by Jo Beverley
Her face burned with heat, and she muttered an incoherent apology as she tried to tug her hand away. Christian tightened his grip.
“Christian,” she hissed, mortified.
“Yes, Ladybird?” he replied in the most innocent voice.
Harcourt broke in. “I must step out. Please take a few minutes, Mrs. Middleton, to recover your countenance. Captain Archer will escort you home.”
He waved away Clarissa’s attempt to thank him again and exited the room.
Hesitating, she looked at Christian, who gazed down at her with an adoring smile. She couldn’t think of a thing to say, and he seemed in no hurry to break the silence. Her heart pounded like a drum, leaving her breathless. But from what? Happiness? Trepidation?
He took her hands and raised them to his mouth. When his warm lips brushed over her skin, she trembled.
“I’m very angry with you, Ladybird,” he said, though his voice held a hint of laughter. “You shouldn’t have come down here, flying to my rescue like an avenging angel.”
She snatched her hands away, annoyed that he could think of laughing after such a nerve-wracking scene. “And what about you, you foolish man? Why would you take such a risk?”
“Because it was what you needed me to do—for both our sakes. Once you left Rosedell Manor, and after I calmed down, I realized that. You could never let Jeremy go and move on with your own life as long as this cloud hung over your head.” He rested his hands on her shoulders, gently caressing. “And you were right about another thing. Jeremy did deserve better, especially from me.”
She ducked her head, ashamed to look him in the eye. “Jeremy would have hated that I tried to manipulate you. I’m so sorry, Christian. I’ll never be able to forgive myself.”
His leather-clad fingers tipped her chin, forcing her to look at him. She saw only understanding and warmth in his gaze. Her heart cracked under the weight of her own guilt, and the love she felt for him.
“He was your husband. And the army abandoned him after he made the ultimate sacrifice. No woman of spirit could accept such a betrayal. You had no choice but to search for answers.”
“I was so angry,” she said.
“With me or with the army?”
She grimaced. “With Jeremy. For leaving me.” How petty and selfish that anger seemed now.
Christian rubbed a soothing hand along the back of her neck. “He didn’t want to. You were in his thoughts every waking moment. Never doubt that.”
A rush of emotions tightened her throat. Christian, the most selfless man she had ever known, sincerely mourned Jeremy’s death. In a flash, she understood Christian would have spared her the grief of widowhood if it had been in his power, even though it meant he could never be with her.
What a gift she had been given, to have won the love of two such men in a single lifetime.
“Jeremy was a man of honor,” she said. “He always tried to do the right thing, no matter the cost. I was wrong to try to hold him back.”
“You loved him,” he said, as if that explained everything.
She supposed it did, but only Christian understood that. He had never once judged her for hating the war, or for hating what it had done to her life.
“How can I ever thank you?” she asked, fighting back tears.
He lifted his eyebrows, as if surprised by her question. “I should think it was obvious, Ladybird. You can marry me.”
The breath rushed from her lungs, and she almost staggered. It just might kill her to refuse him, but she had no choice.
“I can’t,” she choked out in a miserable voice. “You’re too—”
“Oh, Lord,” he groaned, cutting her off. “Not that again. You certainly didn’t think I was too young when we made love.”
She flushed, both from embarrassment and from the heated remembrance of his touch. “Christian! You mustn’t say such things, especially not here.”
He scoffed, then sat and pulled her onto his lap. He ignored her protests and her feeble attempts to get up.
“Clarissa, you employ your age as an excuse to put me off,” he said in a serious voice. “Damn few will give a hang about that, and you know it. Tell me what’s really bothering you.”
She fiddled with the starched linen of his cravat. His hand covered hers, stilling her restless fingers.
“You are too young, but not in the way you think,” she blurted out.
He frowned. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re still young enough to be reckless. You’ll take dreadful risks in battle to advance your military career. Just like Jeremy. I think that’s why he volunteered for the Forlorn Hope at Badajoz. I’ve already lost one husband to that kind of reckless behavior. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing another.”
Christian rubbed his chin, silent for a moment. “I can’t be sure why Jeremy made that choice. All I can do is speak to my own experience. I’m not prone to foolish acts, and I’m not going to risk my life simply to garner notice or glory. I promise you that, love. I’ve been at war for eight long years. It’s a bloody and ugly business, with damn little glory. I do my duty and I do it well, but I seek no honors. Not ones that ultimately mean little more than a piece of ribbon and a medal pinned to a coat.”
Hope stirred in her chest, like the faint hint of the breaking dawn.
“Do you mean that?” She couldn’t keep the doubt from her voice.
He captured her face in his hands, feathering a kiss across her lips. She clutched the lapels of his coat, aching for more.
A few breathless moments later, he drew back. “Trust me. I’m very good at soldiering. It’s what I do.” He rubbed his nose against hers, and she laughed.
“And I promise I’ll always come home to you,” he finished, making it sound like a vow.
She wanted to believe that was true, but she couldn’t. No man who went to war could control his fate. But somehow it didn’t frighten her nearly as much as it used to.
“You can’t promise me that, Christian,” she said, cupping his cheek in her hand.
He kissed her palm. “No. We can never be sure of what the next day will bring. But I can promise that I will always love you, for as many days as I have left on this earth.”
Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back. She had cried enough. If Jeremy’s life—and death—had taught her anything, it was that she wanted to live with joy, not fear.
She wriggled off his lap and straightened her gown. “When do you leave for Portugal?”
He hesitated, then came to his feet. “In a week. Why?”
Clarissa studied him. Christian might very well object, but she had no intention of letting him march off to war without her. She had made that mistake once before, and she wouldn’t do it again.
“That should give me enough time to pack and get things in order. But just barely,” she mused, mentally composing a list of things she needed to accomplish, including settling Colonel Middleton’s sister permanently in Brooke Street.
He gave her a puzzled look. “Where are you going? Devon?”
She rolled her eyes. “To the Peninsula, of course. With my husband. Where else would I be going?”
Christian’s mouth gaped as if he’d been poleaxed. But then, with a joyful laugh, he lifted her off her feet and into a crushing embrace. She squeaked in protest, but he covered her mouth in a gloriously possessive, toe-curling kiss. When he finally released her mouth, she could hardly breathe.
“Are you sure, Clarissa?” he asked, his voice deep with emotion.
She wound her arms around his neck. “I can hardly believe it myself, but yes. I am. And I want to marry you not because it’s what you want, but because it’s what I want.”
He flashed a devastating grin. “I love a woman who knows what she wants.”
She laughed, her heart so full of happiness she thought it would burst. “I choose you, Christian Archer,” she said, holding him close. “I choose you over fear and sorrow and loneliness. I will
always choose you.”
He nuzzled her mouth, murmuring gentle words of love. Finally, he lowered her to the floor. As he led her to the door, he glanced down at her, his sapphire eyes glittering with mischief.
“You say that now, sweetheart. But wait until you see my bachelor’s quarters in Portugal. You may run screaming in the opposite direction.”
He was teasing her, of course, as he loved to do. But whatever difficulties lay before them, Clarissa knew there would always be a full measure of love and laughter. Christian would see to that.
She couldn’t wait.
The Naked Prince
SALLY MACKENZIE
Chapter 1
“Papa, what thehell is this?”
Miss Jo Atworthy threw the package she was carrying at her father’s desk; he dove to catch it before it could hit the battered mahogany surface.
“Careful! That’s a very rare collection of Catullus’s poems to Lesbia, Jo.”
“Oh, good Lord.” Jo clenched her teeth and counted to ten. Another expensive book, and of dirty poetry, no less. How many times did she have to tell Papa they couldn’t afford such extravagances?
She watched him reverently unwrap the book and stroke its leather cover. A thousand times would make no difference. He never heard things he didn’t want to hear.
She blew out a short, sharp breath. There was nothing to be done. She’d have to tell Mr. Windley she’d take his youngest little hellion on as a Latin student. She untied her bonnet and jerked it off her head. But she would not take Mr. Windley on as well, no matter how clearly he hinted he’d be delighted to hire her permanently—via a wedding ring—to teach his spawn and tend his hearth and maybe even produce a new idiot Windley or two.
Yet the damnable truth was her marriage would solve all their financial difficulties.
She flung her bonnet on the overstuffed chair. Knocking some sense of economy into Papa’s thick skull would work as well. He was studying the pages of his newest purchase now, smiling with unadulterated joy and a touch of awe.
“Papa, you must stop buying these books. We simply don’t have the funds to pay for them.”
He didn’t even bother to glance up. “Now, Jo, I’m sure we can—”
“We cannot.” She shoved her hands in her pockets to keep from strangling him, and her fingers slid over the letter she’d got when she’d picked up the post. A small thrill shot through her. She’d been waiting for this letter, looking for it each day for the last week. When she’d finally seen it, her address written in the familiar black scrawl, she’d wanted to snatch it up and take it to her room, to curl up in her favorite chair and read it in privacy—but Papa’s blasted package had caused all thought of her letter to fly out of her head.
She ran her finger over the paper. Had her London prince found her comments on Virgil amusing? She’d been on tenterhooks waiting for his reaction. Had he—
She snatched her hands back out of her pockets. She was as harebrained as Papa. Worse. Papa’s books were real; she’d built her “prince” from air. She’d sent her first letter off to him via his publisher, signing only her initials to hide the fact she was a female. She knew he’d never answer, but when he had …
She repressed the shiver of excitement she still felt at the thought. Missive by missive, sentence by sentence, word by precious word over the last year, she’d created a figure of male perfection—handsome, honorable, strong, brilliant, kind, courageous.
She was a fool. She knew nothing about him, not even his name, for heaven’s sake. No matter how witty or intelligent his letters, a man who wrote articles as “A Gentleman” in The Classical Gazette and signed his letters “K” was probably some ancient don.
She should be inquiring after his gout, not imagining him riding up on a white horse to save her from her boring life. She frowned at her father. “Perhaps you’d like to tutor the Windley—”
She heard a sudden banging.
“I say, isn’t that someone at the door?” Papa clutched his precious Catullus to his chest and looked over her shoulder, relief evident in his face.
She was not going to let him escape. Every time she tried to get him to face their dire financial situation, he found a way to dodge the conversation. Not this time. “Papa, I—”
The banging got louder.
“There? Don’t you hear it? Someone is knocking at the door.”
“I don’t—” Damn, their caller was not going to give up; the fellow risked pounding a hole in the wood. She treated her father to her best glare. “We’ll resume this conversation as soon as I find out who that is.”
Papa looked so damnably innocent. “I’ll come with you.”
“Don’t think to slip past me and escape. We are going to have this talk.”
“Jo, you wound me.” Papa tried to look wounded but failed. “Go see who is knocking.”
“I am.” She stalked to the door and threw it open. A haughty-looking footman dressed in Baron Greyham’s black and gray livery stood on the threshold, his hand raised to knock again.
He looked her up and down and then sniffed, clearly not approving of what he saw.
She clenched her fists to keep from smoothing her hair or skirt. “Yes?”
“I have an invitation for Miss Josephine Atworthy from his lordship, Baron Greyham.” If the man tilted his nose any farther into the air, he’d fall over backward.
“I am Miss Atworthy.”
The footman actually cringed.
She tilted her nose in the air. She might not look like the baron’s cousin—well, she probably did look like his poor relation. Her dress was showing its age a bit, but, damn it, it was still serviceable. She had no time—or money—to follow the silly vagrancies of fashion.
He addressed a spot above her head. “Lord Greyham sends his regards, Miss Atworthy, and requests the pleasure of your company at a gathering he is hosting in honor of St. Valentine’s Day.” He offered her a sheet of vellum.
She stared at it as if it were a snake. The Bad Baron was inviting her to one of his scandalous gatherings? “There must be some mistake.”
The footman looked as if he thought so, too, but restrained himself with some effort from saying so. “If you are indeed Miss Atworthy, there is no mistake.”
He offered her the paper again. She considered rejecting it again, but that seemed rather silly—and she’d admit she was curious. She took it.
“Of course she’s Miss Atworthy,” Papa said. “Who else would she be—Helen of Troy?”
The footman was not a classics scholar. “Lord Grey-ham didn’t mention a Miss Troy.”
Jo perused the invitation. “Lady Greyham writes that one of their female guests came down with a putrid throat at the last minute; they need me to make up their numbers.”
“I see.” Papa, trying unsuccessfully to hide a grin, shrugged. “Then you’d best go pack your things.”
Jo crumpled the note. “I’m not going. What are you thinking?”
Papa patted her arm. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine on my own.”
She was going to grind her teeth to dust. “I’ve no doubt you’ll be as merry as a grig, but you know I can’t attend one of Lord Greyham’s parties. My reputation would never survive it.”
Papa laughed. “Balderdash. Everyone knows you’re far too full of starch to participate in anything even remotely improper.”
She was not flattered. Was she really considered so priggish? Would even her prince think her so?
Damn it, she must cure herself of this silly girlish fantasy. She tried to picture “K” as hunchbacked, balding, and decrepit.
“And you’re a bit long in the tooth to be concerned with gossip.”
Oh! Insult added to injury. “I am still unmarried; I must concern myself with gossip.”
Papa smiled at the footman. “Will you excuse us for a moment?”
“Of course, sir. I’ll—”
Papa shut the door in the footman’s face.
“Papa!”
<
br /> He took her arm and led her a few steps from the door. “Jo, think. This is quite the opportunity. It’s not every day you get such an invitation.”
She jerked her arm free. “An invitation to sin!”
Papa looked heavenward as if requesting divine intervention and then back at her. “A little sin would do you good.”
“Papa!”
“Dear God, Jo, I was only funning.” He frowned. “Well, mostly funning. The truth is you are twenty-eight years old. You’re not getting any younger.”
“I’m well aware of my age.”
“Oh, don’t poker up.” He sighed. “I hate to say it, my dear, but you do have a reputation for being …” He waved his hand, as if that told her anything.
“For being what?”
“A bit of a prude.” He took her hand in his. “Men—except perhaps that idiot Windley—see you more as a Latin tutor, ready to smack them at the least mistake, than a woman.”
She jerked her hand back. “That’s ridiculous.” It might be true that the few moderately eligible gentlemen in the neighborhood had stopped asking her to stand up with them and edged out of any conversational group she joined, but that just saved her from having to stifle her yawns as they droned on about their horses and dogs.
“Frankly you’re turning into a shrew.”
“I’m trying to save us from the poorhouse. If you’d only exercise a little self-restraint—”
“Jo, men don’t like to be berated constantly. If you don’t take care, even Windley won’t have you.”
If only she hadn’t sold the hideous bust of Virgil that had graced the table by the door, she could bash him over the head with it. “I’d rather sell myself on the streets than marry that hideous oaf.”
“Well, if you’re considering that line of work, I don’t see how you can take issue with attending Greyham’s house party. At least he won’t have any Paphians there.” Papa paused. “That is, I don’t think he will.”
Clearly, Papa’s obsession with erotic classical poetry had addled his brain. “I cannot go to this party. Mrs. Johnson says all the Greyham gatherings include orgies.”
