The Naked King

by Sally MacKenzie

  “I assure you, I can find my way home by myself.” Her eyes moved on to her dog, thank God. “Forgive me for not apologizing earlier for the state of your clothing. I intended to immediately”—her eyes came back up to scowl at him—“and would have if you hadn’t accosted my bonnet.”

  “I wouldn’t have accosted your bonnet,” he said, stepping on it once more and twisting his foot to grind it farther into the grime, “if it hadn’t so vilely accosted my eyes and my male sensibilities.”

  She pressed her lips into a tight line, obviously wishing to brangle with him, but equally obviously restraining herself. Too bad. He found sparring with her surprisingly stimulating.

  She took a deep breath, causing her formless bodice to swell in a rather interesting fashion. “In any event,” she said, “Harry was at fault.” She dropped her eyes to his muddied cravat. “Your clothing is likely irreparably damaged; my father will wish to make it right. Please have your bills sent to Lord Crane.”

  “Ah.” That was why he didn’t know her. Crane spent even less time in London than he did. “So you’re Crazy Crane’s daughter.”

  He was sober enough to notice her flinch, but she must be used to hearing that nickname. Everyone called Crane crazy. His passion for finding antiquities was even greater than Stephen’s for discovering new plant species. The word at White’s was the earl had come to Town—briefly, as it turned out—to fire off his daughter on the Marriage Mart. Stephen frowned. He was drunk, but he wasn’t completely disguised. Wasn’t this girl too old to be a debutante?

  “So you’re here to find a husband?” he asked.

  Her brows snapped down as her eyes snapped back to his face. “Of course not.” She curled her delightful upper lip slightly. “Were you quaking in your boots?”

  “Don’t have boots.” He lifted his foot to show her and almost left his shoe in the quagmire. “And you don’t scare me. I’ve been dodging debutantes for years—though you do seem a little long in the tooth to be just making your bows.”

  “I am twenty-seven”—it sounded as if she were gritting her teeth—“not that it is any of your business. It is my half sister who is being introduced to the ton.”

  “Ah!” He nodded. Now he remembered. “You’re Crane’s older daughter, the one by his first wife. The bluestocking as opposed to the—”

  A sliver of sobriety wormed its way into his sodden brain. He coughed.

  “As opposed to the beauty.” She sounded indifferent, but he saw the hurt in her eyes before she turned abruptly and started walking briskly toward Grosvenor Gate. Even Harry gave him a reproachful look as he left.

  Damn. That hadn’t been well done of him. He should let her go. She would not want to spend another moment in his presence.

  He couldn’t let her go. He did not break hearts, nor offend anyone, at least unintentionally. He had to apologize. He took off after her.

  Crane’s daughter—what was her name? Damned if he could remember. No one at White’s had talked much about the bluestocking. She had a long stride, but was hampered by her skirts, and Stephen was used to walking long distances. He caught up to her quickly.

  As he feared, she was crying.

  “Go away.” She wouldn’t look at him.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that quite the way it sounded.”

  She snorted—and then had to sniff repeatedly. He offered her his handkerchief.

  “Thank you.” She glared at him briefly, her eyes quite red behind her spectacles.

  He took Harry’s leash so she could blow her nose, which she did rather defiantly. She stared straight ahead, refusing to meet his gaze.

  “And I was not affected in the slightest by your words. Of course not. I merely had a speck in my eye. It is true my sister is a beauty; I have hopes she will have a wonderful Season.” She sent him a pointed look then. “She is much too young for you, however.”

  She looked like an angry kitten, trying to be fierce with its tiny claws and teeth. And he had hurt her feelings; he had sisters; he knew when girls felt wounded.

  He felt an odd warmth in his chest. A bout of indigestion, most likely. He’d certainly had too much to drink. Once he saw Lady . . . Lady . . .

  “You never did tell me your name.”

  She shrugged. “And you never told me yours.”

  “So I didn’t.” He inclined his head. “Stephen Parker-Roth, at your service.”

  “What?” She stumbled on a crack in the pavement. He reached to grab her, but she avoided his hand. “The King of Hearts?”

  “Well, yes, some people call me that.” He cleared his throat. “I’m rather good—or lucky—with cards.”

  Cards? Anne sniffed. “It’s not cards you’re good with.”

  “It is.”

  Damn it, the rogue looked like a blasted choir boy, as sinless as a cherub, but she knew through long association with her half brothers not to trust that mask of innocence. “Oh?” She allowed her skepticism to show in her voice.

  He had the grace to laugh. “I grant you my skill with cards is not the only reason I got that dam—er, unfortunate nickname.” He raised his brows. “How do you know it, Lady—” He frowned. “Devil a bit, I still don’t know your name.”

  She might as well tell him. He would learn it soon enough once the Season got underway. “My name is Lady Anne Marston.”

  “Lady Anne,” he said.

  Her name sounded like someone else’s when he said it—someone beautiful, or at least someone interesting. Someone he was interested in.

  Idiot! Only a complete noddy would think the King of Hearts could have the slightest interest in a redheaded, bespectacled bluestocking. She wasn’t the beauty of the family; she was very ordinary looking, except for her lamentable hair.

  She was glad he wasn’t interested in her. She wasn’t interested in him.

  She was a terrible liar.

  “So how is it, Lady Anne, that you know my nickname when you have so recently arrived in Town? If gossip is correct, the earl dumped you—” He coughed. “I mean deposited you at Crane House just yesterday.”

  Dumped was the correct description. Papa could barely stand to pause the coach long enough to let her, Evie, and the boys out. He certainly hadn’t waited for their baggage to arrive; he and Georgiana were far too anxious to get to the docks and board their ship for Greece. Fortunately Cousin Clorinda, being in London already, had moved in the day before, but things were still very much at sixes and sevens.

  “The London papers come even to the country, you know.”

  He raised one eyebrow and looked annoyingly superior. “So you can peruse the gossip columns?”

  She raised her eyebrow back at him. “So I can read the entire paper.”

  And, yes, perhaps she had paid particular attention to gossip concerning the K—of H—. She’d taken an interest—a scholarly interest—in him. She’d come across an article in Papa’s The Gentleman’s Magazine a year or two ago, an account Mr. Parker-Roth had written describing one of his plant hunting expeditions. He’d sounded exceptionally intelligent and rather intrepid— obviously he’d learned how to be as cozening in print as in person.

  She flushed. She’d dreamt about him once or twice, too. She was lonely on occasion—well, most of the time. She may have sworn off men, but somehow he’d caught her fancy. What harm was there in a little romantic woolgathering? She was never going to meet him.

  Except she just had.

  One would think a twenty-seven-year-old spinster would have more sense, especially a woman with her experience.

  Traffic was beginning to pick up. The streets and walks had been deserted when she’d left Crane House earlier—a very good thing as she’d had to run to keep up with Harry. Of course now the stupid dog was walking sedately at Mr. Parker-Roth’s side.

  “The ton is always making up nicknames for people,” he was saying. “They’ll probably christen you and your sister as soon as you attend your first social event.”

  “I
sincerely hope not.” Blast it, how was she going to navigate these treacherous social waters with only Cousin Clorinda to help her? She bit her lip. It was just like Papa and Georgiana to go off to dig in the dirt, leaving her in charge of the children. Not that Evie was a child any longer. Of course not. They wouldn’t be in this mess if she were.

  She swallowed a sigh. Thankfully, Evie was a sensible girl—but Anne had considered herself sensible once, too. All it had taken was one experienced, London rake paying her a little attention—

  Dear God, what if Brentwood was here in Town?

  No, she couldn’t be that unlucky. She’d been reading the gossip columns very carefully for weeks and had not seen his name.

  But if he were in London—

  “A penny for your thoughts, Lady Anne.”

  Her heart thudded into her throat. “I wasn’t thinking about anything.”

  “No? You looked—”

  “Oh, yes, look, here we are at Crane House.” Thank God! “What a surprise. I don’t know how we got here so quickly.” She was blathering, but if she kept talking, he couldn’t ask her questions she didn’t want to answer. “Thank you for escorting me and for taking charge of Harry. If you will just give me his leash, you can get”—she hadn’t been about to say he could get to bed, had she?—“that is, you can be about your business.” She smiled, or at least tried to, and held out her hand. If she was lucky, she would never see him again.

  Ha! She might hope she wouldn’t see him, but she was here for the whole cursed Season. She couldn’t hide in her room and send Evie to the parties and balls with only odd, elderly Cousin Clorinda as chaperone.

  Perhaps Mr. Parker-Roth would leave London tomorrow to hunt for greenery in some exotic—and very distant—location. She would add that thought to her prayers tonight.

  “Lady Anne,” he said, looking far too serious all of a sudden.

  “Mr. Parker-Roth, I should go. Cousin Clorinda and my sister must be wondering where I am.”

  She glanced up. What if someone looked out a window and saw her conversing with Mr. Parker-Roth? She and he would be quite recognizable—neither was wearing a hat. Their faces were evident for any curious spectator to see.

  Whom was she kidding? It wasn’t only her face she had to hide—her unfortunate hair was a blazing beacon, proclaiming her identity to anyone not color-blind.

  Perhaps no one would look. It was early for most of the ton . . . but Lady Dunlee lived next door and she had a nose for even the faintest whiff of scandal. Cousin Clorinda had warned Anne about the woman the moment Anne had crossed Crane House’s threshold—and Lady Dunlee herself had already stopped Anne to let her know the boys had been teasing her nasty gray cat.

  “But I never properly apologized,” Mr. Parker-Roth said. Harry sat calmly at his feet. Why wouldn’t that dog behave for her?

  “No apology is necessary. Now, please—”

  He touched her lips with his gloveless fingers. She froze.

  Oh.

  His skin was slightly rough—he clearly used his hands for more than raising a quizzing glass or shuffling cards—and warm.

  All of a sudden, she didn’t care about the windows overlooking the square.

  “I don’t want you to think you aren’t beautiful.” His fingers slipped sideways to cradle her jaw; his thumb moved back and forth over her bottom lip. “You are.”

  He was an enchanter, that was it, weaving a spell around her. Faintly, very faintly, she heard the voice of reason warning her about gossip and Lady Dunlee, about boorish and unprincipled villains, about the complete idiocy of believing her fantasies lived in the real world, but for the first time in a decade, she ignored it. Her hands crept up to rest on the King of Hearts’s broad, solid chest.

  In her dreams, he had not only been handsome, he’d been kind and honorable.

  She wanted a taste of what this man could give her. Just this once. Just for academic purposes. To impress upon herself that dreams were not real and men were indeed best avoided.

  She smelled the brandy on his breath again. “You’re drunk.” She spoke to him, but she was reminding herself.

  “Yes.” His words whispered past her cheek. “But I’m not blind.”

  His mouth brushed hers. Her lips tingled, feeling suddenly swollen. This kiss—if you could call it a kiss—was nothing like the hot, wet, slobber y affairs she’d endured from Brentwood. Being kissed by Brentwood had been an attack—this was something else entirely.

  Comfort, not lust. An invitation, not a command.

  Beguiling, seductive, making sin seem like a divine gift . . .

  “Anne.”

  She loved the sound of her name in his voice. A little shiver slithered through her and she sighed, tilting her head more, like a sunflower seeking the sun.

  He made a small, satisfied noise and nibbled on her bottom lip while his free hand, the one not grasping Harry’s leash, slid to the back of her head.

  An odd warmth gathered in her belly. Something hard and frozen began to melt. She leaned into Mr. Parker-Roth’s strong body, wanting—needing—more of his heat.

  And then she heard the hiss of an angry cat and Harry’s answering bark. Mr. Parker-Roth jerked backward. She felt herself wobble and grabbed his coat.

  “Hold tight,” he muttered. His arm locked around her waist as they lost their battle with gravity and tumbled toward the pavement.

  “Oof!” He flinched as he took the brunt of the impact.

  She was not a feather weight. “Are you all right?”

  “I’ll live.” His voice had an edge of pain.

  “I’m so sorry!” She relaxed against him for a moment. His body was so hard under hers. Pleasantly hard. And something else of his was getting hard as well . . .

  Her face burned. What had she been thinking? Here she was, sprawled across a man in a public square and from the feel of the sun on the back of her legs her skirt was up around her knees. And from the feel of the man below her, he was having the expected reaction. How mortifying. And if anyone saw them . . .

  She started to scramble off him. He held her still.

  “Let me go.” She tried to twist free. “Think of the scandal if we are observed.”

  He flinched again and tightened his hold on her back . . . well, a bit lower than her back.

  “Mind your knee, love.”

  “Oh.” Her leg was now between his. Her knee was indeed very close to—“I’m so sorry.”

  “That’s all right. No permanent harm done.” He smiled a little tightly. “I hope. Now, we’ll just have—”

  That’s when she heard the sharp intake of breath.

  “Trouble,” Mr. Parker-Roth muttered.

  Anne looked up. Lady Dunlee stood not ten feet from them, a look of delighted horror on her face.

  “Lady Anne—and Mr. Parker-Roth! What in the world are you doing?”

  Chapter 2

  Stephen rubbed his temples and tried surreptitiously to lean against a sturdy wingback chair in Lord Crane’s bookroom. Tiny devils with sledgehammers were banging away on the inside of his forehead and the high-pitched yammering around him only added to his misery. He’d give his damn fortune to be back in his bedchamber, curtains drawn, icepack on his head. But he was, for all his faults, a gentleman. He couldn’t leave Lady Anne to face the music—or screeching—alone.

  He glanced over at her. She looked more than capable of defending herself. At the moment she was glaring at her elderly cousin Miss Clorinda Strange and Lady Dunlee, her mouth set in a tight line, her brows almost meeting over her nose. He’d swear her nostrils flared. If he were closer to her, he’d probably see green sparks shooting from her eyes.

  “Cousin Clorinda, Lady Dunlee, you are making far too much of this incident.”

  “Far too much?” Lady Dunlee sniffed and raised her eyebrows. “I don’t see how one can make ‘far too much’ of a lady disporting herself with abandon in a public square—and with the King of Hearts, no less.” She shot him a point
ed look. He smiled back as blandly as possible.

  “Anne.” Miss Strange was scowling. She’d not looked pleased when they’d interrupted her—she’d been perusing some large, musty tome when Lady Dunlee had burst in, dragging them along in her wake. “Is this true?”

  Lady Anne turned a lovely shade of red. “Of course not. I was not disporting myself with”—Zeus, she turned even redder—“I wasn’t disporting myself at all.”

  Damn, he’d like to disport himself with the lady in a private room, on a large, soft bed. Odd. He’d never been drawn to bespectacled spinsters dressed in sacks before, but there was something about this spinster . . . She’d been delightful in the square. Shy, hesitant, yet curious, too—quite the contrast from her prickly behavior up to that point.

  “Oh, no?” Lady Dunlee said. “I saw you in Mr. Parker-Roth’s arms. You were running your hands over his chest before you kissed him and threw him down on the ground to have your wicked way with him.”

  Lust shot directly to his, er, brain, so he momentarily lost track of the conversation. Fortunately instinct prompted him to step quickly behind a chair, shielding his telltale bit from Lady Dunlee’s sharp eyes.

  Lady Dunlee had misconstrued the scene, of course, but he wished she’d had the right of it. He was more than willing to let Lady Anne have her wicked way with his poor self.

  How wicked would her way be? Mmm, that was an interesting question to contemplate. If her imagination faltered, his was more than adequate for the task. Much more. It was currently producing a number of delicious images, completely inappropriate for his present location. But if he and Anne were in his bedchamber—

  “Mr. Parker-Roth, did I just hear you groan?” Damned if Lady Dunlee’s eyes didn’t drop to his nether regions, still well hidden behind the wing chair.

  “I don’t believe so, madam, but I do have a touch of the headache.”

  The blasted woman kept her eyes focused on where his unruly cock was misbehaving and arched a brow. “I bet you do.”

  She couldn’t see through the chair, could she? He felt a hot flush sweep up his neck, but he did his best to ignore it. At least this corner of the room was too shadowy for his heightened color to be easily discerned . . . he hoped. He glanced at Anne.