The Naked Viscount (25 page)

A sliver of sobriety wormed its way into his sodden brain. He coughed.

“As opposed to the beauty.” She sounded indifferent, but he saw the hurt in her eyes before she turned abruptly and started walking briskly toward Grosvenor Gate. Even Harry gave him a reproachful look as he left.

Damn. That hadn't been well done of him. He should let her go. She would not want to spend another moment in his presence.

He couldn't let her go. He did
not
break hearts, nor offend anyone, at least unintentionally. He had to apologize. He took off after her.

Crane's daughter—what was her name? Damned if he could remember. No one at White's had talked much about the bluestocking—who had a long stride, but she was hampered by her skirts, and Stephen was used to walking long distances. He caught up to her quickly.

As he feared, she was crying.

“Go away.” She wouldn't look at him.

“Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that quite the way it sounded.”

She snorted—and then had to sniff repeatedly. He offered her his handkerchief.

“Thank you.” She glared at him briefly, her eyes quite red behind her spectacles. He took Harry's leash, so she could blow her nose, which she did rather defiantly. She looked anywhere but at him.

He felt an odd pain in his chest. A bout of indigestion, most likely. He'd certainly had too much to drink. Once he saw Lady…Lady…

“Er, you never told me your name.”

She shrugged. “And you never told me yours.”

“So I didn't.” He inclined his head. “Stephen Parker-Roth, at your service.”

“What?” She stumbled on a crack in the pavement. He reached to grab her, but she avoided his hand.
“The King of Hearts?”

“Ah, well, yes, some people call me that.” He cleared his throat. “I'm rather good—or lucky—with cards.”

Cards? Anne sniffed. “It's not
cards
you're good with.”

“It is.”

The rogue looked like a blasted choir boy, as sinless as a cherub, but she knew through long association with her half brothers not to trust that mask of innocence. “Oh?” She allowed her skepticism to show in her voice.

He had the grace to laugh. “I grant you my skill with cards is not the only reason I got that dam—er, unfortunate nickname.” He raised his brows. “How do you know it, Lady—” He frowned. “Devil a bit, I
still
don't know your name.”

She might as well tell him. He would learn it soon enough once the Season got underway. “Anne. My name is Lady Anne.”

“Lady Anne,” he said.

Her name sounded like someone else's when he said it—someone beautiful, or at least someone interesting. Someone he was interested in.

Idiot! Only a complete noddy would think the King of Hearts could have the slightest interest in a red-headed, bespectacled bluestocking. She was
glad
he wasn't interested in her. She wasn't interested in him.

She was a terrible liar.

“So how is it, Lady Anne, that you know my nickname when you have so recently arrived in Town? If gossip is correct, the earl dumped you—” He coughed. “I mean
deposited
you at Crane House just yesterday.”

Dumped was the correct description. Papa could barely stand to pause the coach long enough to let her, Evie, and the boys out. He certainly hadn't waited for their baggage to arrive; he and Georgiana were far too anxious to get to the docks and board their ship for Greece. Fortunately Cousin Clorinda, being in London already, had moved in the day before, but things were still very much at sixes and sevens.

“The London papers come even to the country, you know.”

He raised one eyebrow and looked annoyingly superior. “So you can peruse the gossip columns?”

She glared at him. “So I can read the entire paper.”

And, yes, perhaps she had paid particular attention to gossip concerning the K—of H—. She'd taken an interest—a
scholarly
interest—in him. She'd come across an article in Papa's
Gentleman's Magazine
a year or two ago, an account Mr. Parker-Roth had written describing one of his plant hunting expeditions. He'd sounded exceptionally intelligent and rather intrepid—obviously he'd learned how to be as cozening in print as in person.

She flushed. She'd dreamt about him once or twice, too. She was lonely on occasion—well, most of the time. He'd caught her fancy—what harm was there in a little romantic woolgathering? She was never going to meet him.

Except she just had.

One would think a twenty-seven-year-old spinster would have more sense, especially a woman with her experience.

Apparently, one would be wrong.

Traffic was beginning to pick up. The streets and walks had been deserted when she'd left Crane House earlier—a very good thing as she'd had to run to keep up with Harry. Of course now the stupid dog was walking sedately at Mr. Parker-Roth's side.

“The
ton
is always making up nicknames for people,” he was saying. “They'll probably christen you and your sister as soon as you attend your first social event.”

“I sincerely hope not.” Blast it, how was she going to navigate these treacherous social waters with only Cousin Clorinda to help her? She bit her lip. It was just like Papa and Georgiana to go off to dig in the dirt, leaving her in charge of the children. Not that Evie was a child any longer. Of course not. They wouldn't be in this mess if she were.

She swallowed a sigh. Thankfully, Evie was a sensible girl—but Anne had considered herself sensible once, too. All it had taken was one experienced, London beau paying her a little attention—

Dear God, what if Brentwood was here in Town?

She struggled to take a deep breath. No, she couldn't be that unlucky. She'd been reading the gossip columns very carefully for weeks and had not seen his name.

But if he
were
in London—

It didn't matter. The…event had happened so long ago and been such a small occurrence in his life, he must not remember a bit of it.

“A penny for your thoughts, Lady Anne.”

Her heart thudded into her throat. “I, ah, wasn't thinking about anything.”

“No? You looked—”

“Oh, yes, look, here we are at Crane House already.”
Thank God!
“What a surprise. I don't know how we got here so quickly.” She was blathering, but if she kept talking, he couldn't ask her questions she didn't want to answer. “Thank you for escorting me and for taking charge of Harry. If you will just give me his leash, you can get”—she hadn't been about to say he could get to bed, had she?—“that is, you can be about your business.” She smiled, or at least tried to, and held out her hand. If she was lucky, she would never see him again.

Ha! She might hope she wouldn't see him, but she was here for the whole cursed Season. She couldn't hide in her room and send Evie to the parties and balls with only odd, elderly Cousin Clorinda as chaperone.

Perhaps Mr. Parker-Roth would leave London tomorrow to hunt for greenery in some exotic—and very distant—location. She would add that thought to her prayers tonight.

“Lady Anne,” he said, looking far too serious all of a sudden.

“Mr. Parker-Roth, I should go. Cousin Clorinda and my sister must be wondering where I am—”

She glanced up. What if someone looked out a window and saw her conversing with Mr. Parker-Roth? She and he would be quite recognizable—neither was wearing a hat. Their faces were evident for any curious spectator to see.

Whom was she kidding? It wasn't only her face she had to hide—her unfortunate hair was a blazing beacon, proclaiming her identity to anyone not colorblind.

Perhaps no one would look. It was early for most of the
ton
…but Lady Dunlee lived next door and she had a nose for even the faintest whiff of scandal. Cousin Clorinda had warned Anne about the woman the moment Anne had crossed Crane House's threshold—and Lady Dunlee herself had already stopped Anne to let her know the boys had been teasing her nasty gray cat.

“But I never properly apologized,” Mr. Parker-Roth said. Harry sat calmly at his feet. Why wouldn't that dog behave for her?

“No apology is necessary. Now, please—”

He touched her lips with his gloveless fingers. She froze.

Oh.

His skin was slightly rough—he clearly used his hands for more than raising a quizzing glass or shuffling cards—and warm.

All of a sudden, she didn't care about the windows overlooking the square.

“I don't want you to think you aren't beautiful.” His fingers slipped sideways to cradle her jaw; his thumb moved back and forth over her bottom lip. “You are.”

He was an enchanter, that was it, weaving a spell around her. Faintly, very faintly, she heard the voice of reason warning her about gossip and Lady Dunlee, but for the first time in a decade, she ignored it. Her hands crept up to rest on his broad, solid chest.

She smelled the brandy on his breath again. “You're drunk.” She spoke to him, but she was reminding herself.

“Yes.” His words whispered past her cheek. “But I'm not blind.”

His mouth brushed hers. Her lips tingled, feeling suddenly swollen. This kiss—if you could call it a kiss—was nothing like the hot, wet, slobbery affairs she'd endured from Brentwood. Being kissed by Brentwood had been an attack—this was something else entirely.

Comfort, not lust. An invitation, not a command.

“Anne.”

She loved the sound of her name in his voice. A little shiver slithered through her and she sighed, tilting her head more, like a sunflower seeking the sun.

He made a small, satisfied sound and nibbled on her bottom lip while his free hand, the one not grasping Harry's leash, slid to the back of her head.

An odd warmth gathered in her belly. Something hard and frozen began to melt. She leaned into Mr. Parker-Roth's strong body, wanting—needing—more of his heat.

And then she heard the hiss of an angry cat and Harry's answering bark. Mr. Parker-Roth jerked backward. She felt herself wobble and grabbed his coat.

“Hold tight,” he muttered. His arm locked around her waist as they lost their battle with gravity and tumbled toward the pavement.

“Oof!”
He flinched as he took the brunt of the impact.

She was not a featherweight. “Are you all right?”

“I'll live.” His voice had an edge of pain.

“I'm so sorry!” She relaxed against him for a moment. His body was so hard under hers. Pleasantly hard. And something else of his was getting hard as well…

Her face burned. What had she been thinking? Here she was, sprawled across a man's body in a public square and from the feel of the sun on the back of her legs, her skirt was up around her knees. And from the feel of the man below her, he was having the expected reaction. How mortifying. And if anyone saw them…

She started to scramble off him. He grabbed her and held her still.

“Let me go.” She tried to twist free. “Think of the scandal if we are observed.”

He flinched again and tightened his hold on her back…well, a bit lower than her back.

“Mind your knee, love.”

“Oh.” Her leg was now between his. Her knee was indeed very close to—“I'm so sorry.”

“That's all right. No permanent harm done.” He smiled a little tightly. “I hope. Now, we'll just have—”

That's when she heard the sharp intake of a breath.

“Trouble,” Mr. Parker-Roth muttered.

Anne looked up. Lady Dunlee stood ten feet from them, a look of delighted horror on her face.

“Lady Anne—and Mr. Parker-Roth! What in the world are you doing?”