The Naked King (15 page)

“Why should I?”

“That’s right, you’re new to Town. Let me enlighten you. Maria—Lady Noughton—is Parker-Roth’s mistress. Some amongst society thought they might wed.” He smiled. How had she never noticed his teeth were crooked and rather stained? “There’s no reason why they shouldn’t. Maria is perfectly good
ton
—her father and her husband were barons—and Parker-Roth is only a commoner, after all. This sudden betrothal was quite a shock for the poor woman.”

Anne didn’t care a farthing about Lady Noughton’s heart—she doubted the woman had one—but she did care about Mr. Parker-Roth’s. She could tell when she’d mentioned the widow earlier there’d been something between them. Was that why he’d been drunk in Hyde Park? Had they had a falling out and he’d been drowning his sorrows? That must have been why he’d kissed her; she certainly wouldn’t normally inspire passion in such a man.

Surely he’d find a way to let Lady Noughton know his betrothal was temporary—

She was letting Brentwood confuse her. If the woman was Mr. Parker-Roth’s mistress, he could tell her whatever he wished in bed.

Damn it, Brentwood’s hand was wandering. It came to rest on her derriere; she stepped on his toes as hard as she could.

“Ow!” He scowled at her, but he removed his roving fingers.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I was distracted by something brushing the back of my dress. I do hope it won’t happen again.” She smiled.

He grunted. “As I said, everyone thought Parker-Roth would wed Maria—Maria certainly thought so.”

“But as I’m sure you know, the world is full of disappointments.” She let her elbow swing wide as he started to crowd her side. He dodged.

“Ah, but will Parker-Roth be disappointed?”

What did he mean by that? She wasn’t about to ask. “Mr. Parker-Roth and I understand each other. I assure you, you need not busy yourself in our affairs.”

Brentwood looked thoughtful—or as thoughtful as the idiot could look. “So he knows you’re not a virgin?”

This was plain speaking indeed. Pray God no one could overhear their conversation or wonder why she’d suddenly assumed a hue a shade darker than her dress—damn her coloring. “You are offensive, Lord Brentwood.”

“But does he know? Perhaps you’ve already been in his bed? That’s what some of the gossips say.” He leered at her. “Did you scream his name when you came like you screamed mine in Gedding’s garden?”

She was not embarrassed now, she was furious. She should not continue this conversation, but the anger and hurt and, yes, hatred, that had been festering in her for ten years—and perhaps even the weight of this false betrothal ring—made her reckless. “Your memory is faulty. I don’t know—or care to know—your Christian name, Lord Brentwood. If I screamed on that cursed day, it was from pain and shock.”

She stopped and tried to jerk her hands out of his hold. He wouldn’t release her. Another couple collided with them.

“Our apologies,” Brentwood said, starting to waltz again. She was forced to move with him.

“My, my, such venom.” His nasty little eyes studied her; she forced herself not to look away. “You
are
much more . . . interesting than you were in your youth. You know, from the rumors flying through the
ton
, I was certain you’d already warmed Parker-Roth’s bed, but now . . . I think not.”

He nodded, his smile turning even more unpleasant. “He does think you’re a virgin, doesn’t he? I wonder if he would withdraw his offer if he learned he’s getting damaged goods.”

She was certain silence was the best response. She hoped so, since she couldn’t manage to speak.

“Men can be odd about the women they choose to wed, my dear. Parker-Roth may not have a title and he may be only a second son, but I’ll wager he still has the silly notion he should marry a virgin. He’ll be sadly disappointed on his wedding night, won’t he, when there’s no blood on the sheets?”

Oh, God. Dread spiraled in her stomach.

But, no, she needn’t worry. They weren’t actually going to marry—there would be no wedding night.

The thought didn’t make her happy.

Brentwood leaned closer, choking her with another blast of garlic and onions. “Lady Anne, I believe it’s my duty as a fellow male to alert poor Parker-Roth.” He nodded, his little, rat-like eyes never leaving her face. “Indeed, I should drop a word of warning in any man’s ear who might be so led astray.”

He smiled in a very nasty manner. “But then Parker-Roth would be caught on the horns of a dilemma, wouldn’t he? Call off the wedding and risk society’s condemnation or go through with the ceremony and wed you.” He gave a gusty, false sigh. “No, I think it best if I just spread the word of your infamy, don’t you? It could so easily be accomplished. You’ve already set the stage with that scandalous public kiss. Just a word here and there, and you wouldn’t find a single door in Mayfair open to you—or your lovely sister. Too bad her Season would be ended before it truly has begun.”

“You wouldn’t—”

“Oh, but I would, Lady Anne. I most certainly would.” He smiled again and her stomach knotted. “I might even be tempted to whisper the truth in your little sister’s ear. I could take her on a garden stroll and . . . enlighten her. She’s far more beautiful than you were when you were her age.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Anne tried to swallow her horror. She knew he
would
dare.

Brentwood laughed. “Oh, my dear, of course I would, and I’d enjoy every moment of it. However, I might be persuaded to hold my tongue—and other organ—if we came to an agreement, you and I.”

“An agreement?” The words were forced out of her. She couldn’t let Evie be hurt if she could prevent it.

“An agreement, yes. A night in my bed for my silence. That’s not so much to ask, is it? I’ll even give you a little time to accustom yourself to the thought—or to grow wet and eager with anticipation, hmm?”

The only thing that was going to grow wet was Brentwood’s waistcoat and breeches when she vomited all over them here in Lord Kenderly’s ballroom.

“A week from tonight, shall we say? Yes. A week from tonight we’ll be waltzing again, but in my bed.” He turned her hand over and pressed a kiss to her wrist. “Trust me—you will enjoy it.”

Thank God the music finally ended.

Chapter 12

“Take the carriage home, Albert,” Stephen said as he followed the ladies up to Crane House’s front door. “I’ll be a while—I shall walk home.”

“But, sir—”

“That will be all, Albert.” Stephen was not in a mood to bandy words with his coachman.

Albert set the horses in motion.

Clorinda paused and frowned at him as Hobbes opened the door. “What do you mean you’ll be a while, sir? It’s late; you are not invited in.”

“I’m inviting myself in, madam. Lady Anne and I have things to discuss.” Evie was frowning at him, too. He glanced at Anne; she was studying her gloves.

It had been an extremely strained carriage ride from Damian’s town house, so different from the trip there. The tension between him and Anne had killed even Evie’s excited discussion of her first London ball. He was sorry for it, but he could not turn his thoughts from the spectacle of Anne waltzing with Brentwood.

And Anne had been on edge herself. It wasn’t only his ill-temper that had poisoned the atmosphere.

“It can wait until the morning, sir,” Clorinda said.

A small, reasonable voice whispered in his heated brain, agreeing it might be better to put off any discussions until his spleen had settled. He silenced the voice. “It cannot. I must speak with Anne tonight.”

“You are very rude.” Clorinda turned as if to block the doorway. Hobbes, standing behind her, wrung his hands.

“I am very determined.”

“Anne,” Evie said, “do you wish to speak to Mr. Parker-Roth? If you don’t, I’m certain Mr. Hobbes will deny him entrance.”

Hobbes’s eyes widened and he looked around rather wildly, as if searching for a few strong footmen to assist him. Wise man. Stephen didn’t want to hurt the fellow, but he was not going to be deterred.

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” Anne finally said, throwing him a distinctly annoyed look before she stepped past Clorinda. “Of course the man can come in if he wishes.” She nodded at Hobbes as she entered the foyer. Hobbes smiled in evident relief.

“Thank you.” Stephen let Clorinda and Evie precede him, but only by a half step. Hobbes wouldn’t try to keep him out, but he wouldn’t put it past the women to slam the door in his face.

Anne had already shed her cloak and was heading for the stairs. He stepped past Clorinda and grasped her elbow. “I said we needed to talk.”

She glared at him, but he thought he saw a touch of fear in her eyes as well. That made him even angrier. She couldn’t be afraid of him; she must know he’d never hurt a woman, and he’d certainly never hurt her.

“I said you could come in; I didn’t say I’d talk to you.” Anne shrugged one shoulder and looked away from him. “I’m tired.”

“Exactly,” Clorinda said, removing her cloak and handing it to Hobbes. “We are all tired.” She looked pointedly at Stephen. “Very, very tired. You go on up to bed, Evie. I’m sure we’ll be along shortly.”

“Very well.” Evie looked uncertainly from her sister to her cousin to him. “Thank you for escorting us tonight, sir. Even though things seem a bit . . . unsettled at the moment, I wish to say I truly had a wonderful evening.”

He forced his lips to unlock so he could bend them into something approaching a smile. “I’m very glad to hear it, Evie. And I would say you were a complete success. You’ll have all the young men of the
ton
—and some of the older ones—at your feet.”

A shy smile lit her face. “Oh, do you really think so?” She blushed.

His face loosened more and he grinned. “I really think so.”

“And your brother . . .?” Her blush deepened. “He was very amiable.”

He laughed. Oh ho, did the wind blow in that direction? It would be awkward if he couldn’t settle matters with Anne—and Nick was still very young—but it might be a good match. “Poor Nick was completely bowled over by your charm and beauty, Lady Evangeline.”

“Oh, now you are funning, sir.” She looked extremely embarrassed and equally pleased.

“Weren’t you on your way to bed, Evie?” Clorinda asked.

“Yes, of course. Good night.” Evie curtseyed and then almost skipped up the stairs.

“At least someone’s happy,” Clorinda said, watching Evie. Anne kept her eyes on the newel post, inspecting it as if it were some strange, new architectural marvel. Clorinda speared him with a dark look. “And now, sir, as I’ve said, we are all tired. This had better not take long.”

Did Clorinda think to chaperone them? She would be very much in the way. “There is no need for you to stay up, madam. Your presence is not required.”

“Of course it’s required. You are not yet married to Lady Anne, Mr. Parker-Roth.”

“I’m betrothed to her.”

“And betrothed isn’t married, is it?”

Anne made an odd, little sound—a cross between a slightly hysterical giggle and a snort of exasperation. “You may go up to bed, Clorinda. Mr. Parker-Roth is not going to r-rape me.”

“Anne!”

Clorinda sounded as shocked as Stephen felt. He wasn’t some shy virgin, but to hear that ugly word on Anne’s lips, to think of that ugly action as having anything to do with what was between them was sickening.

Anne swiped at her eyes—was she crying? “I’m sorry. I really am tired. It was a more stressful evening than I anticipated.”

Clorinda put her arm around Anne’s shoulders. “And Mr. Parker-Roth is a beast for even thinking of keeping you up another instant. You can talk to him in the morning. Come—”

Anne shook her head and slipped out from under Clorinda’s arm. “No, it’s best he and I speak now. I couldn’t sleep if I did go upstairs. I’m too”—she waved her hand vaguely—“agitated to rest. You go on ahead.”

There was real concern in Clorinda’s eyes and voice. “You’re certain?”

Anne nodded. “Yes. And don’t wait up. I’ll be fine, truly.”

“Well, all right. I
am
tired . . .” Clorinda gave Stephen one more stern look. “I expect you to behave like a perfect gentleman, Mr. Parker-Roth. I am relying on your honor.”

He bowed. “You may do so without the slightest hesitation, madam. I do sincerely care for Lady Anne’s welfare, you know.”

She examined him a moment more and then nodded. “Very well. Good night then.”

“Good night.”

They watched Clorinda make her slow way up the stairs. Once she’d disappeared from sight, Anne turned to Stephen. “Are you going to ring a peal over my head now?”

Stephen looked around. Hobbes had left as soon as he’d locked the door behind them. They were alone, but he did not wish to have this discussion in such an exposed place. Sound carried, especially when spoken in a marble hall with a wide staircase. “Isn’t there a place we can be private—other than the study or the odd room with the obscene knickknacks?” Neither option appealed at the moment.

Anne jutted out her chin. “We
are
private.”

There was no point in wasting more time arguing. He took one of the candlesticks and Anne’s arm and directed her toward the back of the house. “Do I need to open every door, or will you tell me when we arrive at a suitable room for our talk?”

He passed the odd room and the library. They didn’t need much space; just a door that closed and walls that would absorb their words.

Anne grumbled and stepped ahead of him. “The green sitting room should do,” she said, pulling open a door near the end of the hall.

It was a small room with an assortment of chairs and tables and a large chaise-longue. The fire had been banked; the air was chilly. Anne shivered.

Stephen shut the door behind them and then struggled out of his coat. He draped it over Anne’s shoulders and went to throw a log on the fire.

Anne pulled the coat tight around her. It was warm with the heat of Mr. Parker-Roth’s body. She buried her nose in the cloth—he was turned away from her; he wouldn’t notice—and breathed deeply. It smelled of him, too.

Oh, God, what was she going to do about Brentwood?

Panic threatened to strangle her. She couldn’t think about it now. She was far too upset.

She watched the muscles in Mr. Par—no
Stephen’s
—back shift as he poked the fire, bringing it back to life, and she felt something flicker deep inside her.

He was angry with her. He would tell her how she shouldn’t have acted the way she had waltzing with Brentwood.

She didn’t want to argue. She didn’t want his anger. She wanted his strength, his warmth. Him.

He’d awakened something in her, this little flickering need. It had stirred when he’d first kissed her, and it had grown stronger when she’d seen how he’d looked at her before the ball, when he’d teased her in the carriage on the way there, when he’d taken her into the garden and kissed her.

She’d been angry with him; he was angry with her.

She didn’t want to be angry any longer. Not now. Now she wanted a different kind of heat, something to make her forget anger and fear. Forget shame. Forget Brentwood.

The fire must finally be burning to his satisfaction; he put the poker down and turned to face her. The lawn of his shirt was so fine, she could see his arms through the fabric.

If only he weren’t still wearing his waistcoat.

“Don’t look at me that way, Anne.” He sounded tense again, but not angry.

“What way?” The fire was working amazingly quickly; she was quite warm now. Hot, even. She slipped Stephen’s jacket off her shoulders and hung it carefully over the back of a chair.

She walked toward him. She felt . . . reckless.

She stopped when she got to within a few feet of him. Closer and she might completely embarrass herself by starting to unbutton his waistcoat. Her fingers itched to do so.

She wanted to feel his hands on her again. She wanted to taste his mouth again. After her waltz with Brentwood, she needed to feel Stephen’s touch to feel clean again.

She closed her eyes briefly. She should tell him her secret; she should not lie to him with silence.

She didn’t want to tell him, not now. What harm would there be in delaying?

She would tell him . . . later.

“Are you going to give me a thorough tongue-lashing ?” she asked.

Oh! A jolt of heat shot from her breasts to the place between her legs. She should not have mentioned tongues.

“I should.” Stephen’s voice wasn’t much more than a strained whisper. He was staring back at her, an air of . . . hunger about him.

She wet her lips and watched his eyes follow her tongue. “Why?”

He blinked. “Why, what?”

She was having a hard time following this conversation as well. Her body was shouting at her to stop talking and do something better with her mouth. “Why do you wish to give me a dressing-down?”

His eyes flicked over her. She
had
said “give me a dressing-down” and not “take my dress down,” hadn’t she? She was certain she’d said the former; she wished she’d said the latter.

“Yes.” His eyes snapped back to her face. “Yes, I want . . . I want to . . .”

He stepped toward her and grabbed her shoulders. He shook her, not hard, but hard enough that one loose hairpin fell, sending a length of hair tumbling down to cover his fingers. He dropped his hold on her as if scalded, whipping his hands behind his back.

“What were you thinking this evening?” His voice was hoarse.

“When this evening?” She could easily reach his waistcoat buttons now. They were calling to her. “In the garden with you?”

She flushed. She should not have said that either; she did not wish to tell him what she’d been thinking—and feeling—then. Though if she did, would he be so kind as to make her think and feel those things again? The door was closed. She was already a fallen woman. At twenty-seven, she would likely not get many more chances for this kind of . . . activity.

Once he knew the truth—once everyone knew the truth—she’d get no more chances at all, unless she wished to take up the usual occupation of fallen women.

“No, damn it.” Stephen sounded goaded. “When you were dancing with Brentwood.”

Brentwood. Oh. She felt trapped and dirty again.

And what had Stephen been doing while she’d been suffering with Lord Brentwood?

Perhaps anger
was
better than this cold, sick feeling.

“I’m surprised you noticed. I thought all your attention was on your partner—your
mistress
—Lady Noughton.”

His brows snapped down. “Did Brentwood tell you Maria was my mistress?”

He’d called the woman by her first name.

Anne bit her lip. It felt like he’d stabbed her with a knife.

Stupid! It was nothing to her what Mr. Parker-Roth did. She and he were strangers, brought together by scandal and this sham betrothal. They would part ways—to her great delight—by the end of the Season. Sooner, if possible.

If she tried to speak, she’d cry. She nodded, but one ridiculous tear leaked out anyway.

He must think her the most pathetic creature in Christendom.

His hand came up to cradle her jaw; his thumb caught the tear and wiped it away. His voice was now as gentle as his touch.

“She was my mistress, Anne, but she is no longer. We parted ways in February. It took me too long, but I finally saw what a petty, grasping woman she is.”

Now both his hands held her face tilted up toward his. He was staring at her mouth. Her lips felt swollen. Her heart—and an organ rather lower down—started to pound. She put her hands on his waistcoat.

“There’s been no one else in my bed since.” He brushed his lips over her forehead, over her cheek. “And never anyone in my heart.”

His mouth touched hers then, just touched it, not pressing, not mashing her lips against her teeth as Brentwood had done during that terrible house party.

She wanted more pressure, but she made herself stay still. If this was her only chance, she would not rush it. Though she was no longer a virgin, she knew nothing about physical love. She wanted to see if there was more to it than the embarrassment and pain Brentwood had given her. What better way to find out than to let the King of Hearts be her teacher?

He lifted his head, his hands sliding up into her hair, plucking her pins free, dropping them to the carpet. She felt her wild red mane tumble down over her shoulders and back.