She relaxed and opened her lips on a small sigh. He did not need a second invitation; his tongue swept into her warm, moist mouth while his hand slid down her back.
Mmm. It was definitely Miss Atworthy. No one else had such a lovely body. She was in her nightclothes, her stays discarded—and he was wearing only shirt and breeches, pulled on hurriedly over his nakedness. He could feel her every soft curve....
He drew his hips back quickly so she wouldn’t feel his suddenly hard curve. She might be older than most debutantes, but she was clearly inexperienced.
He’d very much like to remedy that situation, immediately if possible. He could carry her up to his bed or just lay her down on the couch he’d noticed by the fire and—
And he’d best pay attention to what was happening on the other side of the curtain. He moved his lips to Miss Atworthy’s ear. “I think we’re about to have company.”
“Wha—” She stopped, then stretched to whisper in his ear, “Who?”
He almost missed her question, he was so entranced by the feel of her body moving against his. “I don’t . . . ah.”
The newcomers’ identities required no guesswork.
“I don’t see why I have to sneak around my own house, Alice,” Lord Greyham said in a conversational, if highly annoyed and drunken, tone.
“Shh, Hugh. It’s almost midnight. Maria and Mr. Parker-Roth should be down at any moment. We don’t want them to know we’re here.”
Maria? What was this? Perhaps he’d finally learn the widow’s plan.
“I thought they wanted us here.” Greyham had dropped his voice slightly.
“Maria does.” Lady Greyham whispered loudly. “But we’ll be a surprise for Mr. Parker-Roth.”
“An unpleasant one.” There was the sound of a stopper coming out of a brandy decanter. “No sensible man wants an audience for his proposal, Alice. And why he’d want to come down to the library when he could pop the question in a more comfortable, private location like a bedchamber is beyond me. I imagine he’s already in Maria’s bed.”
“Pour me some brandy, too, will you?” There was the sound of liquid splashing into two glasses. “You’re acting just like a man, Hugh. This will be far more amusing.”
“Amusing for whom? Not Parker-Roth.” Greyham’s voice slid into a leer. “And of course I’m acting like a man. I am a man, Alice. I’ll be happy to give you another, even more forceful demonstration of that fact if it’s slipped your mind.”
Miss Atworthy made a small sound of distress, and Damian pulled her tighter against him. Fortunately, he’d turned slightly, so she was against his side. She didn’t need to have a close encounter with his male organ.
“Really, Hugh, you are impossible. Just think how romantic it would be to become betrothed in the first moments of Valentine’s Day.”
Greyham snorted. “It certainly can’t be romantic to have your host and hostess leap up to shout congratulations. I tell you, Parker-Roth can just as easily—far more easily—become betrothed in a nice warm bed and seal his troth with a long, thorough, sweaty bit of lovemaking.”
“Oh, pish. I think you must not have a single romantic bone in your body.”
“I do have a suddenly bonelike appendage that’s very eager to show you how romantic I can be.”
Lady Greyham giggled amid sounds of a scuffle. “Mmm. Behave yourself, my lord.”
“I thought I was behaving myself.”
More giggling.
“Stop, Hugh.” Lady Greyham sounded rather breathless. “We have to hide. I promised Maria.”
Greyham sighed. “Very well. Shall we conceal ourselves behind the curtains?”
Miss Atworthy sucked in a small breath and her grip on Damian tightened. It would get rather crowded if the Greyhams chose this spot to secret themselves.
“No, I have a better idea,” Lady Greyham said. “See, this couch is turned so if we lie on it, we’ll be hidden from anyone coming in the door.”
“What? You think I can’t satisfy you standing up? I’ll be happy to show you that you are mistaken.”
Lady Greyham giggled some more. “But then we’ll make the curtains move. You know I can never hold still.”
“And you can never be quiet either, can you?”
“I’ll try.”
Her accompanying shriek didn’t speak well for her success nor did the groaning couch springs.
Frankly they were making enough noise to alert all but the deaf to their presence, but Damian couldn’t leave anything to chance. Maria must be planning to trick a proposal out of Stephen—how she thought she’d manage that was a mystery—and by having witnesses, she’d either claim breach of promise or shame Stephen into standing by his offer. A ridiculous scheme, but if she’d managed to get Stephen drunk—a feat in itself—it might work. Stephen was honorable to a fault.
He had to do something, but what? He couldn’t risk ruining Miss Atworthy’s reputation. If he—
“Why the hell do we n-need to go to the l-library now, Maria?”
Damn it all, that was Stephen’s voice. They were in the corridor.
“We have to save Mr. Parker-Roth,” Miss Atworthy whispered suddenly.
“Yes, but—”
She didn’t wait to hear his thoughts; she grabbed the candlestick from him and stepped out from behind the curtain.
Jo was lighting the candle in the fireplace when Lady Noughton dragged Mr. Parker-Roth through the library door.
Lady Noughton stopped abruptly and glared. “What are you doing here?”
Jo raised her chin. “Looking for a book.” She wasn’t going to let this sneaky, unprincipled snake intimidate her. “This is a library, you know.”
Mr. Parker-Roth laughed. “V-very true. Girl’s got you there.” His speech was slurred. He must be exceedingly drunk. “F-frankly, I don’t know why we’re here. D-didn’t think you wanted to read, Maria.”
“No, of course I don’t want to read.” Lady Noughton patted Mr. Parker-Roth on the arm. “Remember, I wish to show you—”
“Surprise!” Lady Greyham popped up from behind the sofa back, her hair tumbled over her shoulders, her bodice drooping alarmingly low.
“I say, it’s a party.” Lord Greyham appeared next to her. “And look, here’s Kenderly as well.”
In the confusion, Lord Kenderly must have slipped out of the room. It looked as if he were just entering the library now.
“Help yourself to some brandy; decanter’s on the table.” Lord Greyham wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “I have to get back to what I was doing.”
Lady Greyham giggled as her husband pulled her down and, blessedly, out of sight.
“You looking for a book, too, D-Damian?” Mr. Parker-Roth wavered a little on his feet. “Should be looking for a l-lady instead.” The man winked. “A w-wet and willing woman will help you sleep much better than some dry Latin text.”
“And you should be in bed, Stephen”—Lord Kenderly glared at Lady Noughton—“your own bed.”
Suddenly the couch started creaking in an alarming way; odd, breathy pants and grunts emanated from the other side, where Lord and Lady Greyham were obviously engaged in some strenuous activity.
“It is a bit crowded here, isn’t it?” Mr. Parker-Roth executed a wobbly bow to Lady Noughton. “’Fraid my f-friend’s right. Not feeling quite the thing. Excuse me?”
Lady Noughton almost growled. “No, I—”
“Oh, oh, oh!” Lady Greyham’s voice rose, tight and vaguely desperate. There was something intense about her tone that made Jo feel extremely unsettled and, well, hot.
“That’s it. That’s the way.” Lord Greyham might have been urging on his hounds. His voice was strained, too. “Come on, old girl. Come on.”
“Oh, oh . . . y-yes!” Lady Greyham screamed. “Oh, God, Pookie!”
The couch shook more violently in sharp, hard jerks; Lord Greyham grunted . . . and then roared. “Huzzah!”
Jo’s entire body flushed.
> She glanced at Lord Kenderly; he was grimacing in what looked like pain. Then his eyes met hers, and her temperature shot up another hundred degrees.
A very embarrassing area of her person throbbed, wet and empty.
Dear heavens, was she like a dog in heat—could he smell the need consuming her?
“Well, at least someone is satisfied,” Lady Noughton said waspishly.
“If you hadn’t decided to go h-haring off to the library, you could be, too.” Mr. Parker-Roth shifted on his feet as if he was uncomfortable. “I could be.”
“Yes, well, I believe it’s past time we adjourned.” Lord Kenderly sounded angry. “I’ll see you up to your room, Stephen.” He looked at Jo. His face was now expressionless. “Will you accompany us, Miss Atworthy?”
She certainly wasn’t going to stay here. Lady Noughton looked as if she might explode, ripping apart anyone unwary enough to be nearby, and the thought of facing Lord and Lady Greyham after what she’d just heard . . .
“That was splendid, Pookie.” Lady Greyham’s voice was almost a purr. “But do get off me now. We should attend to our guests.”
Jo shot out of the library ahead of everyone.
Chapter 6
Damn. Damian sat up in bed and rubbed his hands over his face. His sheets were a twisted mess. He felt like he’d hardly slept a wink—and every time he had dropped off, he’d dreamt of a certain tall, prickly, virginal woman.
She was anything but virginal in his dreams. Those long legs . . . her full breasts . . .
He scowled down at his eager cock where it made an obvious bulge in the bedclothes. Stephen was right; he’d been far too long without a woman. Unfortunately, there was little chance he could cure that problem anytime soon. Miss Atworthy was not a candidate for seduction.
He rubbed the spot between his brows. Listening to Greyham and his wife last night had been torture, and with Valentine’s Day and, worse, Lupercalia the focus of the next two days, lust would be so thick in the air, he’d likely choke on it.
He threw off the covers and walked carefully over to the washbasin. Good, the water was cold. He splashed it on his face; he should splash it considerably lower.
He’d tried to talk some sense into Stephen after they’d seen Miss Atworthy to her door last night, but the man had been too drunk to see reason, damn it. Until he could persuade him to look out for himself, he’d have to look out for him, as last night had demonstrated.
He yanked on his clothes and made quick work of tying his cravat. Whether the Greyhams witnessing whatever Maria had had planned would have resulted in her trap snapping shut, he couldn’t say. But Stephen was so damn honorable, all the widow need do was convince him he owed her marriage.
Damian was bloody well determined to see to it that that didn’t happen.
He shrugged into his coat, straightened his cuffs, and stepped out into the corridor.
“Oof!”
Miss Atworthy’s delightful body collided with his.
He grabbed her upper arms to steady her and inhaled the scent of lemon and woman. His cock, which had finally assumed appropriate proportions, leapt with eagerness.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She was babbling, her lovely eyes wide, her cheeks red. “It was my fault entirely. I was woolgathering.”
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 Greyham 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. Butterwick 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?”
The Naked Prince Page 5