The Naked King

by Sally MacKenzie

  His blue eyes had turned gray with concern, but he didn’t press her further. “I think the best place might be your room.”

  “My bedroom?” Her voice squeaked, her heart suddenly beating a wild tattoo in her chest. To have Stephen in her bedroom . . . the notion was beyond shocking. What if they were discovered?

  She took a deep breath to calm her nerves. They would not be discovered—she would be sure to lock the door. And they would be very much alone. No one would disturb them. They would have all the time they needed to discuss their situation.

  And there was a bed . . .

  She shook her head. Whom was she fooling? Once Stephen heard she was no longer a virgin, he would leave in disgust.

  But if he didn’t leave . . . Perhaps he would be willing—since he’d then know he couldn’t take her virtue as she had none—to finish what he’d started in the green sitting room and again in his carriage.

  She would ask him to do it. Once she’d managed to tell him her secret, she’d have nothing to lose. She wanted to know what the act was like in a bed with a kind gentleman. And this time she would be able to give him some relief for his painful stiffness.

  “Unless you object, of course.” He was watching her carefully. “I couldn’t think of a better place that met your requirements for privacy.”

  “N-no, I don’t ob-object.” She took another deep breath. “But how is it to be accomplished without anyone knowing?”

  “You are promised to the Palmerson ball this evening, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” A hideous thought struck her. “Will your parents be there?”

  “Possibly.” Stephen smiled. “But you will not.”

  “I won’t?”

  “No, you’ll be sick. Pick any illness you care to, as long as it’s not dire. Tell your cousin and Evie you have the headache or an unsettled stomach or are merely out of curl. Just make it something you can recover from by morning.”

  More lies—though this wouldn’t truly be a lie. Her stomach was definitely unsettled and her head was pounding. “And what if they decide to stay home to keep me company?”

  “Assure them you will do much better alone as all you need is a bit of quiet and a chance to rest or maybe even sleep. Tell them you intend to go directly to bed as soon as they leave.”

  Go to bed . . . her stomach shivered. “All right.”

  “Good. Now where is your room?”

  “On the north back corner. I’ll be sure the curtains are open so you can see the light.”

  “Splendid. And is there a tree or a sturdy vine nearby?”

  “What?” Stephen wasn’t intending to pursue his botanical interests now, was he?

  He looked slightly exasperated. “So I have something to climb to reach you. I could come up the servants’ stairs, but that is more risky. You’d have to make certain the servants’ door was unlocked, and I might run into a maid or footman.”

  “Oh. Yes, there’s a tree, and it’s in serious need of pruning.”

  “Good.” He frowned. “The boys will be asleep by, say, nine o’clock, won’t they?”

  She nodded. “They are in the old nursery area on the floor above the rest of us, and they are very sound sleepers.”

  “Excellent. I will drag Nick along with me when I come to escort your sister and cousin to the ball. Then I’ll make some excuse at the appropriate time and leave, delegating the duty of bringing them safely home to Nick.” He paused as if waiting for her concurrence.

  She nodded again; what else could she do?

  “I’m not certain when I’ll be able to get away from the ball. I hope it will be no later than ten o’clock, but too much depends on circumstance. I don’t want to raise anyone’s suspicions.”

  Good God, if people suspected he was visiting her bedroom—“No, you don’t want to cause any more gossip.”

  “So listen for me. I will throw some pebbles against your window.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course.” She hoped she could hear anything over her thundering heart.

  “Splendid.” Stephen rose and offered her his hand. She took it; his grip was so strong and confident. He looked completely at ease as he walked her back to Crane House.

  “You might wish to begin to act sick now,” he said when they approached the front door.

  She nodded. That would not be a problem. With the combination of dread and anticipation churning in her stomach, she felt quite, quite ill.

  Chapter 17

  “Here without your betrothed, Stephen?”

  Stephen turned to consider Maria. She’d obviously sought him out—he was standing in a remote section of Palmerson’s ballroom, half obscured by potted palms. Everyone else had realized he did not wish to converse this evening and had left him alone. Why did Maria need to see him?

  He could think of no pleasant reason.

  “Unfortunately, yes. Lady Anne is not feeling quite the thing tonight.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Her expression and tone belied her words.

  He frowned. How had it taken him so long to see the pettiness beneath her beauty? He’d always thought himself most astute.

  Apparently not when he was letting his cock do his thinking.

  “Don’t frown.” She looked at him from under her lashes. “Come dance with me”—she dropped her voice suggestively—“or walk with me in the garden. I’m sure I can raise your”—she lowered her gaze to his breeches—“spirits.”

  He wanted to cover his privates like a bashful maiden—or perhaps he only wished to protect himself from attack. “No, thank you. I’m quite content where I am.”

  Maria tittered. “Oh, you don’t have to pretend with me, Stephen.”

  “Pretend?” What the hell did the woman mean?

  She snorted. “That you wish to marry this girl, of course. I know you only proposed because of the scandal.” She sighed and shook her head. “You have such a misplaced sense of chivalry.”

  Anger curled through his gut. “You are mistaken. I am quite eager to wed Lady Anne.”

  She laughed unpleasantly. “If you think your little red-headed whore will warm your bed, you are far from the mark. Brentwood says she’s as cold as ice.” She curled her lips into a sneer. “He says having her is like swiving a bloody statue.”

  He’d thought he was angry before, but he’d been mistaken. The rage now burning through his veins might well cause the nearby palms to combust. He clenched his hands to keep from strangling Maria. “You will not repeat such lies.”

  “They aren’t lies.” She raised her eyebrows. “What, did you think your betrothed was a virgin? You poor deluded man—she must be a better actress than I gave her credit for.”

  Damn it all to hell, Maria wasn’t lying. Detecting deception was a crucial skill to have when hunting plants; far too many people were eager to take advantage of foreigners. He’d honed his sensitivity to falsehood to a sharp edge over the years.

  Anne was waiting to tell him a secret. Was this it?

  Maria shrugged. “I suppose you can hope she’s got better at bed games through practice. Brentwood had her years ago. Who knows how many men have slid between her thighs since?”

  He hadn’t thought to tell Nick he was unwell when he left early, but now it was the perfect excuse, no matter if society might wonder at Anne and him both taking sick. And he didn’t need to worry whether his brother was as good at spotting falsehoods as he was. He could not remember ever feeling so nauseous.

  Maria leaned closer. “And don’t think you can come crawling back to my bed. My offer tonight was given only out of pity. By the time you realize your mistake, I’ll be the next Marchioness of Brentwood.”

  It wasn’t well done of him, but he couldn’t stop himself. He’d trade unpleasant truth for unpleasant truth.

  “Oh? You love the man so much you’ll follow him into poverty?”

  “What?” Maria didn’t mask her alarm fast enough; he heard it in her voice, saw it in her eyes. She forced a laugh. “Oh, I see. You ar
e lying to pay me back for telling you the truth.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “You are.” She smiled, though the expression didn’t reach her eyes. “Brentwood is a marquis.”

  “Maria. How long have you been in society? You know a title is not a guarantee of funds—more than one marquis has found himself at point nonplus.”

  A tiny frown marred the perfection of her brow. “You must be lying. If Brentwood was in dun territory, I would have heard it. There’s not been the slightest rumor.”

  “Yet.” He shrugged. “That will change.”

  Her frown turned to a glare. “Why?”

  “Because I now hold all his debts.” He smiled rather grimly. “I don’t know how he’s managed to stave off the cent-per-centers so far, but whatever his ploy, it won’t work with me.” He narrowed his eyes and felt his lips pull into something certain to resemble a snarl. “I’m not feeling especially generous where Brentwood’s concerned. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve discovered this gathering is a dead bore.”

  He didn’t have to push his way past Maria—he must have looked intimidating enough that she stepped aside of her own accord. Somehow he located Nick, told him he wasn’t in plump currant, and left the ballroom. He hoped he didn’t raise too much speculation, but he found he didn’t much care if he did.

  Could Anne have done what Maria suggested? She’d said she had a secret to tell him, something that would keep her from marrying him.

  Bloody hell! He wanted to hit something.

  The footman at Palmerson’s front door must have thought he was a possible target. He handed Stephen his hat exceedingly promptly and took a step back the moment the exchange had been made. Damn. He slipped the man a larger vail than normal before he ventured into the darkness. He would walk. It wasn’t far to Crane House.

  “Sir!” Blast. His coachman had seen him. “Are you leaving early? Shall I bring up the carriage?”

  “No, Albert. Everyone else is staying. Nick will tell you when he needs you.”

  “But, sir—”

  “I prefer to walk.”

  Albert looked doubtful.

  “I wish to clear my head,” he added. And calm my spleen.

  “But the streets aren’t safe, sir. Please let me take you home. I’ll be back in plenty of time for the others.”

  “No, thank you. I am not concerned. I’ve been in far more dangerous places than London, you know.” If only some misguided miscreant would accost him. He’d enjoy a good fight right now. “Oh, and I don’t know when I’ll be home—tell Nick not to worry.”

  “But—” Albert clearly struggled with his misgivings and then forcibly swallowed them. He tipped his hat. “Very well, sir.”

  Stephen nodded and set off down the walk. The last thing he wanted was to be cooped up in his coach—or to have Albert know he wasn’t going home but to Crane House. Albert was discreet, but not that discreet.

  He waited for a carriage to pass before he crossed the street.

  Anne and Brentwood. Damn. The thought made his stomach turn.

  He sidestepped a pair of drunken dandies who were singing some bawdy song—which song it was impossible to tell as they couldn’t carry a tune or remember the lyrics between them.

  Had Anne been playing him for a fool all this time, laughing behind his back?

  He turned a corner and crossed another street.

  Of course not. He was letting his imagination run away with him. Yes, there was a kernel of truth in what Maria had said, but only a kernel. He was as good at judging character as he was at recognizing lies.

  Anne was no light skirt. She obviously had some history with Brentwood—unpleasant history judging from her reaction to him in Hyde Park, at Damian’s ball, and at the menagerie. He’d even suspected Brentwood had raped her. But he would make no assumptions. He must remember who had told him the tittle-tattle. Maria could be as venomous as an adder.

  He would wait. Anne would tell him tonight; he just needed to be patient and let her do so. Accusations and harsh words never encouraged confidences.

  He saw Crane House up ahead. It had been a good choice to walk. He still wasn’t completely calm, but at least he wasn’t as angry as he’d been when he’d left Palmerson’s ball.

  Damn it all, he had to admit he was almost happy. Just the thought of seeing Anne made his heart—and another organ—lift.

  He glanced around. Fortunately, the square was deserted. He’d seen Lady Dunlee at the ball, so he needn’t worry she’d spy him skulking about. He scooped up a few pebbles and hefted them as he slipped through the shadows to Anne’s window.

  Anne paced back and forth in front of the fire. She was far too nervous to read or even sit still. She checked her clock—it was only five minutes later than the last time she’d looked.

  Clorinda and Evie had believed her without question when she’d said she was ill—not surprising as she must have looked like death. The more she’d thought of encountering Stephen’s parents or Brentwood at the Palmerson ball, the more her stomach had twisted. Add to that the knowledge she must tell Stephen the truth tonight, and she was amazed she hadn’t embarrassed herself by bringing up the little she had in her stomach right there in the blue parlor.

  Evie had immediately offered to stay home with her, of course, but Anne had managed to persuade her she neither wanted nor needed company. She smiled. The fact that Mr. Nicholas Parker-Roth would be coming with Stephen to escort them might also have been a factor in Evie’s decision to attend the ball.

  Before Evie and Clorinda left, however, they’d insisted on seeing Anne dressed in her nightclothes and tucked into bed. Anne pushed her loose hair back off her face. It was beyond scandalous to receive Stephen this way, but then conversing with him in her bedroom would put her beyond the pale anyway.

  She snorted. Why was she worrying? She was already hopelessly ruined; that horse had bolted years ago.

  She looked at her clock again. It was almost eleven. Stephen must not be coming. She should try to get some sleep.

  She pulled back the covers, climbed into bed, and closed her eyes. Brentwood’s ugly face appeared like a nightmare.

  Her eyes popped open and she scowled up at the bed canopy. Blast it, Stephen had to come tonight. She wouldn’t be able to sleep until she told him her damn secret. Brentwood had almost spilled the soup at the menagerie today; he might not control himself the next time he was provoked. If Stephen found out from someone besides herself . . .

  Her stomach knotted. She was going to be sick. She’d better get the chamber pot out from under the—

  Ping !

  She froze. Dear God! Was that . . . ?

  Ping! Ping!

  It was. Pebbles, bouncing off her window. Stephen must be out there.

  She was tempted for just a moment to pretend she didn’t hear him, but then she thought of Lady Dunlee and shot out of bed.

  She jerked the window open—and dodged as a pebble flew past her.

  “Sorry,” Stephen called.

  “Shh!” She leaned out and peered between the tree branches. He was standing in a pool of moonlight. “Come up before someone sees you.”

  “Don’t worry, Lady Dunlee’s at the Palmerson ball.”

  That was a relief, but still, Lady Dunlee was not the only person in London with sharp eyes and a ready tongue. And it was quite possible one of the Crane House servants might see Stephen and, thinking him a thief, attack him. There was more to worry about than mere gossip.

  “Just hurry and come up.”

  He grinned. “Eager to see me, are you?”

  Did the man have no sense? “Stop talking and start climbing.”

  He bowed. “Your wish is my command.” He slipped out of his coat, waistcoat, and shoes and then jumped to catch the lowest tree branch. He pulled himself up and reached for the next, moving quickly and confidently.

  She leaned farther out to see if anyone was watching. No, thank God, but the ground was a long way down. What if Steph
en fell?

  She had a sudden vision of him lying broken and bleeding on the grass. “Be careful.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve climbed many trees in my life.” He wasn’t even breathless.

  “When you were a child.” He was obviously in splendid condition, but he was thirty.

  “No, recently as well.”

  “In London?” What kind of a fool did he take her for?

  Well, he was the King of Hearts . . . perhaps he had visited other bedrooms this way.

  “Of course not in London.” He was finally level with the window. “I sometimes take to the trees when I’m hunting plants.” He grinned again. The man was amazingly lighthearted. “When I’m pursued by wild animals, angry natives, or competing plant hunters.”

  She gaped at him. “I had no idea plant hunting could be so dangerous.”

  He shrugged. “It can be.” He grabbed the branch above his head and lifted a brow. “Now did you want me to come in, or were you intending to keep me hanging out here all night?”

  What was the matter with him? “Come in, of course. I cannot imagine why you haven’t done so already.”

  “Because you are standing in the window, and I don’t want to knock you over. If you’ll step aside?”

  She jumped back as he swung himself over the windowsill. Then he turned to slide the window shut and draw the curtains. His shirt pulled tight across his shoulders.

  Mmm. He had a lovely back. It tapered down to his narrow waist and hips. And his arse—what would it look like naked?

  His chest and arms had been wonderful to see—and touch—when he’d taken off his shirt before. What if he shed every stitch of clothing and stood here completely as God made him? She moistened her lips. She was feeling quite . . . hot. She—

  She jerked her wayward thoughts back to the subject at hand, which was not Mr. Parker-Roth’s attractive arse.

  She had to tell him her secret. Once she did so, he’d fling open that window and scramble back down the tree as quickly as he could manage.