The Naked Prince

by Sally MacKenzie

  “Oh.” She sounded quite breathless. “I”—she swallowed—“I don’t know what Papa was thinking when he—”

  Suddenly her brows snapped down, and her voice lost any trace of uncertainty. She put her hands on his chest and gave him a little shove. “But I do know. Damn it, it’s all clear now.”

  Reluctantly, Damian moved back a step. “What’s clear?”

  “Papa’s motives. Why he tricked me into coming to this shocking party. It had nothing to do with Ovid.”

  “Ovid?” How the hell had they got to Ovid?

  “Yes, Ovid.” She slipped away from him and began pacing the terrace. “Papa told me some taradiddle about the old baron having borrowed a rare copy of Ovid. He knew that would persuade me to put aside my scruples and attend this, this . . . orgy.”

  Given what was happening in the morning room at the moment, Jo’s description was sadly apt. “You’re a fan of Ovid?”

  “No. Or, not especially. I find his verse very confusing. I can’t understand—” She flushed. “Well, never mind that.”

  “Ah.” He grinned. “I would be delighted to explain any passages you have trouble with.”

  She answered him with a glare. “No, thank you.”

  He bit back a smile and shrugged. “Your father didn’t make the story up out of whole cloth, you know. I’m reasonably certain the Ars Amatoria in the study is the volume he referred to.”

  Jo looked momentarily interested. “Oh? I wondered if perhaps it was. Is the book valuable?”

  He shook his head. “No. Either your father or mine pilfered it from the Oxford library. The margins are full of salacious commentary scrawled by generations of university students.”

  Jo made a small sound of disgust. “So it is just as I thought. Papa dangled the Ovid in front of me to get me to come to this party.” She pressed her lips tightly together for a moment. “I can just see how his devious little mind worked. His Catullus had just arrived, and I was, er, discussing with him how we simply cannot afford for him to keep buying these expensive books.” Her voice rose. “He has no sense of economy.”

  “Oh?” He could see Jo had the bit between her teeth on this topic. She would need to marry a man who knew how to keep a firm hand on the reins or she’d ride roughshod over him.

  And why the hell had that thought popped into his head?

  “Yes, indeed. He is going to land us in the poorhouse if he doesn’t see reason. There are just not that many potential Latin students in the area, and I am not going to wed Mr. Windley to produce more.”

  “No, I definitely think that would be unwise. Who is Mr. Windley?”

  “A very annoying widower with six idiot sons all of whom I have the misfortune to teach—to try to teach—Latin.”

  The disgust on Jo’s face was rather comical. “He does not sound at all like a good match for you. Is your father pushing you to marry him?” Mr. Atworthy would not be the first man to sacrifice his daughter for the family fortunes.

  Jo laughed. “Oh, no. Papa cannot abide Mr. Windley or his progeny either. I think he’s afraid I’ll marry him out of desperation.”

  “Come, you’re not past your prayers certainly.”

  She snorted. “I’m far too old to tempt most gentlemen into marriage. And Papa says I’ve a reputation for being a”—she flushed—“a trifle, er, difficult and, ah, staid.”

  Difficult he could believe, but not staid. Obviously the neighborhood men were blind to Jo’s attractions. She had a lovely mind and an equally lovely body.

  She started to pace again, and he admired the way her skirts pulled tight across her hips and teased him with brief outlines of her legs. “After Mr. Flanders visited, Papa knew I was writing to you, and he knew you would be at this party. Having one of Lord Greyham’s female guests take ill at the last minute must have seemed like a sign from heaven, a golden opportunity to get me off his back for a few days. I don’t doubt he even hoped I’d—” Her cheeks—no, her whole face—turned beet red. “That is, Papa . . . he . . .”

  A cold, hard feeling—disappointment with a touch of anger—settled in Damian’s gut. He’d been the earl for ten years now; he was very familiar with matchmaking mamas—and sometimes papas. “Thought you could get me to come up to scratch.”

  Her eyes swiveled to his. “Good God, no. Are you daft?”

  His anger turned to pique. “It isn’t that odd a thought. You were writing to me. I was answering.”

  “Yes, but I’m sure he realized if you thought my letters were from him, they could not have contained anything of a, er, warm nature. No, no, trust me. Marriage would be the last thought to cross Papa’s mind. I suspect he hoped I would have some kind of small, ah, adventure that would take my mind off rare books and empty coffers for a while.” She looked away, her color still high. “He said a little sin would do me good.”

  Damian’s gaze, which had wandered down to her breasts, snapped back up to her face. “What?” Good God, had she read his mind? It was full of sin, lovely, hot, wet sin.

  “Yes. I was as shocked as you are.”

  Now was not the time to point out she had no idea what he was thinking, because if she did she would be having a fit of the vapors. “Um.”

  “I suppose I will see if I can have a look at the Ovid to satisfy my curiosity, but from what you say, it isn’t worth my spending any more time here.” A smile flashed across her face, missing her eyes. “I believe I can feel the headache coming on.”

  He didn’t want her to leave, not yet. Things were still unsettled between them. He certainly felt unsettled, and he did not care for the sensation. “But I thought you were going to help me this evening.”

  “What? Oh, right, Mr. Parker-Roth and Lady Noughton.” She backed away from him a step. “I can show you where the baths are now, if you like. You need only follow the path through the garden a bit. You can’t miss them.”

  She was unsettled, too. He could feel it.

  Had she truly been interested only in Latin grammar when she wrote to him? Probably the first time and perhaps the second, but something else had crept in by the third letter, he’d swear it. This . . . warm feeling couldn’t have all been on his side.

  They’d had a meeting of minds; they’d found a harmony of spirit. He’d just been shocked for a moment to discover the mind and spirit he’d been communicating with came in such a delightful package.

  He was not going to let her get away. “Thank you, but I think your presence tonight is crucial.”

  “Surely you can handle the situation yourself.” She took another step backward; he followed her.

  “I am Stephen’s friend. People might not believe me. But you are a disinterested third party and a female.”

  “Yes.” She bumped into the balustrade; she’d backed up as far as she could. Without the building to restrain it, the wind whipped her curls around her face so she did look a bit like one of the Furies, only her expression was uncertain and vulnerable. “I mean no.” She moistened her lips. “I mean you don’t need me tonight.”

  “Oh? I think I do.” If she had any idea of the need that was pounding through his veins right now, she’d leap over the balustrade. “I need you very much.”

  “What?” She must have caught a hint; she looked vaguely alarmed.

  “And what about sin?” He dropped his voice again and leaned into her.

  “Sin?” she croaked.

  “Yes. I think your father is correct—a little sin is good for the soul.”

  She snorted. “You make a far better Latin scholar than you do a theologian.” Brave words, belied by the waver in her voice.

  “Don’t you want to sin a little, Jo?”

  “Ah.” She had dropped her gaze from his eyes to his mouth, the minx.

  He cupped her face in his hands, trapping her wild hair. He bent closer so he could whisper. “I would be happy to teach you how. It would be my pleasure—my very great pleasure.”

  Her eyes widened. Was that desire he saw in their dept
hs? Desire and uncertainty. He would just kiss her now, just—

  “Ah, so here you are.”

  Damn. Damian spun around to find Stephen and Lady Noughton walking toward them.

  “My, my, my,” Maria said, looking from Damian to Jo, “what are you two up to?”

  Thank God the widow hadn’t arrived a minute or two later, when it would have been far too clear what Damian, at least, was up to. “We are taking the air.” He took Jo’s hand and placed it on his arm.

  “It looked to me as if you were on the verge of taking more than the air.” Maria examined Jo. “My compliments, Miss Atworthy. I should have said something earlier. That dress is a great improvement on yesterday’s gown.” She raised a knowing eyebrow. “Out to catch yourself an earl, are you?”

  Damian squeezed Jo’s hand as he heard her draw breath to answer the harpy. That would be a very bad idea. Maria would tear Jo to pieces; the widow had sharpened her claws in far too many London ballrooms. “You have it wrong, Lady Noughton. It is I who am trying to capture Miss Atworthy’s interest.”

  Stephen laughed. “Bravo, Damian.”

  Maria glared at Stephen, smiled brittlely at Damian, and then addressed Jo. “I see. Then it was no accident we saw you and Lord Kenderly together in the library last night.”

  “Oh, no, it was indeed an accident,” Jo said. “I thought I’d just run down to find a book; I had no idea Lord Greyham’s library would be so crowded.” She smiled sweetly. “Were you and Mr. Parker-Roth also in search of some reading material to help you fall asleep?”

  Maria made an odd noise, sort of a cross between a gasp and a hiss, but Stephen laughed.

  “Touché, Miss Atworthy,” he said. “Well done.”

  Chapter 8

  It was almost eleven twenty-five. Jo consulted the clock for the fifth time in as many minutes.

  She’d been hiding in her room for two hours, ever since Blind Man’s Bluff had become too dangerous. The various blind men—and women—had taken the role as an opportunity to run their hands all over whomever they caught, exploring the most embarrassing parts of their victim’s anatomy. Mr. Maiden, not even pretending to be hampered by his blindfold, had taken advantage of Lord Kenderly’s brief absence from the room to pursue her, much to the glee of the other guests. She’d been compelled to dodge behind a settee and knock over a chair before the earl had returned and put an end to Mr. Maiden’s fun.

  She heard giggling in the corridor. Damn. She hoped she’d be able to get to Lord Kenderly’s room without encountering any other guests.

  Frankly, it was hard to imagine what Lady Noughton could do to force Mr. Parker-Roth into marriage. This party just got more and more scandalous. At dinner the men had decided to get into the spirit of Lupercalia and run naked over the grounds at midnight.

  Ugh. The thought of Sir Humphrey or Mr. Felton without clothes was revolting. She’d shut her eyes at the first hint of bare flesh. But Lord Kenderly naked . . .

  She fanned her face with her hand. It was suddenly quite hot in the room.

  That afternoon on the terrace, when he’d offered to teach her to sin, she had to admit she’d been tempted.

  She bit her lip. She was far too old for such silliness, wasn’t she?

  Her brain said yes, but her body had a different opinion.

  She glanced at the clock again. Oh dear, it was now eleven thirty-two. She was late. She grabbed her dark pelisse and cracked her door open. She listened. All was quiet for the moment.

  Cautiously she poked her head out and looked up and down the corridor—no one in sight, thank God. She eased out of her room and hurried as quietly as she could to Lord Kenderly’s chamber. She scratched on the door.

  “Damnation, Viola.” She heard Sir Humphrey’s voice as the door to the room across the way began to open. “I don’t want to go scampering around Greyham’s grass naked as a needle. It’s February; I’ll freeze my—”

  Sir Humphrey and Mrs. Butterwick would see her if Lord Kenderly didn’t let her in immediately. What was taking him so long?

  She couldn’t wait another instant. She turned the knob and scrambled inside, shutting the door behind her just as Sir Humphrey stepped into the passage.

  That had been far too close. She turned to give the earl a piece of her mind. “Lord Kend-ack!” She caught her foot on her pelisse and fell forward—onto a naked chest.

  “Oof.” Lord Kenderly grunted as his arms came around her to steady her.

  Her nose was smashed up against warm, hard flesh and soft, springy hair. Mmm. He smelled of soap and eau de cologne.

  “I seem to make a habit of catching you,” he said.

  She felt his words rumble in his chest even as they whispered past her ear.

  She’d never encountered a naked male chest before. Men were always covered in layers of fabric: shirt, waistcoat, coat. She slid her hands over Lord Kenderly’s hard planes and around to his equally hard back. She’d wager a week’s worth of Latin lessons few men had chests as impressive as this one. And had she glimpsed . . . ? She slipped her fingers a little lower. Yes. The man had only a thin towel covering his hips.

  Something hard began to press against her belly....

  “Jo.”

  Damian’s voice was rough and breathless. She looked up.

  The hot expression in his eyes caused her jaw to drop. She watched his mouth descend, and then she closed her eyes as his lips covered hers, his tongue sweeping past her teeth, deep inside. One of his hands landed on her derriere, pushing her tightly against his interesting bulge, while the other skimmed up her side to cup her breast.

  Hot, liquid need rushed through her like a stream after a violent summer rain.

  She had too much clothing on; he had too much. She slid her hands up his naked back and then down again, lower, all the way to—

  He jerked his head up and put both hands on her shoulders, pushing her back. She watched his towel start to slip—

  Blast! He grabbed it before it had fallen very far. She caught only a glimpse of a dark thatch of curly hair, and then the cloth was back in place. Well, not quite in place. The hard ridge she’d been pressed against must have grown—was still growing, forming a definite tent in—

  “Will you stop that?” Damian grabbed a bright yellow pillow off a chair and held it in front of him like a shield.

  “Stop what?” Breathing? She was certainly having a hard time getting her lungs to work, and her heart was beating erratically as well.

  Damian did look like Michelangelo’s David come to life. His upper arms curved with muscle; his shoulders were unbelievably broad; the short dark hair she’d had her cheek against just moments ago dusted his chest and trailed in a line over his flat stomach down to . . . the pillow.

  “Stop looking at me like that.”

  Her eyes flew back to his face. He sounded as if he was in pain. He looked as if he was in pain—white lines bracketed his mouth and a deep crease separated his brows. “Are you feeling quite the thing?”

  “No, I am not. I am feeling . . .” He took a deep breath. “I am feeling as if I should consign my good friend Stephen and his future happiness to the devil so I can attend to my own happiness now. Immediately. With you.” He jerked his head toward the bed. “Naked.”

  “My lord!” The most shocking part of his shocking statement was the way her breasts and her . . . feminine parts throbbed in eager agreement.

  “Don’t worry, I have myself under control”—he glared at her—“as long as you stop staring at me that way.”

  “What way?”

  His voice dropped. “As if you want to touch every last inch of my person—”

  She whipped her hands behind her back.

  “—with your lips.” She watched his throat move as he swallowed. “And tongue.”

  Little tongues of flame shot all over her skin. Her nipples peaked into hard, sensitive points; her, ah, nether regions felt as if he’d lit a bonfire right between her legs. She bit back a moan. “I-I’m
not.”

  “You are.” He took another deep breath. “Unfortunately, this room lacks a dressing screen. If you will turn around . . . ?”

  She stared at him. Turn around?

  He made a little circular motion with his finger, but her brain was no longer functioning. The firelight played over his lovely, lovely muscles.

  He shrugged. “Very well, if you wish to watch.” He dropped the pillow and put his hands on the towel.

  Jo spun around to give him her back. She wanted to watch, depraved spinster that she was, but she didn’t want Lord Kenderly to think she did. If only there were a mirror handy.

  She must stop thinking of Lord Kenderly’s muscles and other, er, attractions. “Why in the world did you decide to bathe now?”

  “Because I stayed downstairs to keep an eye on Lady Noughton, and Mr. Felton managed to spill a very large glass of ale all over me. To be blunt about it, I was wet and sticky, and I stunk.”

  “But then why did you leave it to so late?”

  “I didn’t.” The words were muffled; he must be putting on his shirt. “You were early.”

  “I was not. I was two minutes late.”

  “Then your clock is fast. It’s only eleven thirty-five now. Come on.”

  She turned to find he was dressed all in black. He picked her pelisse off the floor where it had landed when she’d landed on his chest and helped her into it. Then he put on a black cloak, opened the door, and looked out.

  “All clear,” he said, taking her hand. He pulled her to the right.

  She stopped and tugged back. “The stairs are the other way,” she whispered.

  “The main stairs are. There are servant stairs here.” He opened a door Jo hadn’t noticed before.

  “How did you find these?”

  “I make it a policy to be observant. It’s often handy to have an alternate exit when things turn unpleasant.”

  “And do things often turn unpleasant?” She followed him down a narrow flight of steps.

  “Not any longer, but it’s a habit I formed when I was younger and more daring.” He looked over his shoulder and grinned at her. “And stupider.”

  Jo put a hand on Damian’s arm to stop him when they reached the outside door. “Do you think we’ll encounter any of the other guests celebrating Lupercalia? Sir Humphrey and Mrs. Butterwick were leaving his room when I arrived at yours—which is why I came in so precipitately.”