The Naked Prince (8 page)

“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 Atworthy'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 accident,” Jo said. “I thought I'd just run down to find a book; I had no idea Lord Greyham'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.”

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.

Cautiously she poked her head out and looked up and down the corridor—no one in sight, thank God. She eased out of her room and hurried as quietly as she could to Lord Kenderly's chamber. She scratched on the door.

“Damnation, Viola.” She heard Sir Humphrey's voice as the door to the room across the way began to open. “I don't want to go scampering around Greyham's grass naked as a needle. It's February; I'll freeze my—”

Sir Humphrey and Mrs. Butterwick would see her if Lord Kenderly didn't let her in immediately. What was taking him so long?

She couldn't wait another instant. She turned the knob and scrambled inside, shutting the door behind her just as Sir Humphrey stepped into the passage.

That had been far too close. She turned to give the earl a piece of her mind. “Lord Kend-ack!” She caught her foot on her pelisse and fell forward—onto a naked chest.

“
Oof.
” Lord Kenderly grunted as his arms came around her to steady her.

Her nose was smashed up against warm, hard flesh and soft, springy hair. Mmm. He smelled of soap and eau de cologne.

“I seem to make a habit of catching you,” he said.

She felt his words rumble in his chest even as they whispered past her ear.

She'd never encountered a naked male chest before. Men were always covered in layers of fabric: shirt, waistcoat, coat. She slid her hands over Lord Kenderly's hard planes and around to his equally hard back. She'd wager a week's worth of Latin lessons few men had chests as impressive as this one. And had she glimpsed . . . ? She slipped her fingers a little lower. Yes. The man had only a thin towel covering his hips.

Something hard began to press against her belly....

“Jo.”

Damian's voice was rough and breathless. She looked up.

The hot expression in his eyes caused her jaw to drop. She watched his mouth descend, and then she closed her eyes as his lips covered hers, his tongue sweeping past her teeth, deep inside. One of his hands landed on her derriere, pushing her tightly against his interesting bulge, while the other skimmed up her side to cup her breast.

Hot, liquid need rushed through her like a stream after a violent summer rain.

She had too much clothing on; he had too much. She slid her hands up his naked back and then down again, lower, all the way to—

He jerked his head up and put both hands on her shoulders, pushing her back. She watched his towel start to slip—

Blast! He grabbed it before it had fallen very far. She caught only a glimpse of a dark thatch of curly hair, and then the cloth was back in place. Well, not quite in place. The hard ridge she'd been pressed against must have grown—was still growing, forming a definite tent in—

“Will you stop that?” Damian grabbed a bright yellow pillow off a chair and held it in front of him like a shield.

“Stop what?” Breathing? She was certainly having a hard time getting her lungs to work, and her heart was beating erratically as well.

Damian did look like Michelangelo's
David
come to life. His upper arms curved with muscle; his shoulders were unbelievably broad; the short dark hair she'd had her cheek against just moments ago dusted his chest and trailed in a line over his flat stomach down to . . . the pillow.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

Her eyes flew back to his face. He sounded as if he was in pain. He looked as if he was in pain—white lines bracketed his mouth and a deep crease separated his brows. “Are you feeling quite the thing?”

“No, I am not. I am feeling . . .” He took a deep breath. “I am feeling as if I should consign my good friend Stephen and his future happiness to the devil so I can attend to my own happiness now. Immediately. With you.” He jerked his head toward the bed. “Naked.”

“My lord!” The most shocking part of his shocking statement was the way her breasts and her . . . feminine parts throbbed in eager agreement.

“Don't worry, I have myself under control”—he glared at her—“as long as you stop staring at me that way.”

“What way?”

His voice dropped. “As if you want to touch every last inch of my person—”

She whipped her hands behind her back.

“—with your lips.” She watched his throat move as he swallowed. “And tongue.”

Little tongues of flame shot all over her skin. Her nipples peaked into hard, sensitive points; her, ah, nether regions felt as if he'd lit a bonfire right between her legs. She bit back a moan. “I-I'm not.”

“You are.” He took another deep breath. “Unfortunately, this room lacks a dressing screen. If you will turn around . . . ?”

She stared at him. Turn around?

He made a little circular motion with his finger, but her brain was no longer functioning. The firelight played over his lovely, lovely muscles.

He shrugged. “Very well, if you wish to watch.” He dropped the pillow and put his hands on the towel.

Jo spun around to give him her back. She wanted to watch, depraved spinster that she was, but she didn't want Lord Kenderly to think she did. If only there were a mirror handy.

She must stop thinking of Lord Kenderly's muscles and other, er, attractions. “Why in the world did you decide to bathe now?”

“Because I stayed downstairs to keep an eye on Lady Noughton, and Mr. Felton managed to spill a very large glass of ale all over me. To be blunt about it, I was wet and sticky, and I stunk.”

“But then why did you leave it to so late?”

“I didn't.” The words were muffled; he must be putting on his shirt. “You were early.”

“I was not. I was two minutes late.”

“Then your clock is fast. It's only eleven thirty-five now. Come on.”

She turned to find he was dressed all in black. He picked her pelisse off the floor where it had landed when she'd landed on his chest and helped her into it. Then he put on a black cloak, opened the door, and looked out.

“All clear,” he said, taking her hand. He pulled her to the right.

She stopped and tugged back. “The stairs are the other way,” she whispered.

“The main stairs are. There are servant stairs here.” He opened a door Jo hadn't noticed before.

“How did you find these?”

“I make it a policy to be observant. It's often handy to have an alternate exit when things turn unpleasant.”

“And do things often turn unpleasant?” She followed him down a narrow flight of steps.

“Not any longer, but it's a habit I formed when I was younger and more daring.” He looked over his shoulder and grinned at her. “And stupider.”

Jo put a hand on Damian's arm to stop him when they reached the outside door. “Do you think we'll encounter any of the other guests celebrating Lupercalia? Sir Humphrey and Mrs. Butterwick were leaving his room when I arrived at yours—which is why I came in so precipitately.”

Damian laughed. “Sir Humphrey naked—now there's a sight that would turn one to stone. Just the thought roils my stomach. But no, I don't think so. At least not yet.” He pushed open the door and a blast of frigid air accosted them.

Jo shivered. “I can't imagine going out without a warm coat let alone without a stitch of clothing.”

“They were all gathering in the study to fortify themselves with Greyham's brandy, so they'll be as drunk as emperors when they venture outside. They won't feel the cold—they won't feel anything. Pull up your hood and lead the way.”

It was a clear night. The moon was almost full, and Lord Greyham, anticipating the Lupercalia festivities, had hung lanterns from the trees, so it was easy to follow the path down through the garden. They saw the bathhouse as soon as they rounded the last curve. It was a long building with a barrel-vaulted roof. Lights flickered in the windows. Jo stopped short, causing Damian to bump into her. He pulled her off the path behind a tree.

“What is it?” he whispered.

“We're too late. See the lights? They are already there.”

He looked at the building. “No, not necessarily. Greyham said the festivities are to end in the bathhouse; he probably sent servants down earlier to get things ready.”

“Oh.” Jo let out the breath she'd been holding. She was not used to sneaking around in the dark, and she was still rather unsettled from the events in Lord Kenderly's room. She could not get the picture—or the feel—of his naked chest out of her mind. “You are probably right.”

“Of course I am. You said Maria specified midnight in her card, which is shortly before the revelers should arrive. I think she realizes Stephen is becoming disenchanted with her, and she needs to spring her trap tonight if she wants to catch him.” His even, white teeth flashed in the moonlight as he grinned. “She's not shown herself to advantage here.”

“That's an understatement. I'd say she was a complete harpy.”

He laughed. “Exactly.”

They continued down the path, approaching the building cautiously. Damian tried the door; it was unlocked. He cracked it open, and they paused, listening. Jo heard the quiet lapping of water against the sides of the pool, the drip of condensation, the hiss and pop of a fire—but no footsteps or conversation. “They aren't here yet.”

“No, they aren't.” Damian pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Blech, what is that smell?”

Jo wrinkled her nose. “The minerals in the water, I think. I don't remember it being so strong, but then, I haven't been here in probably fifteen years.”

“Perhaps the heat makes it worse. Greyham has five—no, six—braziers going.”

“It
is
oppressive.” Jo unbuttoned her pelisse; Damian helped her off with it and then shed his cloak, coat, and waistcoat. He stuffed all their outer garments in a corner, out of sight behind a large, decorative urn.

They walked farther into the bathhouse, their feet echoing on the tile floor. The room was about forty yards long and perhaps twenty yards wide with large stone pillars along each side. The pool, dark and murky and green, took up most of the space.

Perspiration beaded on Jo's lip, rolled down her sides, pooled between her breasts. It was hotter than Hades—or so she would imagine, not having yet visited that place; however, given her reaction to Damian's broad shoulders, narrow waist, and splendid arse, she might be heading there shortly.

“I suppose Greyham wanted to raise the temperature to thaw the naked idiots,” Damian said. He turned and frowned down at her. “Which you should not be here to see.”

“I will close my eyes.” She should close them now. Damian's fine lawn shirt was plastered to him, revealing his wonderful chest and shoulders. She forced herself to look away before he noticed she was staring at him like a child at a sweets counter. “There aren't any good places to hide, are there?”

“No, unfortunately. We'll just have to stand behind a pillar and hope for the best.”

They positioned themselves so they were hidden from the door. Damian was still frowning.

“I do wish I didn't need you here,” he said. “If only I could—but it's too late for second thoughts. I don't have time to escort you back, and with drunken idiots running wild, it's not safe for you to go back by yourself.”

She had no intention of leaving, but it wasn't fear of naked nodcocks that kept her in the bathhouse. “Oh, I'm sure the revelers would just pass me by. Even Papa says no one would take liberties with me.” That comment still rankled, even if it was true.

“What?” Damian's eyebrows shot up. “Haven't I already proved him wrong?”

“Oh. Well, er . . .” Damian
had
kissed her when she'd fallen from the cart and again when she'd hidden in the library. And he'd taken more than a few liberties with her in his room.