am not. I overheard Maria talking to Lady Greyham at the Wainwright soiree last week.”

  “Eavesdropping?”

  The man didn’t even blush. “Yes. Unfortunately, I didn’t hear the whole of it, so I don’t know exactly what kind of trap Maria plans to set—which is why I’m telling you all this.” He looked down at her, his deep blue eyes intent. “I could use your help.”

  The sinful heat flared low in her belly again. The rational part of her insisted this was none of her affair, but the other part—this strange, needy part that until now she hadn’t known existed—was already nodding. “Of course. What do you want me to do?”

  He smiled, just the slightest upturn of his lips, and his broad hand came up to cover hers where it rested on his forearm. He squeezed her fingers. “I don’t know. Just keep your eyes and ears open. Maybe Maria will let some clue slip.”

  “Very well.” She managed to get the words past her suddenly dry lips. The weight of his hand on hers was doing unusual things to her heart.

  She was in very big trouble.

  Chapter 5

  Jo listened as yet another set of footsteps crept past her door. If the frequent creaking of the corridor floor was any indication, everyone at the party had made his or her way to some other guest’s bedchamber. Mr. Parker-Roth was likely already in Lady Noughton’s room.

  Whose room was Lord Kenderly in?

  She tossed his letter onto her dressing table. She’d finally found time to read it, but now that she knew he’d thought he was writing to Papa, his words didn’t captivate her as they had in the past. Oh, he was still witty and perspicacious, but she could no longer pretend he was writing to her.

  She should throw it away. She picked it up again to do just that, but her fingers refused to crumple it. She glanced down at the vellum square. She still felt an odd thrill when she saw his strong, bold handwriting.

  She was a fool, but she tucked the letter into the book she’d been reading. She would keep it with all the others, tied in a ribbon in her desk at home.

  She turned and frowned at herself in the cheval glass. She raised her chin. She’d put her foolish tendre behind her. Where Lord Kenderly was and what he was doing with whom were none of her concern. She would wait a few more minutes and then make her own surreptitious way through Greyham Manor’s darkened halls.

  She wrinkled her nose at her nightgown-clad figure. She would not be headed to any gentleman’s arms. Oh, no. She meant to search the library. With luck, she’d find the stupid Ovid. She’d like to take it home and wave it in Papa’s face. But find it or not, she’d be gone in the morning.

  And what about Lord Kenderly? He’d asked for her help. Was she going to desert him?

  Yes. She thrust her arms into her wrapper. Indeed she was. He was the Prince of Hearts. She was merely a country spinster, very much a fish out of water at this gathering.

  She’d never endured such a shocking meal as this evening’s dinner. She hadn’t known where to look. To her right, Mr. Dellingcourt was cutting Lady Imogene’s food and feeding it to her from his fork. Across the table, Lord Wapley plucked grapes from Mrs. Petwell’s bodice with his lips. And on her left, Lady Noughton ate a sausage so slowly and lasciviously, it was as if she were consuming something else entirely. Jo had bolted for her room at the first opportunity.

  She glanced at the clock. It was almost midnight. The corridor had been quiet for the last ten minutes. She should be able to make it to the library without encountering anyone else.

  She slipped out of her room. Just as she’d hoped, the passage was empty. The candles in the wall sconces provided plenty of light; she didn’t need a candlestick.

  She hurried past the closed doors, ignoring the laughter and moans that came from behind some of them, and went down the stairs. The library door stood open. Everyone at this party had far more interesting ways of getting to sleep than by reading a book.

  She went in, pulling the door closed behind her. Moonlight flooded the room and a glimmer of color glinted in the grate where the fire’s embers smoldered, but there was not enough light to find Ovid. She would need a candle after all. Where—

  She heard a step in the hall.

  Damn! Some randy gentleman was likely on the prowl. She didn’t want to be discovered. Where could she hide? He would be in the library in a moment.

  The window curtains—they would have to do. She darted behind their generous folds just as the door opened.

  Damian stepped into the library. Thank God the room was empty; he’d no desire to encounter any of the other guests.

  No, that was a lie. He had a burning desire to encounter Miss Atworthy. Far too burning—he’d been tossing and turning for the last half hour, and hearing people creeping up and down the corridor had only thrown kindling on the coals. He could imagine in painful detail exactly what everyone else was
doing in bed, and it wasn’t sleeping or reading.

  Except Miss Atworthy. She must be lying demurely between her virginal sheets, sound asleep, unless she was bothered by salacious nightmares. The poor woman’s eyes had almost started from her head during dinner.

  Dinner had been quite a deplorable show. Even when he’d reigned as Prince of Hearts, he’d avoided such things. But then again, perhaps the appalling spectacle had done some good. Stephen had looked almost as disapproving as Miss Atworthy. Lady Noughton was doing an excellent job of killing his enthusiasm for her.

  Damian frowned. The widow wasn’t stupid. She must think she had a solid plan to trap Stephen. What could it be? He kept turning that question over in his mind, but he wasn’t coming up with any answers.

  Ah well, he wasn’t going to solve the puzzle tonight. He needed to get some sleep so he could be alert tomorrow. A good book might distract him—he certainly hoped so. He walked farther into the library, lifting his candle to illuminate the bookcases.

  Either the Greyhams weren’t readers, or they kept their more entertaining books elsewhere. He had no interest in examining Recipes to Ensure Improved Digestion or A Short Discussion of Sheep Shearing. Short? This tome was a good three inches thick. A long discussion might crush an unwary reader. Perhaps if he—

  Damn, were those voices? Yes, a man’s and a woman’s, loud and slurred. They were drunk and coming closer. He snuffed his candle. Bloody hell, he’d neglected to shut the door. The moment the couple reached the room, they’d see him. He had to hide and quickly, but where? He looked around. There was only one option.

  He jumped behind the window curtain—and into a soft, feminine body.

  “Ee—”

  He silenced the woman’s startled shriek in the quickest, most efficient manner he could think of: he put his candlestick-free hand on her back, pulled her against him, and covered her mouth with his.

  She stiffened.

  Who the hell was he kissing? None of the women at this party cared whom they frolicked with.

  None except Miss Atworthy.

  The height and the feel . . . and the innocent taste . . . of the woman were right, as was her scent—clean and fresh with a hint of lemon. His body certainly recognized her. It was reacting most enthusiastically.