Jo ducked her head and pretended to examine the assortment of ribbon in front of her, though what she was really seeing was gentlemen’s breeches. Good God.
If she survived this party, writing letters to an unmarried male would be the least of the blots on her reputation. And to think Papa had urged her to attend, had even said a little sin would do her good! Had he had the slightest notion how thick sin would be all around her?
When she’d sat at her bedroom desk, she’d had a vague mental image of the gentleman she’d been writing to all these months. She’d pictured a pleasant-looking, bespectacled man, not young but not old, scholarly, with a gentle voice. But now that she’d met Lord Kenderly, she wanted to touch him, press up against him as she had behind the curtains last night, feel his skin on hers—and, yes, examine his most male organ. The thought was scandalous, shocking—and after less than twenty-four hours at Greyham Manor, it felt oddly reasonable.
Oh, damn, she was throbbing again. She pushed some bits of lace around, praying no one would notice her heightened color.
Of course God didn’t answer her prayer. He must be laughing at the old spinster adrift in such sinful waters.
“Are we embarrassing the little virgin in our midst?” Lady Noughton’s voice grated.
Jo ignored her and glued some lace to the heart she’d cut. Her valentine was insipid; before she’d seen Mrs. Butterwick’s card, she’d thought all valentines insipid.
“Maria,” Lady Greyham said, “have done. You know Miss Atworthy is here only because Henrietta Helton took ill.”
Lady Noughton frowned and might have argued, but she was interrupted by Lady Imogene waving her valentine in the air for the ladies’ reaction.
Jo let the other women crowd around. The tone of their laughter told her clearly she would not appreciate Lady Imogene’s imagination.
What was she going to write to complete her boring card? She couldn’t just wish Lord Kenderly well. This was a valentine, not a sympathy card. On the other hand, she certainly couldn’t mention the odd throbbing heat he provoked in her. She bit her lip. What should she write?
She’d like to write something daring, though not as daring as what Mrs. Butterwick or Lady Imogene had written—or drawn.
She was twenty-eight. As Papa had pointed out, she wasn’t getting any younger. She could use a little sin, a little pleasure, in her life. If she let this opportunity pass, she’d have only Mr. Windley at hand—dear God. Mr. Windley was penance, not pleasure.
She glanced over at Lady Noughton’s card. The widow had written, Meet me at the baths at midnight.
Could she ask Lord Kenderly to meet her somewhere secluded?
No. She hadn’t the courage.
“I still don’t have any ideas,” Mrs. Handley said. “I need some more inspiration.”
“How about some brandy? I often find a drop or two of spirits helps me think.” Lady Greyham pulled the decanter out of the cabinet. “Oh, bother, Hugh must have stolen the glasses.”
“We’ve teacups, don’t we?” Mrs. Petwell said.
“Very true.” Lady Greyham passed the brandy around so everyone could fill her cup.
Jo took a splash to be companionable. Dear Lord Kenderly, she wrote, Happy Valentine’s Day. She chewed on the end of her pen. What else?
Her mind was a blank—well, no, it was filled with scandalous things she could never write.
She heard laughter in the corridor. The men were here; her time was up. Her insipid card would have to do. The earl certainly couldn’t expect professions of love. They were barely acquainted . . . except she felt as if she knew him so well from his letters. Or she’d thought she’d known him when she’d thought him older and plainer.
She signed the card quickly as the men came into the room.
“Did you miss us, sweets?” Lord Greyham asked, giving Lady Greyham an enthusiastic kiss on the lips.
“Mmm, of course, but we spent our time well, didn’t we ladies?”
“Indeed.” Lady Chutley smirked. “I think you’ll find our efforts most, ah, uplifting.”
The ladies giggled; Jo took the opportunity to move toward the windows. She noticed Lord Kenderly was standing a little apart, frowning, his hands clasped behind his back; he looked about as happy to be there as she was.
“And you’ll find ours inspiring as well,” Lord Benedict said. The men sniggered.
“I’ll confess it looked bleak at first when Greyham gave us The Young Man’s Valentine Writer.” Mr. Dellingcourt laughed. “What a collection of trite and saccharine verses! I suppose they might appeal to very inexperienced young ladies, but I assure you there was nothing appropriate for this group.”
“I should think not,” Mrs. Petwell said.
“So then we found Greyham’s copy of Ars Amatoria hidden behind A Few Theories on Crop Rotation.” Mr. Maiden grinned.
Jo straightened. Could this be Papa’s rare Ovid?
“It wasn’t hidden,” Lord Greyham grumbled. “You found it, didn’t you?”
“Only because of its bright red cover.”
It must be the Ovid. She had to slip out and get it. With luck the men had left it sitting out in plain sight.
Mr. Maiden’s grin widened. “And next to that book was an even more interesting volume, though in some heathen language I couldn’t read.”
“But you certainly studied the pictures long enough,” Mr. Felton said.
“Now, Percy, I gave you your turn.” Mr. Maiden waggled his brows at Lady Chutley. “I merely wished to commit a few of the illustrations to memory so I might re-create them later.”
“Ha. I’d like to see you try.”
“Would you, Percy?”
“Yes.” Mr. Felton crossed his arms, a hot, hungry look suddenly appearing on his face. “Now.”
Mr. Maiden extended his hand to Lady Chutley. “Are you game, my dear?”
Lady Chutley looked around the room and then smiled slowly. “Of course, if everyone else agrees?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
“Carry on, do.”
The chorus of support twisted Jo’s stomach into knots.
“Would you like to stroll on the terrace, Miss Atworthy?” Lord Kenderly asked.
“Oh!” The earl was at her elbow, offering her escape. “Yes, thank you. That would be very pleasant.”
He took her arm and guided her out the door as the other members of the party whistled, clapped, and cheered Mr. Maiden and Lady Chutley to misbehavior so scandalous Jo couldn’t begin to imagine it—and she certainly wasn’t going to turn so she could see what they were doing.
The February wind slapped her in the face, and she gasped.
“I’m sorry,” Lord Kenderly said. “I didn’t realize how cold it was. Would you prefer to go back inside?” He glanced over his shoulder at the room they’d just left. “On second thought, I’ll give you my coat.”
“Th-thank you.” She shivered. She’d rather turn into an icicle than witness what must be going on in the morning room. Well, she’d probably turn into a pillar of salt, like Lot’s wife, if she looked. “Aren’t you afraid Mr. Parker-Roth might get into trouble?”
Lord Kenderly frowned as he shrugged out of his coat and draped it over her shoulders. Ahh. It was still warm from his body.
“Stephen doesn’t care for such public displays.” He steered her so her back was to the morning room windows, but he could keep an eye on what was going on. “Making valentines with the other men was bad enough; the level of conversation was so puerile I thought I was back at Eton.” He looked at her. “I think if I can just foil Maria’s plans a little longer, Stephen will leave the party on his own, perhaps as early as tomorrow.”
And surely Lord Kenderly would leave with him. Fine. She was not disappointed, not at all. She should have left herself. She would go very soon.
His gaze had wandered back to the morning room. “Good God,” he muttered, a note of incredulity in his voice, “so that really is possib
le.”
She would not look. “If you want to save Mr. Parker-Roth, my lord, you might want to watch the baths at midnight.”
“What?” His eyes focused on her again. “Baths?”
“Yes. Lady Noughton put it on her valentine. I assume she means the Roman baths.” Lord Kenderly’s attention had shifted to the action in the morning room once more. His face was rather flushed; perhaps it was due to the wind.
“They aren’t Roman baths precisely.” Was he even listening? Whatever was happening inside must be riveting. “Lord Greyham’s father discovered a hot spring and enclosed it. It’s nothing as grand as Bath—at least, that’s what people tell me, as I’ve not been to Bath—but it’s pleasant to sit in the warm water in the winter.”
“Er, water?” He looked down at her. “I’m sorry; I wasn’t perfectly attending.”
Jo kept herself from stomping on his toes, but only just. “Lady Noughton and the baths. Meeting Mr. Parker-Roth?” He was looking over her shoulder again. “Oh, I’ll go with you. I’ll come by your room tonight at eleven-thirty.”
“My room?” He had an odd light in his eyes for a moment before he blinked and shook his head. “Right. So we can keep Maria from trapping Stephen.”
“Yes.” She would not feel disappointed that he didn’t wish to seduce her. She was a respectable spinster. “Of course.” She would not even peek in his bedchamber; she would merely knock on his door. “Er, which room is yours?”
He was studying the activities in the morning room again. It took him a moment to reply. “Oh, yes, my room. Turn left when you come up the main stairs; mine is the last door on the right.”
“Very well. I’ll come by promptly. We don’t wish to be late.” She looked down and noticed she still held the valentine she’d made. “Here.” She thrust the poor thing at him, distracting him once more from what was happening inside. She might as well give it to him, even though he’d likely throw it into the fire the first chance he got. “I’m afraid I’m not very talented with paper and paste.”
He took it from her and smiled. “I’m not either, as you’ll see when I give you yours.” He reached for his pocket, and then realized she was wearing his coat. “Pardon me.”
He slipped his hand inside his jacket, brushing against her breast by accident. She sucked in her breath. Damn! She hoped he hadn’t heard her.
She saw the corner of his smile deepen. He’d heard.
He slid a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to her. “As you can see, a drunken monkey could make a better valentine than I.”
“Oh, surely not—” Jo looked down at the paper. The heart was rather lopsided, and the few bits of lace decorating it might indeed have been pasted on by an inebriated animal. “I imagine most men aren’t terribly skilled with such things. It’s the thought that counts.” She opened the card. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” it read, “K.”
She felt disappointment—and then she laughed. It wasn’t as if they were lovers; they were barely acquaintances. “You might want to work on your technique, should you find a sweetheart,” she said, glancing up at him.
He didn’t seem to hear her; he was staring down at her card, a very odd expression on his face. He looked shocked. Why? She certainly hadn’t written anything shocking.
Perhaps it was the primitive nature of the card itself that disturbed him. Well, that was rather a case of the pot calling the kettle black, wasn’t it? Yes, women might be expected to have some artistic skills, but she didn’t have many of the skills most females had. And, really, the card wasn’t that bad. It looked rather good when compared to his effort.
His face had gone from pale to red. Uh-oh. “I told you I wasn’t good with paper and paste.”
He finally looked up. His eyes narrowed and then swept over her.
She took a step back. “What’s the matter? I only wished you a happy Valentine’s Day—exactly what you wished me.”
His jaw flexed as if he was clenching his teeth. He held her card out to her, jabbing his finger at her signature. He bit off each word. “You are J.A.”
“Ah.” Oh dear. She’d been in such a hurry when she’d signed the card, she hadn’t thought. “Y-yes. My name is Josephine Atworthy.”
A muscle in his cheek jumped. His lips pulled down; his nostrils flared as he drew in a deep, hopefully calming, breath. “You had my letter in the corridor upstairs because I was writing to you, not your father.”
“Er, yes.” Jo tried to smile. “I hope that’s all right?”
Chapter 7
“All right?!” Damian took another deep breath. Good God. All this time he’d been corresponding with a female.
He frowned. He hadn’t discussed anything he shouldn’t have, had he?
No, of course he hadn’t. He didn’t make a habit of writing about improper subjects and, in any event, he’d thought he’d been addressing an older man. Most of their correspondence had been about Latin, though of late it had begun to stray into more personal topics.
But not too personal, thank God. Not that he had anything of a salacious nature to write about these days.
He scowled down at Miss Atworthy. Damn it all, he’d come to look forward to those letters, reading them eagerly and spending special effort on his replies. He’d thought of J.A. as a friend—but he wasn’t. She wasn’t. It was all a lie. He felt like an idiot. “You should have told me.”
She flushed and pulled his coat tighter around her. “Why? My sex wasn’t important.”
Was she insane? Her sex was extremely important. It was the crucial detail that changed everything.
He made the mistake then of looking away from her toward the morning room. He caught sight of some fat male arse pumping away at—
He took her elbow and hustled her farther down the terrace. The wind tossed her hair about her face and put more color in her cheeks; he hoped it was taking some color from his. He was suddenly very hot. She looked so delicate in his jacket, so damn feminine. “Single young ladies are not supposed to exchange letters with single men to whom they are not related.”
God, he sounded like someone’s stuffy old, dry-as-a-stick great aunt.
“That’s why I didn’t tell you. I knew it was improper.” She snorted. “Well, improper by society’s ridiculous rules. There was nothing really improper in our correspondence. We didn’t discuss anything we couldn’t have talked about in a roomful of people.”
“But we weren’t in a roomful of people, were we?”
“No. We were each alone at our separate desks.”
He ran his hand through his hair. Didn’t she understand? Writing letters . . . sharing thoughts . . . it was very private. Very intimate. He’d let Miss Atworthy into his mind. “There is good reason why society frowns on men and women corresponding.”
“Oh, please. I never took you for such a prude.”
That stung. Perhaps she didn’t understand because his letters had meant nothing to her. Perhaps she wrote to many men—to all the men who had articles in The Classical Gazette.
The thought ignited a slow, burning anger in his gut.
She raised her chin. “You are making a great deal out of nothing.”
“It is not nothing.” He clenched his teeth. “You misled me.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, I did not mislead you. You never asked if I was a woman, and I saw no reason to bring it up because it was not significant. I never told you I had curly hair, either.”
“But I assumed—”
“And whose mistake was that?” She crossed her arms, her chin still at that defiant angle.
“You knew who I was.”
“I did not. I only discovered your identity when I arrived at this party and you mentioned you’d been writing to my father.”
“Ah.” He caught her gaze and held it. “So why didn’t you tell me then it wasn’t your father I was corresponding with?”
She flushed. “I, er . . .”
Suddenly his anger and hurt coalesced. The
fire burned hotter. He wanted revenge. He wanted her to feel something.
Lust. He wanted her to need him, to ache for him.
He hadn’t been the Prince of Hearts for nothing. He stepped closer. “You didn’t tell me because you knew it was scandalous.”
“Improper. Not scandalous.” She took a step back. She didn’t have much room to retreat. The house was just behind her.
“Did you look forward to my letters”—he dropped his voice slightly—“Jo?”
She took another step back. “I’m sure you shouldn’t use my Christian name.”
“No? I give you leave to use mine. It’s Damian.”
“I couldn’t possibly call you Damian.” She was obviously trying to sound unaffected by his nearness. She wasn’t quite successful.
“You could. You can.” He bent his head to whisper by her ear. “You just did.”
She jerked her head away from his mouth. “Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop doing this. Stop making me feel . . . odd.”
“Odd? What do you mean?” If he leaned forward just a little more, his body would touch hers. There was only a breath of space between them. But he wouldn’t lean forward; not yet.
“Just odd.”
The wind blew a strand of hair over her eye and he brushed it away. “I looked forward to your letters,” he murmured, sheltering her from the wind and trapping her against the side of the house. They were quite alone. “I was delighted when each one arrived. I thought they were from your father; I’ll have to read them again now that I know you wrote them.”
“Oh.” Her voice trembled.
“I’ve saved them all.” He remembered how her lips tasted. He wanted to taste them again. Now. “They are in a box on my desk.” Should he kiss her? “In my bedroom.”
He was supposed to be luring her into lust with him, but he was already very much in lust with her. It must be this damn house party. He’d never felt this way before.
The Naked Prince Page 6