Hot Historicals Bundle with An Invitation to Sin, The Naked Baron, When His Kiss Is Wicked, & Mastering the Marquess

by Jo Beverley

  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.

  “Oh.” She sounded quite breathless. “I”—she swallowed—“I don’t know what Papa was thinking when he—”

  Suddenly her brows snapped down, and her voice lost any trace of uncertainty. She put her hands on his chest and gave him a little shove. “But I do know. Damn it, it’s all clear now.”

  Reluctantly, Damian moved back a step. “What’s clear?”

  “Papa’s motives. Why he tricked me into coming to this shocking party. It had nothing to do with Ovid.”

  “Ovid?” How the hell had they got to Ovid?

  “Yes, Ovid.” She slipped away from him and began pacing the terrace. “Papa told me some taradiddle about the old baron having borrowed a rare copy of Ovid. He knew that would persuade me to put aside my scruples and attend this, this … orgy.”

  Given what was happening in the morning room at the moment, Jo’s description was sadly apt. “You’re a fan of Ovid?”

  “No. Or, not especially. I find his verse very confusing. I can’t understand—” She flushed. “Well, never mind that.”

  “Ah.” He grinned. “I would be delighted to explain any passages you have trouble with.”

  She answered him with a glare. “No, thank you.”

  He bit back a smile and shrugged. “Your father didn’t make the story up out of whole cloth,
you know. I’m reasonably certain the Ars Amatoria in the study is the volume he referred to.”

  Jo looked momentarily interested. “Oh? I wondered if perhaps it was. Is the book valuable?”

  He shook his head. “No. Either your father or mine pilfered it from the Oxford library. The margins are full of salacious commentary scrawled by generations of university students.”

  Jo made a small sound of disgust. “So it is just as I thought. Papa dangled the Ovid in front of me to get me to come to this party.” She pressed her lips tightly together for a moment. “I can just see how his devious little mind worked. His Catullus had just arrived, and I was, er, discussing with him how we simply cannot afford for him to keep buying these expensive books.” Her voice rose. “He has no sense of economy.”

  “Oh?” He could see Jo had the bit between her teeth on this topic. She would need to marry a man who knew how to keep a firm hand on the reins or she’d ride roughshod over him.

  And why the hell had that thought popped into his head?

  “Yes, indeed. He is going to land us in the poorhouse if he doesn’t see reason. There are just not that many potential Latin students in the area, and I am not going to wed Mr. Windley to produce more.”

  “No, I definitely think that would be unwise. Who is Mr. Windley?”

  “A very annoying widower with six idiot sons all of whom I have the misfortune to teach—to try to teach—Latin.”

  The disgust on Jo’s face was rather comical. “He does not sound at all like a good match for you. Is your father pushing you to marry him?” Mr. Atworthy would not be the first man to sacrifice his daughter for the family fortunes.

  Jo laughed. “Oh, no. Papa cannot abide Mr. Windley or his progeny either. I think he’s afraid I’ll marry him out of desperation.”

  “Come, you’re not past your prayers certainly.”

  She snorted. “I’m far too old to tempt most gentlemen into marriage. And Papa says I’ve a reputation for being a”—she flushed—“a trifle, er, difficult and, ah, staid.”

  Difficult he could believe, but not staid. Obviously the neighborhood men were blind to Jo’s attractions. She had a lovely mind and an equally lovely body.

  She started to pace again, and he admired the way her skirts pulled tight across her hips and teased him with brief outlines of her legs. “After Mr. Flanders visited, Papa knew I was writing to you, and he knew you would be at this party. Having one of Lord Greyham’s female guests take ill at the last minute must have seemed like a sign from heaven, a golden opportunity to get me off his back for a few days. I don’t doubt he even hoped I’d—” Her cheeks—no, her whole face—turned beet red. “That is, Papa … he …”

  A cold, hard feeling—disappointment with a touch of anger—settled in Damian’s gut. He’d been the earl for ten years now; he was very familiar with matchmaking mamas—and sometimes papas. “Thought you could get me to come up to scratch.”

  Her eyes swiveled to his. “Good God, no. Are you daft?”

  His anger turned to pique. “It isn’t that odd a thought. You were writing to me. I was answering.”

  “Yes, but I’m sure he realized if you thought my letters were from him, they could not have contained anything of a, er, warm nature. No, no, trust me. Marriage would be the last thought to cross Papa’s mind. I suspect he hoped I would have some kind of small, ah, adventure that would take my mind off rare books and empty coffers for a while.” She looked away, her color still high. “He said a little sin would do me good.”

  Damian’s gaze, which had wandered down to her breasts, snapped back up to her face. “What?” Good God, had she read his mind? It was full of sin, lovely, hot, wet sin.

  “Yes. I was as shocked as you are.”

  Now was not the time to point out she had no idea what he was thinking, because if she did she would be having a fit of the vapors. “Um.”

  “I suppose I will see if I can have a look at the Ovid to satisfy my curiosity, but from what you say, it isn’t worth my spending any more time here.” A smile flashed across her face, missing her eyes. “I believe I can feel the headache coming on.”

  He didn’t want her to leave, not yet. Things were still unsettled between them. He certainly felt unsettled, and he did not care for the sensation. “But I thought you were going to help me this evening.”

  “What? Oh, right, Mr. Parker-Roth and Lady Noughton.” She backed away from him a step. “I can show you where the baths are now, if you like. You need only follow the path through the garden a bit. You can’t miss them.”

  She was unsettled, too. He could feel it.

  Had she truly been interested only in Latin grammar when she wrote to him? Probably the first time and perhaps the second, but something else had crept in by the third letter, he’d swear it. This … warm feeling couldn’t have all been on his side.

  They’d had a meeting of minds; they’d found a harmony of spirit. He’d just been shocked for a moment to discover the mind and spirit he’d been communicating with came in such a delightful package.

  He was not going to let her get away. “Thank you, but I think your presence tonight is crucial.”

  “Surely you can handle the situation yourself.” She took another step backward; he followed her.

  “I am Stephen’s friend. People might not believe me. But you are a disinterested third party and a female.”

  “Yes.” She bumped into the balustrade; she’d backed up as far as she could. Without the building to restrain it, the wind whipped her curls around her face so she did look a bit like one of the Furies, only her expression was uncertain and vulnerable. “I mean no.” She moistened her lips. “I mean you don’t need me tonight.”

  “Oh? I think I do.” If she had any idea of the need that was pounding through his veins right now, she’d leap over the balustrade. “I need you very much.”

  “What?” She must have caught a hint; she looked vaguely alarmed.

  “And what about sin?” He dropped his voice again and leaned into her.

  “Sin?” she croaked.

  “Yes. I think your father is correct—a little sin is good for the soul.”

  She snorted. “You make a far better Latin scholar than you do a theologian.” Brave words, belied by the waver in her voice.

  “Don’t you want to sin a little, Jo?”

  “Ah.” She had dropped her gaze from his eyes to his mouth, the minx.

  He cupped her face in his hands, trapping her wild hair. He bent closer so he could whisper. “I would be happy to teach you how. It would be my pleasure—my very great pleasure.”

  Her eyes widened. Was that desire he saw in their depths? Desire and uncertainty. He would just kiss her now, just—

  “Ah, so here you are.”

  Damn. Damian spun around to find Stephen and Lady Noughton walking toward them.

  “My, my, my,” Maria said, looking from Damian to Jo, “what are you two up to?”

  Thank God the widow hadn’t arrived a minute or two later, when it would have been far too clear what Damian, at least, was up to. “We are taking the air.” He took Jo’s hand and placed it on his arm.

  “It looked to me as if you were on the verge of taking more than the air.” Maria examined Jo. “My compliments, Miss Atworthy. I should have said something earlier. That dress is a great improvement on yesterday’s gown.” She raised a knowing eyebrow. “Out to catch yourself an earl, are you?”

  Damian squeezed Jo’s hand as he heard her draw breath to answer the harpy. That would be a very bad idea. Maria would tear Jo to pieces; the widow had sharpened her claws in far too many London ballrooms. “You have it wrong, Lady Noughton. It is I who am trying to capture Miss At-worthy’s interest.”

  Stephen laughed. “Bravo, Damian.”

  Maria glared at Stephen, smiled brittlely at Damian, and then addressed Jo. “I see. Then it was no accident we saw you and Lord Kenderly together in the library last night.”

  “Oh, no, it was indeed an a
ccident,” Jo said. “I thought I ’d just run down to find a book; I had no idea Lord Grey-ham’s library would be so crowded.” She smiled sweetly. “Were you and Mr. Parker-Roth also in search of some reading material to help you fall asleep?”

  Maria made an odd noise, sort of a cross between a gasp and a hiss, but Stephen laughed.

  “Touché, Miss Atworthy,” he said. “Well done.”

  Chapter 8

  It was almost eleven twenty-five. Jo consulted the clock for the fifth time in as many minutes.

  She’d been hiding in her room for two hours, ever since Blind Man’s Bluff had become too dangerous. The various blind men—and women—had taken the role as an opportunity to run their hands all over whomever they caught, exploring the most embarrassing parts of their victim’s anatomy. Mr. Maiden, not even pretending to be hampered by his blindfold, had taken advantage of Lord Kenderly’s brief absence from the room to pursue her, much to the glee of the other guests. She’d been compelled to dodge behind a settee and knock over a chair before the earl had returned and put an end to Mr. Maiden’s fun.

  She heard giggling in the corridor. Damn. She hoped she’d be able to get to Lord Kenderly’s room without encountering any other guests.

  Frankly, it was hard to imagine what Lady Noughton could do to force Mr. Parker-Roth into marriage. This party just got more and more scandalous. At dinner the men had decided to get into the spirit of Lupercalia and run naked over the grounds at midnight.

  Ugh. The thought of Sir Humphrey or Mr. Felton without clothes was revolting. She’d shut her eyes at the first hint of bare flesh. But Lord Kenderly naked …

  She fanned her face with her hand. It was suddenly quite hot in the room.

  That afternoon on the terrace, when he’d offered to teach her to sin, she had to admit she’d been tempted.

  She bit her lip. She was far too old for such silliness, wasn’t she?

  Her brain said yes, but her body had a different opinion.

  She glanced at the clock again. Oh dear, it was now eleven thirty-two. She was late. She grabbed her dark pelisse and cracked her door open. She listened. All was quiet for the moment.