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

by Jo Beverley

  She was close enough to kiss. He remembered the feel of her last night in painful detail. Her lips were soft; her mouth, warm and wet—

  He coughed. “Are you all right?” She seemed to be struggling to get her breath; her bosom was certainly heaving delightfully.

  “Yes.” She swallowed, and he watched her throat move. Her dress this morning was a great improvement over yesterday’s monstrosity. All her graceful neck was exposed to his interested gaze as well as most of her lovely shoulders. And the nicely rounded tops of her br—

  “I should have been paying more attention to where I was going,” she said. “That was so clumsy of me.”

  “Don’t give it another thought. I should have been more careful myself.” He looked down to be certain his wayward body wasn’t announcing his admiration too obviously and noticed something had fallen out of the book she was carrying—a letter she’d apparently been using to mark her place. He stooped to pick it up.

  He frowned. He recognized the handwriting. “This is one of my letters to your father.”

  “Ack!” She grabbed it and thrust it back in the book. She was even redder than she’d been a moment ago. “Please excuse me. I was just on my way to my room.” She stepped to the side as though she planned to go around him.

  He stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Did your father give you my letter?” He hoped she couldn’t hear the hurt in his voice. He’d saved all the letters Mr. Atworthy had sent him, but if the man didn’t value their correspondence the way he did, there was nothing he could do about it. He shouldn’t be surprised or offended. It only made sense that what impressed a man of thirty as significant would seem banal to someone twice that age.

  “No.”

  “You just took it?” Miss Atworthy hadn’t struck him as someone who had such little consideration for a man’s privacy.

  “No, of course not.” She fidgeted. “I, er, needed a bookmark, and, ah, well …” She shrugged.

  Very odd. He would try another subject. “Did he tell you I would be here?”

  Her eyes snapped up to meet his. “Of course not. Papa didn’t know you’d be attending this house party.”

  Why would she assume that? “Yes, he did.”

  She shook her head, frowning at him. “No, he didn’t.”

  This conversation was beyond absurd. Certainly she must realize he would know the truth better than she on this subject. “Did a Mr. Flanders not stop to call on your father last week?”

  Her brows met over her nose. “Yes, I believe he did. Is he a short man with reddish hair?”

  “Yes. He helps with The Classical Gazette. He’s the one who initially puzzled out who J.A. was; since the letters are sent to the Gazette offices, he knew what part of Britain they came from. As he happened to be passing through the area, he thought he should introduce himself. He told me your father was surprised and”—Flanders had said “over the moon,” but that had seemed an exaggeration—“pleased that I ’d be in the neighborhood, though doubtful he’d be able to see me. I take it he doesn’t get out much. Is he perhaps an invalid?”

  Miss Atworthy muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “not yet” before she pushed past him and fled down the corridor.

  Jo sat stunned among the women in the morning room, the gentlemen having been relegated to the study, and tried to appear as if nothing was amiss. Sheets of red paper, bits of ribbon and lace, and pots of glue were strewn over the tables. Her hand slipped and she cut the bottom off her paper heart.

  She couldn’t believe it. Papa had known Lord Kenderly would be here. Worse, he must know, after speaking with Mr. Flanders, that she’d been corresponding with the earl for some time.

  Dear God, what must Papa think? Well-bred single women did not write to single men to whom they were not related.

  “How are your valentines coming?” Lady Greyham asked. “You should have everything you need at hand.”

  “I don’t have any ideas.” Lady Imogene dropped her scissors, letting them clatter on the table. “I hate making valentines.”

  “But you like getting them, don’t you?” Mrs. Petwell asked as she cut out a large, red heart.

  Lady Imogene shrugged. “I like gifts better. Chocolate and flowers.”

  “Chocolate and flowers are very pleasant,” Lady Grey-ham said, “as I tell my dear Lord Greyham every year.”

  “You just need to let yourself have some fun with it, Lady Imogene.” Mrs. Butterwick smiled in a motherly fashion. “See?” She held up the card she’d just finished.

  Lady Imogene took it from her. “It’s rather an odd shape, isn’t it? Like a melted heart.”

  It looked more like two red mountains decorated with snippets of ribbon and tufts of feathers.

  “It’s a dress,” Mrs. Butterwick said.

  “A dress? It doesn’t look anything like a dress.”

  “It depends on your perspective. Open it.”

  Lady Imogene rolled her eyes and opened the card—it was hinged on the mountain peaks so it lifted up. “Oh!” She started giggling.

  Jo frowned. The second layer was all lace. Through the lace one could see the mountain peaks weren’t peaks at all, but knees. And the sides were two legs spread—

  Lady Imogene lifted the lace, gasped, and then shouted with laughter.

  Oh, Lord. A hot blush flooded Jo’s face. She must be redder than Mrs. Butterwick’s valentine.

  “Brilliant,” Lady Greyham said, clapping.

  Mrs. Handley nodded. “It looks so real. How did you know what to draw? Can’t say I’ve ever seen that part of me.”

  Mrs. Petwell sniggered. “Sir Humphrey helped you, did he?”

  “He did not.” Mrs. Butterwick took the card back from Lady Imogene. “I used a hand mirror. Haven’t you ever looked at your female parts, Sophia?”

  “No, why would I?” Mrs. Petwell grinned. “I’m far too busy examining Lord Benedict’s male parts.”

  “I think it’s very clever,” Lady Imogene said. “And I’m sure Sir Humphrey will wish to see if your portrayal is completely accurate.”

  “Of course he will. I’m expecting we’ll repair to bed immediately so he can do just that.”

  Everyone but Jo laughed.

  “Well, ladies,” Lady Greyham said, “I believe Mrs. Butter-wick has thrown down the gauntlet. Let us see if anyone can outdo her in creativity.”

  “How will we determine the winner?” Lady Imogene asked.

  “We will have to observe the gentlemen’s falls when they read their valentines,” Lady Noughton said. “The card that provokes the largest, ah, reaction wins.”

  “That’s not entirely fair, Maria,” Mrs. Petwell said. “We all know men are not equally endowed. I’ve personally examined both Lord Benedict’s and Mr. Maiden’s … attractions. Bennie is much larger”—she smiled at Lady Chutley—“though both gentlemen satisfy. We ladies know size is not the important issue, don’t we?”

  Jo ducked her head and pretended to examine the assortment of ribbon in front of her, though what she was really seeing was gentlemen’s breeches. Good God.

  If she survived this party, writing letters to an unmarried male would be the least of the blots on her reputation. And to think Papa had urged her to attend, had even said a little sin would do her good! Had he had the slightest notion how thick sin would be all around her?

  When she’d sat at her bedroom desk, she’d had a vague mental image of the gentleman she’d been writing to all these months. She’d pictured a pleasant-looking, bespectacled man, not young but not old, scholarly, with a gentle voice. But now that she’d met Lord Kenderly, she wanted to touch him, press up against him as she had behind the curtains last night, feel his skin on hers—and, yes, examine his most male organ. The thought was scandalous, shocking—and after less than twenty-four hours at Greyham Manor, it felt oddly reasonable.

  Oh, damn, she was throbbing again. She pushed some bits of lace around, praying no one would notice her heightened color.

/>   Of course God didn’t answer her prayer. He must be laughing at the old spinster adrift in such sinful waters.

  “Are we embarrassing the little virgin in our midst?” Lady Noughton’s voice grated.

  Jo ignored her and glued some lace to the heart she’d cut. Her valentine was insipid; before she’d seen Mrs. Butter-wick’s card, she’d thought all valentines insipid.

  “Maria,” Lady Greyham said, “have done. You know Miss Atworthy is here only because Henrietta Helton took ill.”

  Lady Noughton frowned and might have argued, but she was interrupted by Lady Imogene waving her valentine in the air for the ladies’ reaction.

  Jo let the other women crowd around. The tone of their laughter told her clearly she would not appreciate Lady Imogene’s imagination.

  What was she going to write to complete her boring card? She couldn’t just wish Lord Kenderly well. This was a valentine, not a sympathy card. On the other hand, she certainly couldn’t mention the odd throbbing heat he provoked in her. She bit her lip. What should she write?

  She’d like to write something daring, though not as daring as what Mrs. Butterwick or Lady Imogene had written—or drawn.

  She was twenty-eight. As Papa had pointed out, she wasn’t getting any younger. She could use a little sin, a little pleasure, in her life. If she let this opportunity pass, she’d have only Mr. Windley at hand—dear God. Mr. Windley was penance, not pleasure.

  She glanced over at Lady Noughton’s card. The widow had written, Meet me at the baths at midnight.

  Could she ask Lord Kenderly to meet her somewhere secluded?

  No. She hadn’t the courage.

  “I still don’t have any ideas,” Mrs. Handley said. “I need some more inspiration.”

  “How about some brandy? I often find a drop or two of spirits helps me think.” Lady Greyham pulled the decanter out of the cabinet. “Oh, bother, Hugh must have stolen the glasses.”

  “We’ve teacups, don’t we?” Mrs. Petwell said.

  “Very true.” Lady Greyham passed the brandy around so everyone could fill her cup.

  Jo took a splash to be companionable. Dear Lord Kenderly, she wrote, Happy Valentine’s Day. She chewed on the end of her pen. What else?

  Her mind was a blank—well, no, it was filled with scandalous things she could never write.

  She heard laughter in the corridor. The men were here; her time was up. Her insipid card would have to do. The earl certainly couldn’t expect professions of love. They were barely acquainted … except she felt as if she knew him so well from his letters. Or she’d thought she’d known him when she’d thought him older and plainer.

  She signed the card quickly as the men came into the room.

  “Did you miss us, sweets?” Lord Greyham asked, giving Lady Greyham an enthusiastic kiss on the lips.

  “Mmm, of course, but we spent our time well, didn’t we ladies?”

  “Indeed.” Lady Chutley smirked. “I think you’ll find our efforts most, ah, uplifting.”

  The ladies giggled; Jo took the opportunity to move toward the windows. She noticed Lord Kenderly was standing a little apart, frowning, his hands clasped behind his back; he looked about as happy to be there as she was.

  “And you’ll find ours inspiring as well,” Lord Benedict said. The men sniggered.

  “I’ll confess it looked bleak at first when Greyham gave us The Young Man’s Valentine Writer.” Mr. Dellingcourt laughed. “What a collection of trite and saccharine verses! I suppose they might appeal to very inexperienced young ladies, but I assure you there was nothing appropriate for this group.”

  “I should think not,” Mrs. Petwell said.

  “So then we found Greyham’s copy of Ars Amatoria hidden behind A Few Theories on Crop Rotation.” Mr. Maiden grinned.

  Jo straightened. Could this be Papa’s rare Ovid?

  “It wasn’t hidden,” Lord Greyham grumbled. “You found it, didn’t you?”

  “Only because of its bright red cover.”

  It must be the Ovid. She had to slip out and get it. With luck the men had left it sitting out in plain sight.

  Mr. Maiden’s grin widened. “And next to that book was an even more interesting volume, though in some heathen language I couldn’t read.”

  “But you certainly studied the pictures long enough,” Mr. Felton said.

  “Now, Percy, I gave you your turn.” Mr. Maiden waggled his brows at Lady Chutley. “I merely wished to commit a few of the illustrations to memory so I might re-create them later.”

  “Ha. I ’d like to see you try.”

  “Would you, Percy?”

  “Yes.” Mr. Felton crossed his arms, a hot, hungry look suddenly appearing on his face. “Now.”

  Mr. Maiden extended his hand to Lady Chutley. “Are you game, my dear?”

  Lady Chutley looked around the room and then smiled slowly. “Of course, if everyone else agrees?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course.”

  “Carry on, do.”

  The chorus of support twisted Jo’s stomach into knots.

  “Would you like to stroll on the terrace, Miss Atwor-thy?” Lord Kenderly asked.

  “Oh!” The earl was at her elbow, offering her escape. “Yes, thank you. That would be very pleasant.”

  He took her arm and guided her out the door as the other members of the party whistled, clapped, and cheered Mr. Maiden and Lady Chutley to misbehavior so scandalous Jo couldn’t begin to imagine it—and she certainly wasn’t going to turn so she could see what they were doing.

  The February wind slapped her in the face, and she gasped.

  “I’m sorry,” Lord Kenderly said. “I didn’t realize how cold it was. Would you prefer to go back inside?” He glanced over his shoulder at the room they’d just left. “On second thought, I’ll give you my coat.”

  “Th-thank you.” She shivered. She’d rather turn into an icicle than witness what must be going on in the morning room. Well, she’d probably turn into a pillar of salt, like Lot’s wife, if she looked. “Aren’t you afraid Mr. Parker-Roth might get into trouble?”

  Lord Kenderly frowned as he shrugged out of his coat and draped it over her shoulders. Ahh. It was still warm from his body.

  “Stephen doesn’t care for such public displays.” He steered her so her back was to the morning room windows, but he could keep an eye on what was going on. “Making valentines with the other men was bad enough; the level of conversation was so puerile I thought I was back at Eton.” He looked at her. “I think if I can just foil Maria’s plans a little longer, Stephen will leave the party on his own, perhaps as early as tomorrow.”

  And surely Lord Kenderly would leave with him. Fine. She was not disappointed, not at all. She should have left herself. She would go very soon.

  His gaze had wandered back to the morning room. “Good God,” he muttered, a note of incredulity in his voice, “so that really is possible.”

  She would not look. “If you want to save Mr. Parker-Roth, my lord, you might want to watch the baths at midnight.”

  “What?” His eyes focused on her again. “Baths?”

  “Yes. Lady Noughton put it on her valentine. I assume she means the Roman baths.” Lord Kenderly’s attention had shifted to the action in the morning room once more. His face was rather flushed; perhaps it was due to the wind.

  “They aren’t Roman baths precisely.” Was he even listening? Whatever was happening inside must be riveting. “Lord Greyham’s father discovered a hot spring and enclosed it. It’s nothing as grand as Bath—at least, that’s what people tell me, as I’ve not been to Bath—but it’s pleasant to sit in the warm water in the winter.”

  “Er, water?” He looked down at her. “I’m sorry; I wasn’t perfectly attending.”

  Jo kept herself from stomping on his toes, but only just. “Lady Noughton and the baths. Meeting Mr. Parker-Roth?” He was looking over her shoulder again. “Oh, I’ll go with you. I’ll come by your room tonight at eleven
-thirty.”

  “My room?” He had an odd light in his eyes for a moment before he blinked and shook his head. “Right. So we can keep Maria from trapping Stephen.”

  “Yes.” She would not feel disappointed that he didn’t wish to seduce her. She was a respectable spinster. “Of course.” She would not even peek in his bedchamber; she would merely knock on his door. “Er, which room is yours?”

  He was studying the activities in the morning room again. It took him a moment to reply. “Oh, yes, my room. Turn left when you come up the main stairs; mine is the last door on the right.”

  “Very well. I’ll come by promptly. We don’t wish to be late.” She looked down and noticed she still held the valentine she’d made. “Here.” She thrust the poor thing at him, distracting him once more from what was happening inside. She might as well give it to him, even though he’d likely throw it into the fire the first chance he got. “I’m afraid I’m not very talented with paper and paste.”

  He took it from her and smiled. “I’m not either, as you’ll see when I give you yours.” He reached for his pocket, and then realized she was wearing his coat. “Pardon me.”

  He slipped his hand inside his jacket, brushing against her breast by accident. She sucked in her breath. Damn! She hoped he hadn’t heard her.

  She saw the corner of his smile deepen. He’d heard.

  He slid a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to her. “As you can see, a drunken monkey could make a better valentine than I.”

  “Oh, surely not—” Jo looked down at the paper. The heart was rather lopsided, and the few bits of lace decorating it might indeed have been pasted on by an inebriated animal. “I imagine most men aren’t terribly skilled with such things. It’s the thought that counts.” She opened the card. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” it read, “K.”

  She felt disappointment—and then she laughed. It wasn’t as if they were lovers; they were barely acquaintances. “You might want to work on your technique, should you find a sweetheart,” she said, glancing up at him.

  He didn’t seem to hear her; he was staring down at her card, a very odd expression on his face. He looked shocked. Why? She certainly hadn’t written anything shocking.