The Naked King

by Sally MacKenzie

  “Indeed they are, sir,” Lady Dunlee said, scowling at him, “but I hope manners are not so relaxed as to approve the behavior I just witnessed in the square. You know, if Lady Anne does not, that London society will not tolerate such conduct.”

  “I—”

  Mr. Parker-Roth didn’t let Anne squeeze a word in. “I beg your pardon for my lack of decorum, Lady Dunlee. I can only plead temporary insanity. I’d not seen Anne in far too long.” Mr. Parker-Roth managed to look suitably contrite—he’d probably perfected that charmingly apologetic expression as a boy.

  Good Lord, Lady Dunlee dimpled up at him. “Of course you have my pardon, sir, as long as I have your vow to control your emotions in the future. I quite understand the fervor of young love.”

  Anne had to choke back a laugh, turning it into a cough. Lady Dunlee had at least forty, if not fifty, years in her dish. Young love must be a very faint memory.

  “But I would be terribly remiss,” Lady Dunlee continued, “if I didn’t point out many people will wonder at this sudden betrothal. You can’t wish to make things more difficult for Lady Anne and her family.”

  “Of course I don’t.”

  Anne barely heard Mr. Parker-Roth’s words. Many people would wonder? What a horrifying thought.

  She must have made a sound, because Lady Dunlee raised her brows, giving her an alarmingly arch look. “You are very lucky, Lady Anne. Countless society maidens will take to their beds in a fit of the dismals when they hear Mr. Stephen Parker-Roth is no longer available.”

  Her stomach sank to the bottom of her slippers. This must be a nightmare. She would wake up in a moment safely tucked into her bed at Crane House.

  “Oh, yes, society will be abuzz with the news of your betrothal.” Lady Dunlee gave what looked suspiciously like a skip as she cleared the threshold.

  “But you promised not to say a word,” Anne called after her.

  The woman just smiled over her shoulder and waved her hand. Instead of turning to mount the stairs to her house, she headed off across the square. A large, gray cat darted out from under a bush to rub itself against her ankles.

  “At least Miss Whiskers is safe,” Mr. Parker-Roth said, closing the door.

  Anne glared at him. “I don’t care about that stupid cat—where is Lady Dunlee going?”

  “To Melinda Fallwell’s. She lives at number forty-nine.”

  “Who’s Melinda Fallwell?” Anne pointed to the door. “And aren’t you leaving, too?”

  Mr. Parker-Roth took her arm. “Melinda Fallwell is London’s second greatest gossip—second to Lady Dunlee, of course—and, no, I am not leaving. We need to discuss our betrothal. Where can we be private?” He started back down the corridor, opening doors and peering in. “Ah, this will do nicely.”

  He pulled her into what Hobbes had called “the, ahem, Oriental room” when he’d given Anne a quick tour of the house the day before. She called it the harem room. It was furnished with low couches and oversized pillows. Gauzy striped curtains festooned the ceiling and hung down the walls giving one the feeling of being inside a large tent.

  Mr. Parker-Roth picked a brass statue off the mantel. His eyes widened and he chuckled. “Interesting decorations you have, Lady Anne.”

  She had a bad feeling about this. “Everything was here when we arrived.” She snatched the statue out of his hands and looked at it. There was a man and three women and they were—

  “Dear God!” She stuffed it behind one of the couches. As soon as she got rid of Mr. Parker-Roth, she would examine all the knickknacks and pack away the inappropriate ones before the twins found them. This looked like just the sort of room ten-year-old boys would love. “Apparently collecting erotic—I mean exotic—items runs in my father’s family.”

  “Apparently.” The annoying man had found another inappropriate sculpture on the mantel.

  “Will you put that down?”

  “I don’t know. It’s rather . . . stimulating, don’t you think?” Mr. Parker-Roth sent her a heated look. His thumb was rubbing slowly over the brass woman’s extremely prominent breasts.

  “No, of course not.” If he wanted prominent breasts, he would have to look elsewhere.

  And why was she thinking of breasts at all? How shocking.

  Her body wasn’t shocked. Her little breasts felt oddly sensitive, almost achy, as if they’d like Mr. Parker-Roth to touch them as he was touching the statue. “Didn’t you drag me in here to discuss our b-betrothal?”

  He put the statue back on the mantel and smiled. “Yes, I did.” His voice sounded like sin as he came toward her. He looked like sin.

  He’s the King of Hearts, you ninnyhammer. Seduction is his middle name.

  She looked for a sturdy settee to dodge behind, but the damn room had nothing so conventional. She grabbed a fat pillow instead and held it in front of her like a shield.

  He stopped a good two feet from her and frowned. “You aren’t afraid of me, are you, Anne?”

  “Of course not.” God help her! His look of concern made him even more alluring.

  She wasn’t afraid of him; she was afraid of herself.

  What was the matter with her? Had she forgotten the last time she’d let her body rule her head? Ten years ago, she’d gone with Lord Brentwood into Baron Gedding’s garden and come back without her virginity. She would not be so stupid as to make that mistake again.

  Well, she couldn’t, could she? Virginity once lost was gone forever.

  “I won’t hurt you.” Mr. Parker-Roth actually looked worried. “I thought you knew that.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  He shook his head and winced. “Not any longer—or at least not enough to mask my other aches and pains.” He looked at her intently. “But even drunk I’d never force myself on a woman.”

  He wouldn’t have to. Women would force themselves on him.

  She dropped the pillow back on the couch, feeling a little ridiculous. “About this sham betrothal?”

  He studied her for another minute and then shrugged, running his hand through his hair. “I do think it’s the only way to save your reputation and salvage your sister’s Season.”

  She had a very uncomfortable feeling he might be correct. She didn’t care about her reputation—she didn’t have one to salvage—but she’d fight tooth and nail to protect Evie’s chance to enjoy a London Season and perhaps find a suitable husband. “If Lady Dunlee would keep the story to herself, we might be able to get by.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yes, and if I had wings, I might be able to fly across the Thames.”

  “But—”

  “But I am sure Lady Dunlee and Melinda Fallwell are setting out this very moment to share the tale—in strictest confidence of course—with ten or twenty of their closest friends. It will be all over London by nightfall.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. You don’t have to be familiar with London to know how gossips operate. There are plenty of those in the country.”

  “Oh, yes, I know.” Though somehow the story of her downfall had never spread, probably because only she and Brentwood knew about it. She was not about to say anything, and Brentwood likely had forgotten it the moment he’d pulled her dress back down. From what she’d heard later, she was only one of his many conquests.

  Damn. They had only arrived in London yesterday. How could she have made micefeet of everything so quickly?

  “Hey.” He touched her shoulder. “Don’t look so glum. We’ll muddle through.”

  She tried to smile.

  He cupped her cheek. “It would be easier to pass the story off if we seem to like each other, you know. Given the rather passionate display Lady Dunlee witnessed, we might even wish to appear somewhat ardent. Restrained, of course, but just barely—giving the impression that the moment society looks the other way, we’ll be in each other’s arms.”

  “How are we to do that?”

  He grinned. “Well, to begin with, I don’t think you should glare at me all the
time. Do you suppose you might be able to manage that?”

  “I might.” Her eyes focused on his lips. Her brain told her that was a stupid thing to do, but her eyes refused to listen.

  His lips had felt so good.

  “That’s it. You are doing an excellent job of not glaring at me now.” His voice had dropped. His arms came around her. They felt good, too.

  “Hmm.” His lips were now so close and coming closer. He brushed them over her mouth, but it was not enough. She must have whimpered slightly, because he came back.

  He didn’t mash her lips against her teeth. He didn’t try to force his tongue down her throat. He didn’t haul her body up against his so tightly she couldn’t breathe. He didn’t do any of the things Brentwood had done.

  He held her firmly, yet gently, and slowly, leisurely, explored her mouth, filling her with a dark, liquid heat that pooled between her legs.

  She knew what happened between a man and a woman. It was embarrassing and painful . . . but that was not what many of the married women said. No, they smiled and giggled and blushed when they talked about their marital duties.

  Perhaps the act was different with different men like kissing appeared to be.

  Her body insisted everything would be different, better, with Mr. Parker-Roth.

  “Anne,” he said, his voice slightly breathless, “there’s no one here to fool. You’re supposed to be pushing me away and giving me that evil look of yours.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “You’re supposed to be lashing at me with your sharp tongue, telling me to stop.”

  He kissed her again, his hands bringing her closer, up against the hard ridge of his erection.

  Nerves fluttered through her. Brentwood had done a similar thing . . .

  But his hands had been rough. She’d felt trapped.

  She didn’t feel trapped now. She felt welcomed.

  The King of Hearts had earned his title; there was no question about that.

  He urged her toward one of the couches, but it was too low. She lost her balance and tumbled against him, ending in a tangle of skirts and legs as the carefully closed, but unfortunately unlocked, door flew open and Harry bounded in.

  Chapter 3

  Of course the dog hadn’t opened the door himself. Stephen looked over to see who else was in the room. A boy about ten years old stood in the doorway frowning at them.

  “Anne, what are you doing with that gentleman?” he asked.

  Anne was making embarrassed panicky noises, struggling to right herself with Harry’s dubious help. Her knee was again in danger of putting paid to any hope Stephen might harbor of fathering children. He grasped her elbows and lifted her off him, then stood and helped her up.

  “Philip,” she said sharply, straightening her spectacles. Her hair was dangling down her back and her bodice was in some disarray. “You should knock before you enter a room with a closed door.” She frowned at Harry who was still barking. “Oh, hush, you silly dog. I can’t hear myself think.” She tugged at her bodice and looked waspishly at Stephen. “Do you see any of my hairpins?”

  Philip was apparently far too polite to point out Anne was not currently in the best position to lecture him on proper behavior, but he wasn’t too polite to make a simple observation. “I don’t believe Papa would approve, Anne.”

  Anne turned a darker shade of red. “Uh, that is . . . well . . .” She cleared her throat. “You aren’t old enough to understand, Philip,” she said in what sounded like her best older sister voice.

  Stephen smiled as he looked for hairpins on the couch. He’d heard his sister Jane try that tone with Nick, but since there was only four years between them, it hadn’t been very effective.

  Ah! He dug his fingers between the cushions and found two hairpins. How had they got down there? No matter. They should do. He wasn’t an expert in women’s coiffures, but he had helped his sisters—not Jane so much, but the younger two—with their hair often enough he could make Anne somewhat more presentable.

  He straightened. Philip was watching him, a very serious expression on his face. Good. The lad should keep an eye on any man paying his sister attention.

  “Here, let me—Hey, sir!” He frowned down at Harry who, in his enthusiasm, had so far forgotten himself as to jump up and put his paws on Stephen’s breeches. “I do not care to be mauled by you. Sit.” Harry complied, his tongue hanging out, his tail beating a tattoo on the floor. He stared up at Stephen with clear canine devotion.

  Anne’s brother relaxed, obviously feeling his dog was a good judge of character.

  Anne reached for her hairpins. “Thank you. I’ll take those.”

  “Oh, no, you won’t,” Stephen said, holding them away from her. “I’ll attend to your hair.”

  She scowled at him. “You will not.”

  “You won’t be able to manage without a maid and a mirror, I imagine.”

  She sniffed and looked down her nose at him. “You are mistaken. I’m not one of your London ladies who need such help.”

  He laughed. “Stop fussing. I won’t stab you with the pins, if that’s your worry.” He gathered a handful of hair. Mmm. The silky curls wrapped around his fingers like soft vines.

  Anne huffed. “Are you going to pin the hair up or hold it all day?”

  He grinned. “Well . . .”

  “Anne!” Two more people burst into the room—a young woman and a boy identical to Philip except for the sticking plaster on his forehead. Harry leapt up, barking enthusiastically.

  The woman, a petite vision with golden curls and flashing blue eyes, screamed. “What are you doing to my sister, sirrah? Unhand her at once!” She lunged for the brass statue standing on the table just inside the door. “George, get Hobbes. Philip, help me.” She wrestled with the sculpture.

  “Evie,” Anne began, but no one paid her any attention.

  Philip frowned. “What are you going to do with that, Evie?”

  “Knock the villain’s brains out, of course.” She grunted. “Will you help me? It’s heavy.”

  Meanwhile George, ignoring his instructions, advanced on Stephen with clenched fists. “Move away from Anne, sir, or you will be very sorry.”

  “Take a damper, bantling.” Stephen tried hard not to laugh as he quickly finished pinning Anne’s hair back into some semblance of order. Anne was apparently too embarrassed to speak at the moment, and Evie was still jerking on the statue without budging it an inch.

  “I don’t see why we should brain a guest,” Philip said. He stooped to scratch Harry’s ears.

  “Oh, for goodness sake”—Anne had finally found her voice. She sounded completely exasperated—“will you show some sense, Evie?”

  George chose that moment to attack, but Stephen, being the second oldest of six children, caught the boy easily and held him firmly, but gently, as he kicked and squirmed.

  “George! Where are your manners?”

  “I won’t let him hurt you, Anne.”

  “Does it look like he’s hurting me?”

  George stopped struggling to peer at Anne. “No.”

  “Of course I’m not hurting your sister,” Stephen said, cautiously letting George go. “That would be a daft thing to do to my betrothed.”

  Stunned silence greeted this announcement, and then, just as in the study earlier, three shocked voices spoke at the exact same time. “Betrothed?”

  Anne made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a moan and dropped her head into her hands.

  “You’re going to marry Anne?” George blinked. He flopped down on the couch that Stephen and Anne had so recently vacated. “Don’t you mean Evie? She’s the beautiful one.”

  “Of course he doesn’t mean me, you cabbage head.” Evie had stopped struggling with the statue and now clasped her hands under her bosom. “That’s wonderful, Anne. I’m so happy for you. I’d quite given up hope you’d ever marry.”

  Anne’s head snapped up and she glared at her sister. “I’m not a complete antidote, Evie.”


  Evie shrugged. “Of course not, but you’ve never shown the slightest interest in any man.” She flushed. “Mama thought you might be . . . different.”

  “What do you mean, ‘different’?” Philip asked. He and Harry had gone over to join George.

  “Nothing. She means nothing,” Anne said. She was going to die of mortification. What must Mr. Parker-Roth think? She couldn’t bear to look at him.

  George rolled his eyes. “Oh, yes, she does mean something otherwise she wouldn’t have said ‘different’ in just that way.”

  “It’s something Papa will explain when you are older,” Evie said, her cheeks rather pink.

  At least Evie’s brain had finally caught up with her mouth. Anne would have to have a word with her about that. They weren’t in the country any longer. Letting one’s tongue run on unchecked could be disastrous in London. The gossips—

  Oh, why did she even worry about Evie saying the wrong thing? Anne had already done the wrong thing in a spectacular manner. To be discovered embracing—rather more than embracing really—the King of Hearts by the Queen of Gossip . . . Anything Evie did could only pale in comparison.

  And then if her scandalous mistake with Lord Brentwood should come to light . . .

  Anne rubbed the space over her nose, right between her eyebrows. Her head was beginning to throb.

  “Does Papa know Anne’s betrothed?” Philip asked. “He didn’t say anything before he left.”

  “He must know, Philip,” Evie said. “There are settlements and other things of a legal nature to be arranged. Depend upon it, he just forgot to tell us.”

  Philip nodded. “Like the time he bought all Baron Redlawn’s library. We were so surprised when the first cartload pulled up at the house.”

  “And of course Papa and Mama were away,” Evie said. “You had to sort it all out, remember, Anne?”

  “Botheration!” George said. “You aren’t going to go on and on about those dratted books again, are you?” He looked up at Stephen. “Are you infernally bookish as well?”

  Stephen smiled somewhat cautiously. “No, not infernally.”

  “George, what a question to ask Mr. . . .” Evie’s mouth hung open a moment, a startled, blank expression decorating her beautiful features. She turned to Anne. “Did you tell us your betrothed’s name?”