The Naked Prince

by Sally MacKenzie

  Charlie and Ralph looked at each other again, their shoulders slumping as they realized the futility of resisting him.

  “The studio, milord,” Charlie said.

  There hadn’t been a studio when he’d lived here. “Where?”

  “Top floor,” Ralph said. “First door on the left.”

  Where the nursery had been. Damn.

  He dropped his hold on Ralph and started up the stairs.

  Jessica, Marchioness of Ashton, mixed brown into the white paint on her palette. She could not get Roger’s skin color right today. She swiped her brush with the new tint over his stomach.

  No, that was wrong, too.

  “You really should talk about it, you know.”

  Jess glanced up from her easel to glare at Roger, reclining naked on a red chaise longue. “Talk about what?”

  Roger just lifted an eyebrow.

  He knew, of course. She’d been in a foul mood since before Valentine’s Day. It was a bad time every year, but this year had been by far the worst. Her fit of the dismals had lasted over a month.

  She dropped her eyes back to her canvas. “There’s nothing to say.”

  She did not care what Kit did. If he wanted to fornicate with Ellie—

  Dear God! She squeezed her eyes shut at the thought’s all too familiar pain. How could Ellie climb into Kit’s bed? Kit was the heir to a duchy; everyone knew the aristocracy lived by different rules. But Ellie was a vicar’s daughter, and she’d been Jess’s childhood friend.

  Jess plopped more brown paint onto her palette.

  But people changed, didn’t they? She’d never have guessed Kit would turn into such a rake; he’d been brilliant, but rather awkward and shy when they were growing up. Now, though, the Marquis of Ashton visited too many ladies’ beds to count. The London papers had been full of his exploits—so full she’d stopped reading them.

  If he had a proper wife, perhaps he’d stay in his own bed.

  She mixed the paint with short, sharp strokes. Yes, perhaps he would.

  She was not one to make excuses for herself. After that dreadful scene with Percy, it was perfectly obvious why Kit wouldn’t wish to have anything to do with her.

  But then why had he offered for her?

  She shook her head. No matter what his reasons, she should not have accepted him.

  This year Kit had turned thirty. Time was passing. He would want to start his nursery.

  He would have to divorce her.

  Finally, her marriage would be over—and that was what was causing her stupid heart to feel as if it were made of lead.

  She frowned at her palette. Painting and drawing had always been her escape. She just needed to focus. She’d feel better eventually. Not happy—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt really happy—but at least not so morose.

  Hmm. Roger’s skin was closer to olive. Maybe she should try a touch of yellow? She mixed in just a little....

  Oh, blast. Now the color looked like what her dog hacked up after eating grass.

  Roger snorted, shifting position slightly. “There’s plenty to say, as well you know.”

  “Don’t be an ass. And keep still. I’m never going to get this painting right if you fidget.” She started over, mixing brown paint into white again.

  Most people would say she’d landed on her feet. She’d had a roof—a very comfortable roof—over her head and food on the table for eight years, as well as plenty of paint and canvas and brushes. For someone who was the daughter of an Irish groom and a seamstress, it should have been a dream come true.

  But she had dreamt of more. She had fallen in love with Kit, with the future Duke of Greycliffe, and had imagined her life by his side, not as a duchess but as a wife.

  Stupid! She should have weeded her ridiculous love out of her breast the moment she’d first felt it. By the time she’d tried to do so, it had been too late. It had grown like thistle; its roots deep, spreading into every corner of her life.

  “If you want me to be still,” Roger said, “you’d best put more coals on the brazier. I don’t know why you insist on painting me without a stitch of clothing when the snow has barely melted from the fields.” Roger leered at her. “Just can’t resist my manly physique, can you?”

  She slammed down her brush, causing a bit of brown paint to spatter over her palette. “Don’t flatter yourself. A still life of a dead bird would be far more tempting—and easier to paint. Damn it, why can’t you be as pale as a proper Englishman?”

  “Blame my Italian mother.”

  “Your poor mother.” She started for the coal bin. “She—ack!” Oh, hell, she’d forgotten Kit, her enormous black dog, was stretched out at her feet. She tripped on him, pitched forward, and went crashing to the floor.

  Kit’s deep, loud bark almost drowned out Roger’s cursing. They’d both leapt up and were now staring at her.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m fine.” Her lace cap had been knocked askew, and a large quantity of her straight, thick hair had escaped its pins—it was hard enough to keep under control in the best of circumstances.

  She sat up and ripped off the cap, letting her hair tumble down her back. She clearly wasn’t going to get any good painting done today. She might as well give up. Maybe if she went for a long walk, the cold air would shock some sense into her.

  Kit licked her cheek, and she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his long, black coat. He’d been her loyal companion since she’d got him as a puppy, a few years after she’d come to the manor. “Oh, you big Fluff. I’m sorry I tripped on you. Are you all right?”

  He barked again.

  “Not in my ear, you silly dog! You’ll deafen me.”

  “Here, let me help you up.” Roger extended his hand.

  His male bit dangled right at her eye level.

  She admired all aspects of the human body, but this poor part was ungainly and, well, ugly. It really was best hidden by a fig leaf or a pair of well-fitted pantaloons. And it wasn’t only Roger’s that was unattractive; she’d painted enough of the male servants to know the organ’s homeliness was universal.

  Percy’s certainly had been—

  No. She would not think about that disgusting blackguard.

  She forced herself to smile up at Roger, which had the added advantage of taking her eyes off his least attractive feature. The rest of him was lovely. He had long limbs, broad shoulders, and well-defined muscles. He was by far her favorite model.

  She let him haul her to her feet.

  “You’re certain you’re all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course.” She tugged on her hand, but he didn’t relinquish it.

  “I was afraid you’d hurt yourself.”

  She made a face at him. “The only thing hurt is my pride.” She tugged again.

  “Well, that’s good.” He finally let her go, but only so he could grab her shoulders. He shook her a little. “Jess, you know you can’t keep living this way.”

  “Living what way?” She dropped her eyes to his collarbone. She’d definitely mixed too much brown into the white paint. If she—

  “You know. Married, but not married.”

  Her eyes snapped back up to scowl at him. Blast it, she knew everyone in the house worried about her, but until now everyone had been kind enough to hold his tongue. Why was Roger bringing the subject up when he knew she was so terribly out of sorts?

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” She put her hands on his chest and pushed, but his grip on her shoulders only tightened.

  “In the four years I’ve been here, I’ve never seen you really happy, Jess. Dennis and I were just discussing it last night.”

  Dennis Walker, her—no, Kit’s estate manager—and Roger’s lover.

  “I am happy. Why wouldn’t I be? I have a houseful of servants to do my bidding.” She looked him in the eye. “And I bid you drop this topic.”

  His mouth was set in an unpleasantly mulish l
ine. “But you don’t have a husband.”

  “I do have a husband.” That was the whole problem.

  “But not in your bed.”

  A hot, odd yearning exploded in her stomach. “Damn it, Roger. Didn’t you hear me? I do not wish to talk about my marriage.”

  Roger ignored her. “Every year, when the marquis’s birthday approaches, you get quieter and quieter. This year has been the worst. Valentine’s Day is more than a month gone, and you’re still dragging around as if it were yesterday.”

  “You are mistaken.”

  Roger lifted his damn eyebrow again.

  “And even if you’re not, it will pass.”

  He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Until it comes again next year and the year after and the year after that. Your life is drifting away, Jess. Is that really what you want?”

  “No, of course not.” Damnation, her voice broke. She bit the inside of her cheek and willed herself not to cry. She was tired, that was all. She hadn’t been sleeping well lately.

  “Dennis and I think it’s time you faced your husband.”

  Dennis and he had been far too busy about her business. “No.”

  “I don’t know what he did—”

  “He didn’t do anything.” Her predicament was her own fault. She should never have let things with Percy go so far. She just hadn’t been thinking clearly. And then Kit had come in at precisely the wrong moment.

  Why had he offered for her?

  She’d wondered that for eight years. All she could surmise was the proposal had been a momentary lapse in judgment, Kit’s generous heart speaking before his considerable intellect could silence it. And once the words were said, he couldn’t unsay them and maintain his honor. She’d realized that even then.

  And selfishly, she’d leapt to accept. She definitely should not have, but she’d been young and stupid and in love. She’d known she had some beauty; she’d seen how the other men looked at her. She’d even stolen a few kisses. She’d thought she’d have no trouble getting Kit to fall in love with her.

  Youthful hubris.

  “—but he should settle things now. And if he won’t come to the manor, you need to go to him.”

  She stared at Roger. Go to Kit? Go to Greycliffe Castle and see the duke and the duchess and Ellie and Kit’s brothers and perhaps Percy?

  She was going to throw up.

  “You can do it, Jess. You have to.”

  “No, I . . .”

  But things couldn’t get any worse than they were, could they? It was just a matter of time. Kit was going to divorce her anyway. Why wait?

  She took a deep breath and nodded. “All right.”

  Roger grinned. “That’s the spirit.” He threw his arms around her, apparently forgetting he was naked, and hugged her.

  She hugged him back, since leaving her hands on his chest was uncomfortable and letting them dangle risked encountering portions of his anatomy she’d rather avoid. And she did love him. He was the brother she’d never had. He was funny and kind and maddening and sometimes overbearing.

  And he had terrible timing.

  The door flew open right at that moment, and she jerked her head around to see who’d come all the way up to the studio.

  Oh, bloody, bloody hell.

  She stared directly into her husband’s furious eyes.

  About the Author

  A native of Washington, DC, Sally MacKenzie still lives in suburban Maryland with her transplanted upstate–New Yorker husband. She’s written federal regulations, school newsletters, auction programs, class plays, and swim league guidance, but it wasn’t until the first of her four sons headed off to college that she tried her hand at romance. She can be reached by e-mail at writesally@comcast.net or by snail mail at PO Box 2453, Kensington, MD 20891.

  Please visit her home in cyberspace at

  www.sallymackenzie.net.

  BEDDING LORD NED

  Pleasure Is On Her Dance Card

  Determined to find a husband, Miss Eleanor “Ellie” Bowman attends a ball put on by the Duchess of Greycliffe, fondly referred to as the Duchess of Love. But she roundly dismisses the suitors the matchmaking hostess has invited on her behalf. For it’s the duchess’s dashing son Ned, Lord Edward, who long ago captured Ellie’s heart—and roused her desire. All it takes is a pair of conveniently misplaced silky red bloomers to set the handsome widower’s gaze on this unusual girl who is clearly more than meets the eye . . .

  After four years of mourning, Ned must find a wife. At first glance, the birthday ball his mother has thrown in his honor is decidedly lacking in suitable mistresses. But he senses something unexpectedly alluring beneath the veil of Ellie’s plain exterior—and suddenly she’s invading his dreams in a decidedly scandalous manner.

  SURPRISING LORD JACK

  Unladylike Behavior

  Frances Hadley has managed her family’s estate for years. So why can’t she request her own dowry? She’ll have to go to London herself and knock some sense into the men interfering in her life. With the nonsense she’s dealt with lately, though, there’s no way she’s going as a woman. A pair of breeches and a quick chop of her red curls, and she’ll have much less to worry about . . .

  Jack Valentine, third son of the famous Duchess of Love, is through being pursued by pushy young ladies. One particularly determined miss has run him out of his own house party. Luckily the inn has one bed left—Jack just has to share with a rather entertaining red-headed youth. Perhaps the two of them should ride to London together. It will make a pleasant escape from his mother’s matchmaking melodrama!

  THE NAKED LAIRD

  Lords and Ladies Can Make Strange Bedfellows . . .

  The viscount’s house party promises to be one of the season’s highlights, and Lord and Lady Kilgorn are delighted to attend. If only the long-estranged couple had realized they were both invited—and assigned to the same bedchamber . . .

  Lady Kilgorn did not travel miles from her comfortable home to share a too-small room with the handsome Scottish scoundrel she’d married far too young—and far too eagerly! And the last thing Lord Kilgorn needs is to be teased by the sight of his ever more beautiful wife! But as the weekend progresses, the pair will discover there are some fires even time cannot put out . . .

  THE NAKED DUKE

  The Surprise of Her Life

  Sophisticated. Scandalous. In fact, Miss Sarah Hamilton, a proper Philadelphian, finds London society altogether shocking. How can it be that she has awakened from her innocent slumber to find herself in bed next to a handsome—and exceedingly naked—man? The laughing onlookers standing in the doorway are no help whatsoever and surely this amorous lunatic cannot be a duke, as he claims. She is compromised—though she most certainly will not marry him!

  The Sweetest Moment of His

  James, the Duke of Alvord, is enchanted by his unexpected bedmate—and not at all afraid of her pink-cheeked fury. True, the circumstances and place of their meeting are most unusual, but the spirited American who’s pummeling him with a pillow is an incomparable beauty. If Sarah will only listen to his perfectly reasonable explanation, James is sure that he can capture her heart . . . forever.

  THE NAKED MARQUIS

  The Man Is Practical

  As marriage proposals go, Charles Draysmith’s suit is as romantic as the moors in December. Emma Peterson might be only a vicar’s daughter, and he the new Marquis of Knightsdale, and perhaps he would rather marry her than endure the marriage mart. But when he suggests how much he’ll enjoy securing an heir, well, a lady can only endure so much.

  But the Lady Is Passionate

  There’s something about a woman throwing pottery at a man that piques his interest. Perhaps his proposal lacks grace, Charles thinks. But it does seem a perfect solution. He acquires a wife; his young charges have the mother they so desperately need, and Emma gains security and position. You see? Simple. Practical. Sensib—oh no, not the ceramic dog . . . He will have to confess the truth
to calm her down. And the truth is, he’s madly in love . . .

  THE NAKED EARL

  He Took Her By Surprise

  When a naked earl climbs through the window into her bedchamber, Lady Elizabeth Runyon does the proper thing: She screams. Loudly. And then . . . well, Lizzie has had enough of being proper. She wishes to be bold. Wanton, even. She won’t be commanded to put on her nightgown. Just this once, she will be absolutely daring . . .

  She Returned the Favor

  Robert Hamilton, Earl of Westbrooke, has no intention of being tricked into marriage by a detestable female, and if he has to flee naked across a rooftop, he will. Jolly good there’s an open window waiting—as well as an undressed, slightly drunk, and alluringly beautiful Lady Elizabeth. Oh dear. If they are caught together, he might have to marry her. The idea is delicious . . . and the temptation is irresistible . . .

  THE NAKED GENTLEMAN

  He Couldn’t Refuse

  John Parker-Roth cannot believe that marriage is necessary for his happiness. He would far rather pursue his interest in horticulture, but if one day he should find a female who shared his passion for flowers—a level-headed, calm sort of female—he might reconsider. Certainly the lovely young woman who has just tumbled into his lap will not do, as she possesses neither of those admirable qualities. Yet Miss Margaret Peterson does have many things in her favor. To begin with, she is a true English rose, blushing a delectable pink. And she is not entirely clothed. Her full mouth begs to be kissed. If only she would not wriggle so . . . oh, dear. He cannot ignore the sudden vision of her in his bed, but he must.