The Naked Prince (7 page)

“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
possible.”

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?”

“
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—