The Naked Prince (2 page)

“Can't you see the Widow Noughton wants to drag you into parson's mousetrap?” Damian Weston, Earl of Kenderly, leaned back against the squabs of his very comfortable traveling carriage. What he really wanted to do was grab his friend Stephen Parker-Roth by the shoulders and shake some sense into him.

Stephen laughed. “Good God, Damian, are you going to be a bore about the widow the whole bloody house party? Maria doesn't want marriage. She likes variety in her bed far too much to tie herself to one man.”

Damian frowned. “She might like variety, but she wants you. Perhaps she thinks she can have both.”

“Then she's an idiot.”

“Not necessarily. Many members of the
ton
go their separate ways after producing an heir and a spare.”

“And I am not many members of the
ton
. I want a marriage like my parents'. You know that.”

“Ah, but does Lady Noughton know it?”

Stephen shrugged. “I don't believe the topic's ever come up.” He grinned. “I have far more enjoyable things to do with Maria when I visit her than discuss my views on wedlock.”

Damian was sure Stephen did. Maria Noughton's exceptional talent in bed was a frequent topic at White's.

“That may be true, but I assure you Maria Noughton means to have you. She's persuaded herself she's in love with you.” Damian glanced out the window. They were approaching the gates to Greyham's estate. “I imagine her sudden interest in wedded bliss may have something to do with her rather spectacular falling out with the current Lord Noughton.”

“Well, yes, she told me she'd had words with the fellow. The new baron is a bit of a Methodist; stands to reason he wouldn't care for Maria. But she'll come about.”

“As your wife if you aren't careful.”

“And how the hell is she going to manage that?” Stephen's voice had acquired an edge; he was clearly tiring of this subject. “It's not as though she's some blushing virgin. She can't claim I've ruined her reputation; she's no reputation to ruin unless it's her reputation as a nimble piece in bed, and she'd be lying if she said I've hurt that.”

That was the question, wasn't it? How
was
Maria going to trap Stephen? “I don't know what she'll do, but I swear she's got something planned. She's as thick as inkle weavers with Lady Greyham, you know.”

“What of it?” Stephen flicked his fingers at Damian. “You worry too much.”

“And you don't worry enough.” Though that wasn't true normally. Stephen wasn't careless; he wouldn't be so successful a plant hunter if he were. But he'd seemed on edge—reckless even—ever since he'd got back from his last expedition in the fall. He'd been drinking more. And he usually started planning his next trip almost as soon as he set foot on English soil; here it was February, and Damian had yet to hear anything but vague ruminations of another expedition.

Perhaps Stephen's odd behavior had something to do with his older brother's marriage and impending fatherhood; perhaps it was due to his thirtieth birthday approaching. Whatever the cause, it was disturbing. It had worried Damian enough to make him leave his comfortable study and current translation of one of Juvenal's Satires to come to this blasted house party and keep an eye on Stephen.

The coach turned and started up the long drive. Stephen leaned forward to tap Damian on the knee. “You
do
worry too much, you know. I'm the damn King of Hearts, aren't I? I'm not about to be caught unawares.”

Damian shrugged. There was no point in arguing further. Stephen wouldn't listen, and Damian couldn't blame him. Until he had something more than vague worries to offer, he would do best to bite his tongue—and keep his eyes open.

Stephen sat back. “The real joke here is that I've been worried about
you
.”

“You have?” Damian frowned. “Why?”

“Because you've turned into a bloody hermit, that's why. You used to be up for every frisk and frolic, gambling and drinking and wenching as much—or more—than I. You were crowned the Prince of Hearts, after all.”

“A nickname I hate as much as you hate yours.”

“Yes, but now they've taken to calling you Brother Damian, the monk.”

“Ridiculous.”

“Is it? You warn me against Maria, but when was the last time you took a woman to bed?”

“That's none of your bloody business.” Damian felt a hot blush sweep up his neck; he turned to look out the window. Where the hell was Greyham's damn door?

“Can you even remember the last time?”

Damian kept his eyes on the passing scenery. Thank God the coach was finally slowing and he could escape this inquisition. “I've been busy. This translation is very tricky.”

He was afraid he'd see Stephen's jaw hanging if he dared look in that direction.

“A tricky translation,” Stephen said. “Good God.” He reached over and grabbed Damian's shoulder. “Face it, man. When a jumble of letters written by some dead Roman is more interesting than a tumble between the sheets of a warm and lively lady you need help.”

“I—”

Stephen held up his hand. “Say no more. I'm convinced this house party is exactly what you need to cure you of your blue devils.”

“I am not blue deviled.”

“You certainly are if you can't remember the last time you had any bed sport. But don't worry. Greyham is certain to pair you with a pleasant girl unencumbered by morals. Enjoy her, Damian. Tomorrow is Valentine's Day, and Lupercalia the day after. It's a time for love . . . or lust.” Stephen grinned as the coach swayed to a halt. “I certainly intend to enjoy myself—and Maria—to the fullest.”

“That's what I'm afraid of,” Damian muttered as Stephen leapt from the carriage.

Damian descended more sedately, pausing to have a word with his coachman just as a cart clattered up next to him, blocking his path to Greyham's door. Rude, but perhaps the driver thought Stephen had been the carriage's only occupant. He turned to regard the man and bit back a smile.

The fellow—one of Greyham's footmen—looked harassed, as if he were fleeing the Furies. Or perhaps he'd been condemned to escort one of the unpleasant sisters. The woman seated next to him certainly looked the part of an avenging goddess. Her old, ugly bonnet hid her hair so successfully he couldn't tell its color—or if it were indeed a writhing mass of serpents—but her slightly bushy brows were a golden brown. At the moment, they met over her nose in a deep vee of temper, and her generous lips were pressed firmly together as if she'd just bitten into a lemon.

She wasn't beautiful—her nose was too long and her chin too sharp, and she looked to be far too tall and thin—but she drew his attention like a magnet. Her eyes, even angry, were compelling. They were the same golden brown of her brows and were large and fringed with long lashes. Who was she?

Her worn, unfashionable clothing marked her as someone's maid, but her demeanor gave the lie to that theory. Yet she looked nothing like Maria Noughton and her ilk. She couldn't be a guest.

The footman whose job it was to help arriving ladies alight apparently was of the same opinion. He stayed on the portico, sheltered behind one of the pillars, out of the chill February wind.

“Jem!” The cart's driver tried to get his attention, but the wind whipped his words away.

Well, Damian could help. He didn't care if the woman was a duchess or a dairy maid; she was female and could use a hand in descending. He moved around the back of the cart to reach the passenger side.

The woman made a short, annoyed sound. “I can get down myself, you know,” she told the driver and began to suit action to words.

“Miss Atworthy, please—”

Everything happened at once then. The driver, distracted by his passenger, let his hands drop. The pony, beginning to shiver in the wind, took that as an invitation to bolt for the warm barn. Miss Atworthy, gathering her skirts and rising to depart, jerked backward as the cart lurched forward. Her hands flew up into the air, and she screamed as she tumbled over the side.

Damian leapt forward to catch her. A flailing froth of feminine skirts and curves plummeted into his arms.

“
Oof!
” He staggered back a step but managed to keep his feet and his hold on Miss Atworthy. She was not a featherweight. And she was not as thin as he'd guessed, or at least not thin in the important areas. Her bottom and breasts felt very nicely rounded.

She gaped up at him, clearly disoriented by her sudden change in altitude. At this proximity, he saw her eyes had flecks of gold and even hints of green in their depths. Golden brown curls, freed from her bonnet, tumbled over her forehead. He inhaled her scent—lemony, clean and fresh—and it hit his brain like brandy on an empty stomach. He was drunk on the feel and smell of her, and like a drunkard, he acted on his impulses. He bent his head and covered her wide mouth with his.

She stiffened, and he thought for a moment she'd push him away, but then she relaxed, so he let his tongue go where it wished—into her warm mouth.

She tasted sweet, full of promise.

Stephen was right: it had been far too long since he'd been with a woman. Perhaps he
would
enjoy himself at this damn house party—when he wasn't keeping an eye on Stephen, of course.

Her tongue tentatively touched his.

Or maybe he'd let Stephen go to hell with Maria. He had more interesting things on which to focus. He drank in her warmth, her intoxicating sweetness, her maddening mix of innocence and desire.

He was lost in her until his body protested. His cock ached, but so did his back. Standing had never been his preferred position for lovemaking, and Miss Atworthy was far too heavy to hold for an extended period. It would not endear him to her if he dropped her on her delightful posterior.

He eased out of the kiss and raised his head. She blinked at him, eyes wide and slightly bewildered, and her finger crept up to touch her lips. He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring fashion as he let her legs slide slowly down his body, keeping his arm around her back. She felt very good indeed.

He grinned. “Curls, not snakes.”

“What?” She frowned as her feet touched the ground.

“Your hair.” He tugged on a lock that had fallen over her forehead. It sprang back as if it had a life of its own. “You looked like one of the Furies, sitting next to that poor footman in the cart.”

“I did not.”

“You did. You were scowling just like you are now.”

Her frown deepened—and then she apparently remembered he still had his arm around her. She flushed and jumped away, catching her heel on her hem.

His hands shot out to steady her. “Careful.”

“Miss Atworthy,” the driver called as he ran up, having finally got the pony under control and handed the reins off to Jem. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, thank you, but if it hadn't been for Mr. . . .” She frowned again; the woman spent far too much time with her brows lowered. “I'm afraid I don't know your name, sir.”

“Damian Weston.” He inclined his head. “Earl of Kenderly.” He turned to the footman. “I'll see to Miss Atworthy; please have her things taken up to her room.”

“Yes, milord.”

He offered Miss Atworthy his arm; she took it somewhat gingerly. Odd. She wasn't a young miss, and after that kiss, he wouldn't say she was shy—

No, that wasn't accurate. The kiss had been hot, but not practiced; it had not been the kiss of an experienced flirt. And with the last name of Atworthy . . .

“Are you perhaps Josiah Atworthy's daughter?”

She stiffened. “I am.”

Now why the hell did she suddenly look so guarded? He smiled in an attempt to put her at ease. “I hope to pay your father a visit while I am in the area. He and my father were classmates at Oxford; in fact, my father used to say he had a bone to pick with yours.”

“Oh?” Miss Atworthy looked straight ahead, her expression stony. It was hard to believe he'd just been kissing her. “I don't believe I've heard Papa mention your father.”

“No? Well, my father claimed your papa borrowed his rare copy of ”—he paused; better not be too specific—“Ovid's poems and neglected to return it.”

Her fingers tightened on his arm, and she shot him a quick, sharp glance before returning her gaze to Greyham's portico. “That seems very odd. I wonder why your father never came to retrieve it if it was so valuable.”

Did the girl think he was prevaricating? “Oh, I rather doubt it's valuable.”

She threw him another look. “If it's rare, it must be valuable.”

“Not necessarily. A three-legged dog is rare but not valuable.”

“A book is not a three-legged dog.”

“True.” He shrugged. “All I know is my father seemed more amused than anything over the situation. I never asked him about it, though. Perhaps I shall ask your father. Did he not speak of it?”

“N-no.”

Now why did Miss Atworthy look so guilty? “Perhaps he didn't think it a suitable topic for your tender ears.”

She made an odd gurgling sound. “Trust me, Papa doesn't spare my sensibilities.”

“I think you do him an injustice. I've found him to be far more perceptive than I would have guessed, especially from hearing my father's stories.”

Miss Atworthy stopped dead and stared at him. “Are you sure you're talking about my papa?”

He laughed. “Well, it did take me a little while to puzzle out who J.A. was.”