Hot Historicals Bundle with An Invitation to Sin, The Naked Baron, When His Kiss Is Wicked, & Mastering the Marquess

by Jo Beverley

  “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 At-worthy’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 Atwor-thy, 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 curled 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 Delling-court.”

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

  “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 At-worthy. Blanche knew the pairs had already been decided. “Mr. Maiden takes great delight in sampling a wide varie
ty 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 room 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 behav
ior. 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.”