The Naked Prince (3 page)

Her face lost all its color, and she seemed to be having difficulty breathing. “J.A.?”

“Josiah Atworthy.” Was she a complete widgeon?

“Ah.” She was still staring at him with her mouth slightly ajar, an almost panicky look in her eyes.

“Your father wrote to me last year to comment on one of my articles in
The Classical Gazette
, and we started a correspondence.” He frowned. She definitely looked as if she was about to swoon. He shifted his hold to support her elbow. “I say, are you feeling quite the thing?”

“I'm f-fine.” She cleared her throat. “Can you tell me—I know it's a silly question, but I'm curious—how did you sign your letters to Papa?”

“With my initial.” Her color did not look good at all, though his answer seemed to reassure her.

“Oh. ‘W,' for Weston, then?”

“No, ‘K,' for Kenderly.”

“Ah.” Her lips wavered into a smile, and then her eyes rolled up and she collapsed into his arms.

If it were truly possible to die of embarrassment, Jo would have expired on Lord Greyham's front drive.

She stared up at the bed canopy in one of Lord Greyham's guest bedchambers. She'd not been able to escape her humiliation; she hadn't even been able to maintain a nice, insensate swoon. Oh, no. She'd come to her senses—
all
her senses—almost immediately and had been completely aware of the servants and guests staring at her and whispering about her as the Earl of Kenderly carried her up the stairs and into this pleasant bedroom.

Jo covered her face with her hands. Yes, she'd been aware of the onlookers, but she'd been even more aware of Lord Kenderly—the strength of his arms; the broad, hard plane of his chest; the solidity of his shoulder where she rested her head; the firm line of his jaw with the faintest shadow of stubble against his snow-white cravat; the deep blue of his eyes. When she'd buried her face in his coat to hide from all the people staring at her, she'd breathed in his scent, a mix of clean linen, eau de cologne, soap, and man.

And when he'd laid her on the bed . . .

She bit her lip to stop a moan from escaping.

Dear God, she'd wanted to pull him down on the bed with her. She'd locked her hands behind his neck and held on a moment too long; he'd had to reach back and disengage her fingers to free himself.

The next moan would not be muffled. She flipped over and buried her face in the pillow.

The prince she'd fashioned out of air had stepped into her life, and he was far more perfect than she could ever have imagined. Her dreams tonight would be much more detailed than ever before.

And he'd kissed her. Heavens! Her very first kiss. She'd been almost too shocked and disoriented to appreciate it at first. Had he actually put his
tongue
in her mouth? It should have been disgusting, but it hadn't been—not at all.

And then she'd tried to kiss him back. He must think her a complete hoyden or worse. What if he—

“Miss Jo.”

“Eek!” She turned over and sat up so quickly her head spun. She pressed her fingers to her temples and blinked at the short, round girl who'd come into the room. “Oh, Becky, you gave me such a turn. What are you doing here?”

Becky stared at her as if she'd suddenly sprouted a second head. “I work here; ye know that.”

She did know that. Becky was a year or two younger than she and had grown up on the estate; they used to play together when they were children. “Yes, yes, I mean, what are you doing in this particular room?”

“Mrs. Stutts sent me up. She said ye needed help.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Stutts, a gray-haired, somewhat dour woman, was the Greyhams' housekeeper. “That was very kind of her, but what would I need help with?”

“With yer clothes and hair.” Becky was clearly struggling not to roll her eyes.

Jo stared at her for a moment, flabbergasted, and then laughed. “You know I make do for myself at home.”

Becky gave her a long look. “Begging yer pardon, Miss Jo, but ye do need help. All the other guests are from Lunnon. Ye don't want to look a country mouse.”

“What do I care if all those London ninnies look down their noses at me?” Jo climbed off the bed and shook out her skirts.

“Oh, ye'll care plenty. I've seen them do it afore. The poor girls those cats turn their claws on end up crying their eyes out.”

“Well, I'm made of sterner stuff.” She was not some delicate, young debutante, and she didn't care about something as superficial as personal appearance. It was a person's intelligence that mattered.

A certain gentleman's image—a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman with dark hair and blue eyes—popped into her thoughts.

All right, it didn't hurt if an intelligent man was also attractive, but it wasn't important. She'd never have given Lord Kenderly a second thought if he had the mental acuity of stewed cabbage.

Well, perhaps she would have given him a second look. A woman would have to be blind not to—the man was as handsome as sin.

He kissed like sin, too, not that she had any experience in the matter. Still he'd definitely made her feel like sinning. Her breasts and belly . . . lower than her belly, actually . . . had felt very, very . . . odd. She—

She was as bad as a runaway horse, and if she didn't rein herself in immediately, she'd come to serious trouble. Yes, the man was handsome; yes, he was intelligent. But he must also be a rake. He was at this disreputable party, wasn't he? And as far as he knew, she was a complete stranger, yet he'd kissed her in that very intimate fashion. Clearly the actions of a rake.

She flushed. She hadn't known who he was when she'd kissed him.

“Mrs. Stutts told me to tell ye the guests are meeting in the blue parlor before dinner,” Becky was saying. “I'm to help ye change.” Becky looked around. “Where's yer trunk? I hope we can find one dress that's not too wrinkled.”

Trunk? Her entire wardrobe wouldn't fill a trunk. “I didn't bring many clothes.”

Becky's eyes had found Jo's bag. “Ye mean this one small valise is all ye have?”

They both stared at the bag in the corner where the footman must have deposited it. It had looked enormous at home, but now in this rather large bedroom . . .

“Yes. You know I've no call for fancy gowns, Becky. I'm a Latin tutor. My students come to me to learn their declensions, not study the latest fashions.”

Becky grunted. “Maybe they'd pay more attention to their studies if they didn't have to look at ye in the dowdy dresses ye wear.”

Dowdy dresses? She should be insulted, but in the opulent surroundings of Greyham Manor, she was afraid Becky might have a point. The Windley hellions certainly weren't impressed with Cicero or Virgil. “My dresses are perfectly serviceable.”

Becky limited herself to an expressive snort and started unfastening Jo's frock. “Ye'll never get through the house party with so few clothes.”

Jo sighed and let Becky help her out of her dress. “Unless you are a magician, I shall have to, shan't I?”

Becky considered Jo's poor little case again and chewed her lip. “Let me see what I can do. I think Lord Greyham's sister was about yer size; leastways everyone always said she was a giant.”

Was Becky determined to insult her at every opportunity? It wasn't her fault most of the females in the neighborhood were midgets—most of the men, too. “I am
not
a giant; I am merely taller than the average woman.”

Lord Kenderly wasn't a midget. He must be over six feet tall; her eyes had been level with his mouth. Mmm, his mouth . . .

She had no business thinking of his height or his mouth. He was an unprincipled rake, like all of Lord Greyham's male guests.

Becky was staring up at her, brows raised, clearly saying—without uttering a word—that Jo was acting like a great ninny.

“And Rosalind married and moved out ten years ago,” Jo said. “Even I know any clothes she left behind would be sadly outdated.”

“Aye, but I'm very clever with my needle.” Becky moved to open the valise and pull out Jo's dinner dress. She shook it out and looked at it doubtfully. “This is yer best gown?”

“Yes.” Her poor frock did look a bit woebegone.

Blast it all, she
knew
she should have refused the invitation to this scandalous party, though she hadn't anticipated her wardrobe as well as her reputation would come under siege.

“At least it's not too creased.” Becky frowned. “I wouldn't have thought this shade of pink would suit ye.”

“It's fine,” Jo said, grabbing the stupid dress from Becky and putting it on. She looked in the mirror.

She'd forgotten how consumptive it made her look. She'd bought it because Mrs. Wiggins, the local dressmaker, had purchased too much cloth for another order and so was willing to make her a gown for almost nothing.

“I don't have occasion to wear it often.” Jo averted her eyes from the mirror. “It serves its purpose.”

“And what would that be? Giving the gentlemen nightmares?”

“Oh, come, Becky.” Jo scowled. This was the problem with growing up in the area; the servants had no compunction about sharing their opinions. “I'm twenty-eight years old. I'm sure I don't appear in any gentleman's dreams.”

Becky glared back at her. “Yer female—that's enough for most men.” She stood back and looked Jo up and down. “And yer not bad looking—or wouldn't be if ye weren't wearing that ugly dress. Ye could even be pretty, if ye made a little effort. Now come sit at the dressing table, and I'll try to put yer hair into some order.”

Jo sat and watched Becky brush her unruly curls. She would like to be pretty, just for this house party. She'd like to appear in Lord Kenderly's dreams....

No. She mustn't forget he was a rake. She'd been misled by his letters; apparently scholars could be as scandalous as any man. “I have no illusions as to why I'm here. I'm merely a poor relation invited to make up the numbers.”

“Aye, and ye'll never be more than that if ye keep thinking that way.”

Jo pressed her lips together. There was no point in arguing further; Becky was—

“Ouch!”

Becky was wielding the brush with a little too much enthusiasm. Her efforts to dispatch one particularly difficult tangle brought tears to Jo's eyes.

“There ye go. At least ye don't look like ye was dragged through a bush backward anymore.”

“Thank you. I'm just glad you left a few hairs still attached to my head.”

“Aye. I had to leave a few for the cats downstairs to rip out, don't ye know.”

Jo lifted her chin, ordered her stomach to stop jumping about like a mouse trapped in the bottom of an empty jug, and headed for the door. “I am not afraid of any London cats.”

She stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind her, but not quickly enough to miss Becky's muttered words: “Ye should be.”

 

 

“Who was the Amazon you had in your arms, Damian?” Stephen took a sip of his Madeira.

“Miss Atworthy. Her father is a Latin scholar and one of my father's Oxford classmates.” Damian surveyed the room. Miss Atworthy had not yet made her appearance. Had she recovered from her faint? He hoped so. He couldn't very well go up to her room and check—well, perhaps he could at this scandalous gathering.

The assembled guests were an odd assortment of dirty dishes. Mr. Roger Dellingcourt, Viscount Sheldon's disreputable heir, was laughing uproariously at something Baron Benedict Wapley had said. As Lord Wapley was not considered a wag, chances were good Dellingcourt had got into Greyham's brandy early. Sir Humphrey Edgert, baronet; Mr. Arthur Maiden—an unfortunate surname; and Mr. Percy Felton, one of the Earl of Brent's many sons, were lounging by the fireplace and, well . . . giggling was the word that came to mind.

The women were no better than the men. Maria Noughton sat next to Lady Blanche Chutley, whispering in her ear, probably trying to get her to lure Damian away from Stephen so Maria could carry out her nefarious matrimonial plan unimpeded. Ursula Handley and Sophia Petwell, both nominally widows though no member of the
ton
had ever met their likely mythical husbands, were standing by the door, talking to Lord and Lady Greyham. Completing the assembled guests were the pleasant-looking, portly Mrs. Butterwick and Lady Imogene Silven, Lady Mardale's daughter, with, rumor had it, one of her footmen.

“Ah,” Stephen said. “So you'd made Miss Atworthy's acquaintance before?”

“No, I saw her for the first time today.” He smiled. She'd looked so fierce and full of passion. His smile broadened. She
was
full of passion. He hadn't been able to get their kiss out of his mind.

“Ha!” Bloody hell, Stephen was almost crowing. “But you're looking forward to seeing her again, aren't you? Seeing and touching and . . . other things.”

Damian shot Stephen a pointed look. “Miss Atworthy is not available for ‘other things.'”

Stephen grinned. “Oh, don't lose hope. I grant you she didn't look like a highflyer, but perhaps looks are deceiving in this case. She
is
here, isn't she?” Stephen glanced around and shrugged. “Well, not here at the moment, but here at this party.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I told you this gathering would be good for you.”

“I am not looking for dalliance.” Well, he hadn't been, but now—

No. He suppressed his baser urges. He was a scholar; he was used to taming the needs of his body to achieve loftier, intellectual goals.

This time his body grumbled more than usual.

He gave Stephen a long look. “I am here to ensure you don't fall prey to Maria Noughton's machinations. You aren't helping matters, by the way. I noticed how you dashed in to see her as soon as you climbed out of the carriage.”

Stephen laughed. “Listen to yourself, Damian. You sound like my mother, though Mama is far less of a wet rag than you.”

Damian opened his mouth to blister Stephen's ears with his opinion of that statement but was deterred by Lord Greyham clapping him on the back.

“Kenderly, Parker-Roth, so good to have you here.”

“Our pleasure, Greyham,” Stephen said.

Damian only managed what he hoped was a civil nod. He was still trying to get his spleen under control.

Greyham dropped his voice and stepped closer. “I wanted to have a word with you, Kenderly, before the party gets under way.”