The Naked Baron

by Sally MacKenzie

  Damn it all to hell. He’d left, not really believing Standen. He’d entertained all manner of crazy thoughts on the way home—and then he’d seen the announcement in the Post.

  He’d been numb at first; once he’d been able to feel again, he’d been overwhelmed by an almost physical pain, as if he’d had an arm or a leg cut off. And in the back of his mind was always the nagging question—if he’d been more decisive, if he’d pressed Kate that night in Alvord’s garden to fly with him to Gretna, would she have given up Oxbury and gone?

  The man had been thirty years her senior—but he’d also been an earl.

  He blew out a long breath. So he was in London again, and outside Oxbury House. Kate was inside waiting for him.

  Perhaps tonight he would finally find some peace. That was why he was going to visit Kate. To finish what had not been finished before. To see if he could finally heal this damn wound.

  He slipped around the side of the house to the servants’ entrance, grabbed the door handle, turned it—

  It didn’t move.

  He frowned and tried again. The knob didn’t budge. He took off his gloves and put both hands to the task. Nothing.

  The bloody door was locked.

  David stretched his long legs toward the fire and wiggled his stocking-clad toes. Mmm. The heat felt good. He took a sip of brandy and savored the liquid’s slow slide over his tongue and down his throat. That heat felt good, too. And the heat that would feel the best…

  He rested his head against the back of his chair, closed his eyes, and finally let his mind go where it wanted. Like a hunting dog slipped from its leash, it flew straight to its quarry.

  Lady Grace Belmont.

  She was perfect. He would never have guessed he was enamored of red hair—he’d always thought he preferred his women blonde. But he’d never seen hair like Grace’s. It wasn’t red; it was copper and gold, fire and light. He wanted to bury his fingers in it, let it slide like silk over his palms. Over his chest. Over…

  He slid lower in his chair, spreading his legs wide so an important part of him could swell with admiration. That part was generating a bit too much heat—his breeches were in danger of spontaneously combusting.

  If only Lady Grace Belmont were here.

  If Grace were here…He took another sip of brandy, rolling it on his tongue. If Lady Grace were here…

  What would he do if Grace were in this room right now?

  What wouldn’t he do?

  He’d start with her hairpins. Yes. Slowly, one by one, he’d pull each pin out, watching Grace’s glorious hair slowly tumble down over her shoulders. Copper over cream—beautiful. Then he’d comb his fingers through it, bury his face in it, inhale its sweet, clean scent. He’d lift a silky handful off her neck, brushing it back so he could kiss the sensitive spot by her ear.

  And then? Then he’d explore her face. He’d kiss her jaw, her cheekbones, her eyelids; he’d brush over her lips—he’d not want to get waylaid there so soon—and move down kiss by nip by lick to the pulse at the base of her throat and to her shoulder…and then he would loosen her gown.

  He shifted in his chair. Could his breeches get any tighter? Doubtful.

  Where was he? Ah, yes. Grace’s gown. He’d slip it off her shoulders slowly, savoring each inch of perfect skin revealed. Off her shoulders, over her breasts to her waist, her hips, pushing the cloth down to pool at her feet, leaving her in only her stays and shift.

  And then he would turn her, push her hair forward so he could kiss the back of her neck, the top of her spine…

  Would he have the patience to untie her laces?

  He snorted. He’d not advise anyone to wager on it. His fingers felt as thick as the organ begging to be released from his breeches. Heh. No, not that thick, but still he was certain he would not be able to battle small, knotted laces. He would have to use his knife. Surely Grace wouldn’t mind? If he were doing his job correctly, she would be as desperate to be free of her clothing as he was to free her.

  He grinned at the fire. Ah, yes, free her—and her lovely, lovely breasts. He would reach around, pull her body against his, and cradle her heavy, round breasts in his hands.

  And then he would turn her to face him again. He would trace the delicate curve of her ribcage, of her waist, the generous flare of her hips, her long, long legs down to the hem of her shift. He would kneel so he could better watch his hands move back up, better see them slide up her ankles, her calves, her knees, taking the thin shift with them. He might stop at her thighs, just a little above her knees, to kiss her tender, white skin. Then he would let his lips move upward with his hands, until he cupped her sweet bottom and buried his face in the soft hair at the top of her legs. Would it be red, too?

  God, he was panting. He was going to have to open the fall of his breeches. Hell, he wasn’t going to be able to walk upstairs unless he took steps to relieve his discomfort. He hadn’t had to do that since he was little more than a stripling.

  He needed to think about something other than Grace.

  Alex. He grimaced. Probably a bad choice. Alex was likely in Lady Oxbury’s bedchamber right now, getting to do with his lady everything David had been imagining with Grace. Alex, the cautious, proper Wilton, was participating in what could become a colossal scandal if word of it ever leaked out.

  No one who knew Alex would believe it—he wouldn’t believe it if he hadn’t walked home from Alvord’s ball with the man.

  Or perhaps Alex was just taking an evening stroll through London.

  David got up to pour himself another glass of brandy. If he drank enough, he’d not dream of Grace when he managed to drag himself upstairs and fall into bed. He’d not dream at all.

  He filled his glass and looked around the library. His great grandfather had been the last Wilton to use this room. Grandda had hated London. Luke, his father, had been only twenty when he’d eloped with Lady Harriet. So young.

  Would his parents’ love have lasted if they’d lived?

  The stories Grandmamma had told him when he was little said yes. She’d created a couple whose devotion would have withstood all tests but death. The tales he’d heard from the innkeepers, stable hands, local gentry, and peers who’d known his father, however…well, Grandmamma had always loved fairy tales.

  Luke Wilton had not had a reputation that bespoke steadiness and commitment.

  He ran his hand along the bookcase. Tomes in Greek and Latin, books on agriculture and horticulture—it was clear the volumes had been purchased solely for appearance.

  It had been very easy to make Lord Wordham, his mother’s father, the villain of Grandmamma’s fairy tales. If the man hadn’t tried to force Lady Harriet to marry Standen, his parents wouldn’t have run to Gretna and his father wouldn’t have opened his head on a rock in the stable yard. But now that he thought about it—well, if he were honest, he would not have wanted his daughter, if he had one, to marry someone like his father.

  But not wanting a thatch-gallows for a son-in-law didn’t justify Wordham’s deserting Lady Harriet at the inn nor did it forgive his shunning her deathbed and ignoring her son.

  David took a deep breath and another mouthful of brandy. The spirit’s warmth was steadying.

  Lord Wordham was dead, but Lady Wordham was still alive and in London.

  He snorted. Why even note that fact? The woman had never expressed any interest in him either.

  He turned back to the fire and poked it, sending sparks flying.

  Alex had been just fourteen when Luke died. Had he been a model of propriety even then or had he become one in reaction to his older brother’s blatant impropriety? No matter. Now Alex was finally misbehaving.

  David grinned at the fire. If Alex distracted Lady Oxbury—and she had acted very distracted this evening—that would give David many opportunities to do many lovely, scandalous things with Lady Grace.

  He would steal her away from this clod in the country.

  Just as his father had stolen h
is mother from Standen.

  No. The situations were not similar at all. Luke had been a niffy-naffy fellow, a scoundrel. David was responsible, like Alex.

  Except—also like Alex—perhaps not so responsible in present circumstances.

  Damn it, Grace was meant to be his, not Parker-Roth’s. The man had had years to woo her and had obviously failed miserably.

  David would court her. If he did not win her heart, then he would withdraw and let Parker-Roth have her.

  But he would succeed. He would work very hard to do so—and enjoy every moment of his toil.

  He tossed off the last of his brandy and headed for the stairs and bed.

  Alex stared at the door. He tugged on the handle again. Nothing happened. It was definitely locked.

  Kate had changed her mind.

  Bloody hell! He’d walked all this way, struggled with his conscience, and for what? To find the door locked.

  She’d been teasing him again, just as she had twenty-three years ago. Was she in her bedroom, laughing?

  He wanted to hit something, but he was no longer young and stupid—well, not completely stupid. He certainly wasn’t going to pound his fist on a stone wall or a tree trunk. He’d only hurt his hand and call attention to his presence—

  Tree trunk. Hmm. Should he…?

  No, he should go back to Dawson House. If he were lucky, David could be persuaded he’d merely gone for a long walk. Hell, if he left now and walked briskly, he’d be back in time to join his nephew in the library for a glass of brandy before he headed off to bed.

  He was very tired.

  He was not that tired.

  Kate had seemed so sincere in Alvord’s garden. Yes, his judgment had been colored by lust, but he’d swear it hadn’t been completely obfuscated by his animal instincts.

  Perhaps when she’d got home, she’d simply awoken to the scandal his presence in Oxbury House could provoke were it discovered. She’d lost her courage.

  He should go home.

  He turned and started for the street.

  Or perhaps she’d forgotten about the door. Or the butler had come round later and locked up for the night.

  He stopped. He couldn’t go without knowing.

  He was at the northwest corner. She’d said there was a tree. Yes, there it was—a solid tree with plenty of sturdy branches. Very climbable, even for a man of his advanced years. And there was a light in her room.

  He was tired of dreaming and guessing. He needed to know for certain if he had a future—or even a present—with Kate.

  He picked up a pebble from the garden walkway, hefted it, and took aim at Lady Oxbury’s bedroom window.

  Chapter 7

  Grace cradled her tea cup in her hands and drew in a deep breath. To think she had imbibed so much champagne she’d cast up her accounts! At least Lord Dawson didn’t know that detail, thank goodness, though he must have noted her overindulgence.

  She muffled a moan, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. How could she have been so buffle-headed? The first glass had gone down so quickly—she’d been thirsty from the dance and a little nervous. She was not used to having such a large, handsome gentleman paying her attention—a gentleman who had already announced he wished to marry her. So when he’d offered her a second glass, she’d taken it gratefully.

  And then she’d been so happy seeing Aunt Kate and Mr. Wilton together, she’d had to have a third glass in celebration…or was it a fourth?

  She took a sip of her tea. She would have been fine if it hadn’t been for Baron Dawson. She would have stayed in the ballroom and danced with the men who couldn’t find another partner. She would have endured and even been anxious to go back to Standen and listen to John drone on about his plants.

  She put her tea cup down so abruptly it clinked against the saucer. She had an odd, very empty feeling in her middle.

  Perhaps a biscuit would help. She reached for the plate.

  Hermes’s ears pricked up as Grace’s teeth sank into the crunchy treat. He was at her side before she’d swallowed her first bite.

  “Let me guess—you want a biscuit, too?”

  Hermes barked twice, wagged his tail, and looked beseechingly up at her, appearing pitifully hungry.

  “But you just had some cheese.”

  The little dog put his paws on Grace’s knee and stared intently into her face, his ears drooping. Somehow he managed to convey most eloquently that it had only been a very small bit of cheese, and though he was a small dog, he had the energy and the appetite of a beast twice his size.

  “Hermes!” Kate stepped out of her dressing room wearing a voluminous nightdress. “Leave poor Grace alone.”

  Grace laughed. “But he is so persuasive. Mayn’t I give him a biscuit?”

  “That will encourage him, you know, but…all right. Just one, otherwise he’ll beg himself into gluttony.” Kate turned to Marie. “Hermes had his walk tonight, didn’t he?”

  “Aye. Jem, the boot boy, took him out to the back garden.”

  “Splendid. He should sleep well tonight, then.” Kate smiled. “Thank you, Marie. That will be all.”

  “You don’t look terribly sleepy, Hermes,” Grace said as Marie left. She held out a biscuit and Hermes snapped it out of her hand, then licked her fingers to get every last crumb. His tongue tickled. “Do you ever feed this dog, Aunt Kate?”

  “Constantly. It’s a wonder his belly doesn’t drag on the floor.”

  “Yes, I’d say—” Grace examined Kate’s nightdress more closely. “Where did you get that? It looks ancient.”

  “It is ancient.” Kate sat in the other chair and tucked her feet up under her. “But it’s very comfortable.”

  “And very threadbare. You might want to replace it while you’re in Town.” Grace couldn’t resist; Hermes was dancing at her knee, his eyes so large and pleading. She offered him a bit of her own biscuit. He nipped it out of her fingers and trotted over to eat it by Kate. “Well! Does he think I’ll steal it back from him?”

  “Perhaps he realizes he’s pushed his luck.”

  “Hmm.” Grace cleared her throat slightly. Speaking of pushing one’s luck…“I should say…I mean, well…” Best get the words out. She spoke in a rush. “I am so sorry about tonight. I don’t understand what happened. I’ve had champagne before, but I’ve never been ill.”

  “A little champagne goes a long way. Did you have anything to eat at the ball?”

  “N-no.” Her stomach had been far too unsettled to sample the duke’s lobster patties.

  “And not at the luncheon either.”

  “I wasn’t hungry. I was too nervous, I suppose.”

  Kate shrugged. “I imagine if you’d eaten, the champagne wouldn’t have affected you so much. Next time don’t drink on an empty stomach.”

  The thought of drinking anything stronger than tea was revolting. “You do not need to worry. I’ll never touch champagne again.” Grace rubbed her forehead. “Did I…did I embarrass myself too dreadfully?” She grimaced. “I should be happy if I am too disgraced to attend another society event.”

  “No, you did not embarrass yourself at all. I didn’t know you’d imbibed too freely until we were riding home in the carriage.”

  “Truthfully?”

  “Truthfully.” Aunt Kate put her tea cup down and leaned forward. “However if you are feeling more the thing, we do need to talk.”

  This did not sound good. Could she plead a recurrence of her indisposition?

  “Grace, about Lord Dawson…”

  Grace’s stomach twisted. A recurrence was definitely possible. “W-what about Lord Dawson?”

  “He…Well, you know your papa would be mad as a buck if he learned you’d been in the baron’s company.”

  Papa…Baron Dawson…

  Grace leaned forward as well. “Aunt Kate, why did Papa never tell me about Lady Harriet?”

  Kate’s expression suddenly turned guarded. She sat back, putting more distance between herself and Grace. “Lady Ha
rriet?”

  “The Earl of Wordham’s daughter—Lord Dawson’s mother.” And the love of Papa’s life? But what about Mama? Grace’s mother had died in childbirth when Grace was only two. Grace didn’t remember her—she’d only seen her portrait in the family gallery—a petite woman with red hair, large brown eyes, and a serious expression. She’d thought Papa had never remarried because his heart had broken when she’d died.

  Perhaps his heart had broken, but not for Mama.

  Grace’s stomach twisted again.

  Aunt Kate wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. “I suppose your papa thought it was ancient history—which it is.”

  “Except he is apparently still wearing the willow for Lady Harriet.” Grace’s voice caught slightly. “Didn’t he love my mother at all?” She shouldn’t care; she knew that, but she still felt betrayed.

  Aunt Kate patted her hand. “I’m sure he did, Grace. I always thought he and your mother had a very comfortable relationship. Lady Harriet was just his first love, and”—Aunt Kate blushed—“first loves are very intense. You shouldn’t assume my brother still has feelings for Lady Harriet.”

  “No? Why else would he continue to hate the Wilton family?”

  Aunt Kate laughed humorlessly. “Because your father feels his honor was injured by a Wilton, I suppose. He does not forgive or forget, Grace, which is why you cannot cultivate a friendship with Lord Dawson.”

  Grace sighed. Aunt Kate was right. A wise woman would make a point of avoiding Lord Dawson for the rest of the Season. Besides the fact Papa detested the man, it was clear the baron was a very strong-willed individual, the sort of man who could have the unsuspecting believing that up was down—the sort of man in whose presence she drank too much champagne.

  Unfortunately she did not feel at all like being wise. No, she felt like being slightly reckless—though not regarding champagne or any other spirits. But with regard to the baron—and waltzing and lingering in gardens without studying the plantings…

  This trip to London was a small window—a small interruption—in the gray wall of her existence. A glimmer of magic, a brief portal into fairy tales and happily ever afters. She would enjoy it as fully as she could for as long as she could.