He stroked the side of her breast and pressed her hips firmly against what felt like a very long, very large male appendage—nothing at all like the small, dangly things she’d seen bouncing on the men in the bathhouse.
“Stephen was right, you know,” he said, burying his face in her hair. “News of our betrothal will be all over London as soon as Maria leaves this party—which will be tomorrow, now that Stephen has gone.”
“Oh.” She found it very hard to care about a place and people she’d never seen. She was far more interested in this warm bed and the very male, very hard person behind her. If only his hands would each move just a few inches. Her nipples had become hard points, screaming—if they could scream—for his touch and the place between her legs was weeping in frustration. She wiggled her hips a little to encourage him, but his hand stopped her immediately. Damn.
“I don’t know anyone in London,” she said. Her frustration showed in her voice; even she heard it.
“But many people in London know people here. The news will be all over Greyham’s estate and the village in no time—perhaps even before the ton hears in Town. I doubt Maria will keep her lips sealed until she arrives.”
“Oh.” That would be unpleasant, but not fatal. “Then I’ll just tell everyone Lady Noughton was mistaken.”
Mmm. His lips had found that sensitive place under her ear again. She almost purred, but she caught herself in time.
“Was she? I hope not.” He turned her so she faced him, his hand on her shoulder keeping her an arm’s length from his lovely body. “Don’t you want to marry me, Jo?” His gaze held hers. “I thought you did; I thought that was why you agreed to come to bed with me.”
“Ah.” Should she admit she’d been willing to sin with him just this once? But that wasn’t really what she wanted. Still . . . “Marriage is for life.”
“Yes.”
“And we hardly know each other.”
“On the contrary, I think we know each other very well, certainly better than many of the ton do when they wed. We’ve written to each other.” He smiled. “We’ve shared our thoughts.”
He hadn’t been smiling on the terrace earlier. “You were angry when you learned it was me you’d been writing to.”
He shrugged. “I was surprised. I felt you’d lied to me.”
“I hadn’t.”
“Hadn’t you?” Damian raised a brow, and she flushed. Well, perhaps she had committed a small sin of omission.
“I’ll grant you it took me a moment to adjust,” he said, rubbing her shoulder with his thumb in a very distracting fashion, “but once I did, everything came into focus. Don’t you feel the same?”
“Er . . .” She did; there was no point in denying it. Even teaching the Windley idiots would be bearable if she had Damian in her life. “Y-yes.”
He grinned, so clearly happy it was impossible not to grin back at him. “I looked forward to your letters, Jo, to reading them and answering them. I admired your mind”—his lips slid into a rather wolfish smile—“but now that I’ve met you, I admire so much more.” He ran his finger over her cheek. “I love you.”
Her heart stopped—and then set to beating so hard it threatened to leap out of her chest.
“And I love you,” she whispered. She flushed; she might as well be painfully truthful. “I imagined you were my prince who would ride in and deliver me from cramming endless declensions into thick Windley skulls.”
He laughed. “Jo! How could you wish to be delivered from declensions?”
She laughed back at him. “It was Windleys I wished to be delivered from.”
“And so you shall be. I have no Windleys on any of my estates.”
He turned her onto her back then and all thought of Windleys flew out of her head. He was so hard and warm and—“Oh! Yours is far larger than the other men’s.”
He chuckled. “Shame on you for looking! In their defense, I must say they’d just been running in the cold.”
“I’m sure they couldn’t ever match you.” She felt that part of him between her legs. It was wonderful, but it would be much more wonderful if it would rub against a specific point of sensitive flesh. She wiggled.
His wolfish expression intensified. “Eager are you? Then we shall celebrate Lupercalia properly.”
“Are you going to strike me with a goatskin thong to ensure my fertility?”
“No, I’m going to strike you with this.” He moved his hips and his male organ slid along the wet place between her legs. “And hope your fertility will start the next Earl of Kenderly growing in your womb.”
“Ahh.” The thought of creating a life with Damian filled her with warm desire and happiness. “And if you don’t succeed?”
He flicked his tongue over a nipple and need streaked through her.
“Then I shall be delighted”—he rubbed against her—“very, very delighted”—he found her entrance—“to try again.”
His hips flexed, and he came into her slowly. There was a brief, burning pain, and then an incredible sense of fullness.
He kissed her. “All right?”
“Yes.” She loved the feel of him on her and in her, but the sensitive place between her legs demanded that he move. She wiggled her hips to encourage him.
Thank God he took the hint. He pulled back, and then came in again. Out and in; back and forth; slow and fast. Faster . . .
“Oh!” She grabbed his back. She was so tense she was going to shatter. She—
He moved once more and stopped, so close he was almost part of her. Waves of incredible sensation pulsed through her, and under the exquisite madness, she felt another pulse, a spurt of liquid heat, deep inside her.
He collapsed onto her, and she ran her hands up and down his back. “That was wonderful,” she said.
“Mmm.” He rolled to the side, stretching out on the bed next to her.
“I didn’t know what to expect. Frankly, if someone had told me what was involved, I wouldn’t have believed them.” She turned to look at him. Surely he wasn’t asleep? “Is it always this wonderful?”
He cracked one eye open. “Are you always this chatty?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”
He grunted again and put his hand on her breast. “No, it’s not always this wonderful. It’s never before been this wonderful for me.”
“Really? You aren’t just saying that?” She felt inordinately pleased, but just a little suspicious. “I’m sure the other women—the experienced women—must have done it better than I.”
He teased her nipple, making her body hum again in anticipation. “Apparently it’s not how it’s done, it’s with whom it’s done that’s important. Love is far stronger than lust.” He closed his eyes again.
“I’ll wager it will be even better next time now that I know what happens.”
“Mmm.”
She looked up at the bed canopy and tried to determine whether she felt different. Well, of course she felt different—she’d never been so sore there—but did she feel different? “Do you think we made a baby?”
“Mmm.”
“Are you going to sleep?”
He opened one eye again. “I am trying to.”
“I’m not sleepy.”
“That’s clear.”
How could he even consider sleep? Her thoughts were darting around like dragonflies on a pond. “When can we do it again?”
“Insatiable, are you?”
“Yes.”
He laughed. “Later. You are probably sore now, aren’t you?”
“Y-yes, a little.” A lot, really.
He stroked his hand over her belly. “If you’re looking for something to do, I brought the Ovid up. It’s on the night table.”
“Really?” She leaned over him to look at the volume. It was indeed very red, battered, and dingy. “It’s rather unimpressive.”
“Yes.” Damian stroked her breasts as they dangled over his chest. His thumb found one of her nipples and ru
bbed it. “You know, I’m suddenly feeling more energetic. Perhaps we should read it together. I might even demonstrate a few verses.”
“But I thought you said I was too sore.”
“For some things.” He kissed her nipple. “But not for other things.”
“Other things?” This sounded interesting. “There are other things?”
“Of course. You know your conjugations. There are many forms of the verb ‘to love.’”
“Oh.” She grinned at him. “I think you will find me an eager student.”
“Splendid!”
And he proceeded to give her a very illuminating lesson indeed.
If you enjoyed The Naked Prince,
don’t miss the next book in Sally MacKenzie’s delightful
Duchess of Love series,
Loving Lord Ash,
a Zebra eBook and mass-market paperback
on sale in March 2014!
Never jump to conclusions.
—Venus’s Love Notes
The March wind stung his face, but the Marquis of Ashton, heir to the Duke of Greycliffe, still paused when he rounded the curve in the drive that led to Blackweith Manor.
Zeus, he loved this house, especially with the late afternoon sun limning its classical facade. It was so orderly and controlled. No one could look at it and not feel calm—
Oh, God.
The image of Jess’s milky white thighs—and Percy’s naked arse between them—shoved to the front of his thoughts. Again. He’d been battling the memory every minute of every hour on this blasted journey.
He shifted on his horse, making the animal toss its head. The jangling of its bridle sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet.
There was nothing calm or controlled about the place. It was a wasp’s nest—smooth and beautiful on the outside, but a mass of stinging, painful chaos on the inside. He should go back to Greycliffe Castle. A wise man didn’t poke a wasp’s nest. He’d left this problem alone for eight years; why couldn’t he leave it for another eight?
His fingers tightened on the reins. Because he needed an heir, of course. He’d just turned thirty; Jess was twenty-eight. It was past time to set up his nursery. Running back to the castle would not give him a son to carry on the title.
He nudged his horse forward. Hell, he couldn’t run back even if he wanted to. He’d never had such a cursed journey. What with the snow and the mud and the washed-out bridges—not to mention his horse coming up lame, forcing him to hire this slug he was currently riding—a trip that should have taken two days had stretched to over a month. Even the few interesting buildings he’d seen along the way hadn’t made up for the slow pace and maddening detours.
Well, he was here now. Surely he and Jess could come to some agreement. He was only asking for a couple years of her life. Once she gave him his heir and his spare, she could go back to doing as she pleased. It was a very common arrangement among the ton.
A cloud drifted in front of the sun, bringing a chill to the air, turning the manor’s warm stone dark and forbidding. His stomach tightened with each step the bloody horse took up the drive.
His brother Jack had said the London idiots were taking bets on what he would do about his union with Jess. It was a particularly delightful situation for the gossips because Mama was the Duchess of Love, the ton’s premier matchmaker and the author of Venus’s Love Notes, mortifying leaflets of marital advice. How ironic that her oldest son had made such a damnable muddle of his marriage.
Yet everyone but his mother knew love didn’t last....
Love. He scowled at his horse’s ears. If he didn’t feel this wretched, stupid love for Jess, everything would be much simpler. He wouldn’t have married her in the first place, or he would have had a calm discussion with her about her duty as soon as they’d left the church. But he did love her. He loved her—and he hated her, too.
He was such a bloody fool. He had no one to blame for this mess but himself.
He stopped at the front of the manor and waited. When no one came to take his horse, he dismounted.
The horse stomped its front hoof and gave him a nasty look.
“Don’t complain. I’ll grant you this is irregular, but I’m sure someone will come out and take you to the stables shortly. It’s not as if you exerted yourself. A slower hack would be hard to find in all of England.”
The animal snorted and tossed its head, but it couldn’t dispute the truth of the matter.
Ash shifted his shoulders, trying to ease the kinks out of his back. God, every one of his muscles ached. If only Inigo hadn’t pulled up lame—
No, it was just as well. If he was going to bring Jess back to the castle, he’d have to take a carriage, and this way he wouldn’t be tempted to ride instead of sitting inside with her. He didn’t want to spend one more moment astride this bag of bones.
The horse found a few blades of grass to nibble, so Ash was confident the animal would stay put for the time being. He climbed the stairs to bang on the front door.
Nothing happened.
He scowled. The servants either did not expect visitors or the butler was deaf. Well, he would have a word with Walker, the estate manager, after he spoke to Jess. If he remembered correctly, he was paying for a full staff. He expected anyone working for him to be competent.
He tried the latch; the door opened easily. Good God! This was the country, but even so, leaving the door unlocked and unattended was not wise. Perhaps he’d have to make a list of things to discuss with Walker.
Sadly, this was what happened when one didn’t visit one’s estate regularly. He stepped over the threshold.
“Hallo! Is anyone here?”
He heard an odd sort of yelp and some scuffling, and then a large man hurried out from the back of the house, tucking in his shirttail and fastening his fall as he came.
He stopped when he saw Ash, his hands still on his buttons. A slow grin spread across his face. “We-ell, who do we have here?” His eyes swept Ash from his boots to his head and back.
Was the fellow drunk? “Ashton. I’ve come to see my wife.”
“W-what?” The man’s jaw dropped.
He must be a half-wit. It would be just like Jess to insist Walker take on a man who wasn’t employable elsewhere. She might lift her skirt for anything in breeches, but she did sincerely care about the less fortunate. Perhaps it was the artist in her; she saw people who were invisible to most everyone else. But she also gave little thought to her own safety. She’d very likely never considered how she’d be at this fellow’s mercy if he became violent.
Once they came to an agreement about their marriage, he would have to discuss that with her. Perhaps the man could be moved to the fields. At least then he wouldn’t have the run of the house.
“I’m Lord Ashton.” Ash spoke slowly and distinctly so the fellow could comprehend. “I’m here to see Lady Ashton. Your mistress.”
The man’s brows snapped down, and he snorted. “And I’m Prinny himself. You’ll have to try harder than that to fool me, my fine fellow. Anyone will tell you Lord Ashton never comes to Blackweith Manor.” The butler, or whatever he was, stepped forward to grab the door. “Now turn yourself around and be off, or I’ll help you on your way with my boot.”
“I am not going anywhere.” Ash stood his ground and glared. Good God. He’d never expected to have to prove his identity.
“Who is it, Charlie?” Another man, also fiddling with his fall, came up behind the first.
Charlie sniffed. “Some scoundrel who says he’s Lord Ashton, Ralph.” He glanced out the door at the broken-down nag and curled his lip. “I don’t know what your game is, sirrah, but you won’t cozen Charlie Lundquist.”
Ash clenched his fists, struggling to keep a hold on his temper. This was ridiculous. “I don’t say I’m Lord Ashton, I am the marquis, and if you don’t move aside at once, Charlie Lundquist, you will find yourself on your arse next to that poor hack.”
Charlie was not easily cowed. “Brave words.
Now let’s see you try—”
“Charlie.” Ralph had been studying Ash. Now his eyes widened, and he grabbed Charlie’s arm.
“Let go.” Charlie tried to shake him off, but Ralph hung on.
“Charlie,” he hissed, “he does look bloody like the painting in the library.”
Charlie paused and examined Ash more closely. “I . . .”
“And look at his clothes. They’re muddy, but they’re quality.”
Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “But the marquis never visits.”
“He has now,” Ash said. “And I will tell you that you and Mr. Walker will be looking for new positions if this is how matters are handled at Blackweith Manor.” He took a savage sort of satisfaction when Lundquist paled at his use of the estate manager’s name. “Now take me to my wife.”
“Ahh.” Charlie looked at Ralph, and then they both looked up the stairs. They turned back with identical expressions of horror.
“Please forgive me, milord,” Charlie said, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopping his brow. “If you will just come along to the parlor, you can be comfortable while Ralph tells Lady Ashton you’re here.”
Any fool could see they were trying to hide something from him. “I do not wish to go to the parlor; I wish to see my wife.”
“Yes, of course, milord. It’s just that Lady Ashton is a little busy at the moment.” Charlie nudged Ralph toward the staircase. “I’m sure—”
Bloody hell! He could guess what Jess was busy with. He lunged forward and grabbed Ralph’s arm before the man could escape. “On second thought, I shall announce myself. You may attend to my horse.”
Ralph stared at Ash’s hand as if it belonged to Death.
“But, milord,” Charlie sputtered, “please. You will truly be much more comfortable in the parlor while Ralph fetches Lady Ashton.” He smiled nervously. “I’ll bring you a nice bottle of brandy.”
“No.” Ash knew what he would see upstairs, but he needed to see it. He needed to feel the pain to remember why he could not let Jess stay in his heart. “Where is she?”
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