The Naked King (16 page)

“Your hair is beautiful.” He buried his face in it, then turned to kiss her neck just below her ear.

Her breasts ached; the place between her legs ached. She was so hot she felt she was burning, and her temperature had nothing to do with the fire in the grate. She wanted to press herself against him, but she stayed still. She would not rush blindly ahead and so, in her ignorance, miss something wonderful. And she did think it would be wonderful.

But it would be more wonderful without his annoying waistcoat. She slipped the top button free.

He chuckled by her ear. “Are you undressing me, Lady Anne?”

Her fingers froze for a moment. Was she being too bold? But he’d sounded amused. She swallowed and moved trembling fingers to the next button. “Surely you must be too hot.”

He gently sucked on the skin below her ear and her nipples tightened. “You are right, I am a trifle overheated.” He straightened, making it easier for her to reach all his buttons. “Thank you for thinking of it. I will definitely be more comfortable with fewer clothes.”

She met his gaze briefly and then dropped her eyes to her fingers’ work. His look was too intense; he might read her secret in her face if she wasn’t careful. She loosened the last button and pushed aside the waistcoat, running her hands over his shirt. This was better. Not perfect—his bare skin would be perfect—but it was much, much better.

“Are those all the buttons you mean to loosen, Anne?”

“Y-yes.” She knew which other buttons he meant; it was hard not to know. Just below his waistcoat, only inches from her fingers, his erection was straining against his fall so it seemed almost a charity to free it, but she was not yet that bold.

“A pity, but I suppose you are wise.” He shrugged out of his waistcoat, threw it over a chair, and then grinned at her. “You know, I find I’m still rather warm. Would it offend you if I removed my shirt as well?”

Her mouth went dry, as dry as another part of her was wet. “No,” she managed to whisper. “It would n-not offend me at all.”

“Splendid.” He shed his cravat and then pulled his shirt up and over his head.

Oh! He was beautiful. The firelight flickered over his broad shoulders and muscled arms and lit the hair that dusted his chest and trailed down over his flat stomach to the waist of his breeches.

She’d never seen a man without his shirt. Brentwood had kept his on—and his waistcoat and coat as well—when he’d taken her virginity. They’d been in Baron Gedding’s garden, after all, and it had been chilly.

If only he had shed his clothing, the sight of his pale, soft flesh might have shocked some sense into her and she would have fled. But no, she’d fancied herself in love. When he’d taken her into that secluded section of the garden, she’d been thrilled. She’d thought him romantic and brooding—and she’d thought herself daring.

She’d never been daring before—or after until right now. It had been out of character, but she’d been seventeen and stupid—and perhaps a little angry Papa was adding to his family again. She knew she’d be given charge of the baby—or babies as it turned out.

So she’d gone into the shrubbery with Brentwood. As soon as they’d reached an especially leafy spot, he’d backed her up against a wall and thrust his tongue into her mouth, almost gagging her. His hands had been all over her body, pinching her breasts, grabbing her bottom. She’d tried to feel thrilled and passionate and womanly, but it was difficult when she was also trying to breathe. And then suddenly she’d felt cool air on her thighs and, before she could free her mouth to protest, a burning pain as something hard and long was shoved into the most private part of her body. She’d stiffened in shock, but Brentwood hadn’t noticed. He’d been too busy grunting and moving against her.

At least it had been over quickly.

“Anne, are you all right?”

“What?” She blinked. Damn, she’d let that cursed memory blind her to what was happening now. Stephen was frowning at her, concern clear in his eyes.

“You look . . . stricken.”

He stooped to pick up his shirt. Was he going to put it back on? No. She would not let Brentwood ruin this, too. She pulled it out of his hands. “It’s nothing. Just . . . hold me. Please?”

“Of course.” He wrapped his arms around her, bringing her up against his bare chest.

It was wonderful. He was warm and solid and strong. She felt safe, not trapped as she’d been with Brentwood.

She could not remember the last time anyone had just held her.

“Better?” he murmured. His breath whispered over her hair, and then his lips brushed the top of her head.

“Yes.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and let the past go, at least for now. She wanted to live in the present—this present with her cheek on Stephen’s naked chest and his warmth all around her. Mmm. She slid her hands up his broad back.

“Anne.”

“Hmm?” Was his skin sweet or salty? She touched him with her tongue, and heard—and felt—him inhale sharply.

Salty. His skin was faintly salty.

She felt his erection press against her belly and she smiled. She kissed one of his nipples. He caught his breath again—and then he pushed her away.

“No.” She tried to get back to his warmth, but his hands on her shoulders kept her from her goal.

“Anne.” He shook her just a little and she looked up. His face was guarded; his jaw, clenched. “Anne, what do you want? I will hold you, but if you keep on this way, I’ll be tempted to do far more than that.”

“Good.” She would tell him what she wanted. She ran her hands up his arms, over their rock hard muscles. “Kiss me.”

His gaze sharpened; she’d swear she could see little flames in his eyes. His muscles under her fingers tensed. He was so strong . . .

“But gently. Don’t crush me. I want to be able to breathe.”

He laughed. “Very well. I will try, but if I get carried away and become more enthusiastic than you like, you must tell me.” He relaxed his arms, bringing her a little closer. “If your lips are otherwise engaged, you may give me a slight push.” He brought her closer still so her bodice almost touched his chest. “Or, if that doesn’t work, a strong shove. Will that be acceptable?”

“Yes.” She tilted her head up. “Now perhaps you could attend to my request and use your charming lips for something other than discourse.”

His lips turned up slightly. “My pleasure, madam.” He lowered his mouth so it just touched hers. “Is this what you had in mind?”

“Yes.” Mmm, this was what she wanted. This was where they’d been headed before she’d let thoughts of Brentwood intrude.

She would
not
think of that disgusting creature again.

She opened her mouth and let Stephen’s tongue in. His hand came up to play with her breast.

“Is this still gentle enough?” he whispered.

“Mmm.”

His touch was exquisite, but her bodice was very much in the way. She wished she could shed it as easily as he had shed his shirt.

And then his nimble fingers slipped under the satin, and the neck of her dress loosened. She sucked in her breath as she felt it slide down.

“Would it be all right with you, Anne, if we move to that lovely chaise-longue? I’m finding standing to be rather a challenge.”

She was finding standing to be unusually difficult as well. Her knees were refusing to support her weight any longer. “That’s an excellent notion.”

Stephen scooped her up as if she weighed nothing and deposited her—gently—on the chaise-longue. He stretched out beside her and leaned up on one elbow. “You are so beautiful,” he said.

Her breasts were now exposed for anyone to see, and Stephen was obviously looking. She didn’t care. She was feeling reckless again, and perhaps a touch wanton.

His fingers plucked her nipples, and she sucked in her breath. It was as if there were a vibrating string between that part of her body and her womb. The opening Brentwood had so rudely entered ten years ago grew wetter. If Stephen were to—

Good God, she couldn’t be considering such a thing, could she? It had been so painful and so embarrassing last time.

This time felt nothing like that time.

Stephen gave her a lingering kiss and then slowly—gently—his mouth moved down to her jaw and her throat, her collarbone. Was he going to . . . ? He was. He did. His mouth took his fingers’ place on her nipple and sucked. Her hips shot off the chaise-longue.

“Oh!”

He looked up at her, his mouth suspended above her breast. “Aren’t I being gentle enough?”

What the hell was he talking about?

“You’re growling.” He flicked his tongue over her poor nipple. She whimpered—and then grabbed his head to hold him exactly where she wanted him.

He blew a little puff of air over her wet, hard peak, and laughed. “You are a demanding woman, Lady Anne.”

“Just—oh.” One of his hands had wandered down to the hem of her dress. Now it was sliding slowly up her leg, higher, closer to—

The tip of his finger gently probed her wet folds and touched a tiny, hard spot she’d never known existed. Her hips jerked and then twisted. His finger circled the spot, slipped over it. Each touch wound her tighter and tighter.

Someone was making small, mewling noises and she very much feared it was she. She had never felt—

Oh! She grabbed Stephen’s shoulders and stiffened. Almost. There was something almost within her reach. She didn’t know what it was, but her body did—and Stephen did. His finger teased her with another gentle touch and another and then—

“Ohh.” Wave after wave of pleasure cascaded through her. When the last wave subsided, she lay in Stephen’s arms like a rag doll. Every one of her muscles was limp. “Mmm.” She kissed his collarbone, the part closest to her lips. “That was lovely. I had no idea.”

“Of course you had no idea.” He kissed the top of her head. His voice sounded amused, but somewhat strained, too.

She moved closer to him and discovered the obvious problem. He was not limp at all. His erection, still very large and hard, pressed into her hip.

He moved back so he was no longer touching her.

Now he would want to do what Brentwood had done. She should be distressed, but she was too sated with these new sensations to care.

No, that wasn’t true. She wanted him to do it. She wanted to give him pleasure like he had given her. She was almost sure it wouldn’t hurt this time. The King of Hearts would know how to make it, if not pleasant, at least not painful. But how could she invite him in?

She reached for the bulge in his breeches.

“No, Anne.” His hand moved hers firmly away. “It’s late. I should go.”

She could persuade him to stay. She reached for him with her other hand, but he deflected her again and stood up, taking a step back.

“You are playing with fire,” he said.

She sat up, her breasts exposed, her clothes in complete disarray. “Perhaps I want to get burned.”

His eyes focused on her bosom and then jerked up to her face. He ran his hand through his hair and gave a breathless little laugh. “I suppose I’m glad you do, but you will have to wait. I’m not taking your virginity on a chaise-longue in a sitting room with an unlocked door.”

“Oh.” She felt a hot flush sweep up her body.

He couldn’t take her virginity. She didn’t have it to give him.

“Don’t look so stricken. It won’t be long. I think after our recent activities, I should get a special license. I can’t wait until the end of the Season to have you in my bed.”

The thought of being in Stephen’s bed caused her exhausted female organs to perk up. She didn’t want to wait till the end of the Season either—she didn’t want to wait till the end of the week—or perhaps even the end of this hour.

But she would have to wait forever. She couldn’t marry Stephen.

She should tell him now. She
would
tell him if only her traitorous body would stop insisting she could—she
had
to—wed him . . . and if she didn’t dread seeing the surprise and then the disgust in his eyes when she told him.

He picked up his shirt and pulled it over his head. “Get dressed, will you? You don’t want a servant to see you that way—it would be all over London by tomorrow’s dinnertime.” He buttoned up his waistcoat and reached for his coat. “We may be betrothed, but I’d rather not entertain society with accounts of our amorous activities.”

She just stared at him, so he came over to tug her bodice back into place for her. “I’ve always tried to be discreet.” He grinned. “Kissing you on the square was the one notable exception to that practice.”

“Oh.” He was so matter-of-fact. Had she imagined his passion? She looked down at his breeches.

She hadn’t imagined it. Part of him was still very enthusiastic.

“Stop that,” he said.

“Stop what?”

“Looking at me that way.” He grabbed her upper arms and hauled her to her feet. “You need to go to bed, Anne—alone—and I need to leave.” He pushed her toward the door. “Now.”

“Oh, very well.” She walked, his hand on the small of her back, urging her out of the room and down the corridor. When they finally reached the front door, she paused. “Do I get a good night kiss?”

“No.” Stephen grabbed his hat from the side table and jammed it on his head. “Definitely not.” He opened the door and stepped out so quickly she wondered if he was afraid she’d tackle him. Probably. She felt a bit desperate.

“Lock up behind me,” he said before he slammed the door closed.

She sighed, turned the key, and headed up the stairs, hoping she’d be able to fall asleep before dawn.

Chapter 13

There was no chance in hell he was going to be able to get to sleep any time soon. Stephen paused outside Crane House to adjust his breeches. The ache in his groin was damned uncomfortable. He was amazed he could walk.

Hell, he deserved a medal for self-control. When he’d seen Anne, half naked, replete with sexual satisfaction, reach to touch him where he most wanted to be touched, it had taken all his willpower to pull back. If he’d stayed in that little room one more moment, he’d have had his breeches off and his cock buried in her sweet body in record time. Not a good way to introduce a woman to physical love.

He started down the pavement. Blast, his damned cock still throbbed and his bollocks felt like rocks. He could not think about Anne on that chaise-longue any longer or his private parts would explode.

He should find out why she had such a strong reaction to Brentwood. After her emotional performance at Damian’s ball this evening, every last member of the
ton
must be speculating about her relationship with the marquis. There were probably a dozen theories circulating already. He’d meant to ask her tonight, after he’d finished castigating her for not hiding her feelings better—or at all—during that cursed waltz, but he’d got . . . distracted and hadn’t managed to attain either of those goals.

He’d seek out Gedding, that’s what he’d do. Chances were the fellow was too far in his cups to have anything of interest to say—not that a sober Gedding would be much more informative—but it was worth a try. He had to do something—sleep was definitely not in the cards for at least an hour or two.

He found Gedding at White’s in his usual spot, nursing a brandy bottle.

“Mind if I join you?” Stephen lowered himself into the chair next to the baron. The man blinked at him.

“Parker-Roth.” Gedding hiccupped and shrugged. “Want some brandy?”

“Thank you.” Damn, Gedding had obviously been imbibing all evening. He was more than likely wasting his time talking to him, but then he had time to waste. He took a sip from the glass Gedding handed him and pondered how to raise the topic of that long ago house party.

“Heard you’re betrothed to Crazy Crane’s chit.”

Stephen almost sprayed brandy over his lap. Perhaps this wouldn’t be wasted time after all. “Yes, I am.”

Gedding nodded drunkenly. “Glad to hear it.”

“Oh? Why?”

The baron shrugged. “Always felt a little bad about the girl. Invited her to a house party as a favor to Crane, you know. She was only seventeen, needed a little polish before her come-out.”

Stephen waited, but Gedding fell silent, staring into his brandy glass. Perhaps he needed a slight prod. “And?”

The man startled as if he’d forgotten Stephen was there. “And what?”

Thankfully, White’s was sparsely populated tonight; no one was sitting close enough to overhear. “You said you felt bad about Lady Anne. Why?”

Gedding frowned. “No reason, really.” He took another swallow of brandy and sighed somewhat drunkenly. “Though I probably should have kept more of an eye on her. I’d told Crane my cousin Olivia would chaperone the girl, so he’d sent her along with only a maid in attendance, but damned if Olivia didn’t come down with a dreadful cold at the last minute. She had to stay home, so Crane’s daughter spent the house party without a proper duenna. Didn’t think it would be a problem, though. The chit seemed the quiet, biddable sort.”

Anne—quiet and biddable? Were they talking about the same woman? “
Was
it a problem?”

“Hmm?” Gedding pursed his lips, then shook his head. “No, no I don’t think so. Not really.”

Gedding didn’t sound so certain. Stephen clasped his hands to keep from grabbing the baron by the shoulders and shaking the information out of him. “Was Lord Brentwood there as well?”

Gedding nodded. “Yes. Bit of a dirty dish, that one. I didn’t invite him—he came with Heddington—but I couldn’t very well turn him away when he showed up on my doorstep. He
is
a marquis.”

“Right.” Stephen kept his voice neutral. “You couldn’t turn him away.”

“But I did worry. He was a womanizer even back then, you know, and he started flirting with Lady Anne. Didn’t mean anything by it—he never does—but I’m afraid she was a bit taken in. Stands to reason she would be, her being so young and green.”

“Yes.” It was hard to keep his voice even. Poor Anne. Supposedly, Brentwood had been something of an Adonis ten years ago. “He didn’t do anything besides flirt, did he?”

“I don’t think so. You know the way of it. Some meaningful looks, a bunch of silly compliments, a walk or two in the garden, and then once he’s caught a woman’s interest, he moves on to his next conquest.” Gedding sighed. “Lady Anne seemed to take it hard. She left early, saying her stepmother needed her at home, but I never believed that excuse. And then not to see her in society again . . . It’s been weighing on my mind a bit.”

Gedding met Stephen’s gaze. “I’ll tell you, sir, I’m glad it looks as if she’s found some happiness. I wish you both well.”

“Thank you.”

Gedding poured himself some more brandy. “You’re a good sort. They may call you the King of Hearts, but you ain’t like Brentwood. You don’t go collecting ladies’ love like snuffboxes just because you can.” Gedding snorted. “Though I’ll wager he has fewer successes these days. Man’s got rather stout, hasn’t he?”

“Rather.”

“But he’s still a marquis. Some ladies don’t care what a man looks like, if he’s got a lofty title.” Gedding waved his hand at Stephen. “Oh, not Lady Anne, obviously, but others.” He snorted. “I’d like to see Brentwood taken down a peg. The man’s too full of himself.”

Stephen stood and bowed slightly. “And I’d be delighted to oblige you and the rest of the
ton
by teaching the marquis a little humility.”

“Splendid. I look forward to seeing it.”

Stephen nodded at a few friends as he made his way through White’s, but he didn’t take up any of their invitations to join them in a bottle or a game of cards. He wasn’t feeling particularly sociable.

What had Brentwood done to Anne? It must have been more than an aborted flirtation. Yes, Anne had been young and impressionable then—and maybe she’d even been quiet and biddable as Gedding had said, though he had a hard time believing that of his fiery fiancée—but she’d never been an idiot. She might have been disappointed when Brentwood lost interest in her, but she’d have learned from the experience and moved on. She wouldn’t have hidden herself away for a decade nor would she have such a strong reaction to Brentwood now.

The only thing he could imagine that would provoke such a response was . . .

Bloody hell, if what he suspected was true, he’d castrate the bastard with a blunt knife.

He reached White’s front door. Good. He had a lot of thinking to do, thinking better done alone in the dark. He would just—
damnation
.

The door swung open to admit the Marquis of Knightsdale followed by the Duke of Alvord and the Earl of Westbrooke.

“Parker-Roth, just the man I’m looking for,” Knightsdale said. He turned to Alvord and Westbrooke. “You go ahead; I’ll join you shortly.”

Westbrooke laughed. “Lucky you, Parker-Roth. I suspect you’re in for one of Charles’s bear-garden jaws.” He clapped Stephen on the back. “Don’t worry. Charles won’t run you through—he left his sword at home.”

“Robbie, you are not helping matters.” Knightsdale looked at Alvord. “Will you take this idiot away, James?”

Alvord grinned. “With pleasure. Come along, Robbie. Let’s start on a bottle while we wait for Charles.”

“An excellent idea. Take your time, Charles,” Westbrooke said. “No need to hurry on our account.”

“Right,” Knightsdale said. He turned to Stephen. “If you’ll follow me? We should be able to be private in here.” He led the way into a small antechamber.

“Is there a problem, Knightsdale?” May as well take the bull by the horns.

Knightsdale closed the door firmly behind him. “With Emma, there is always a problem.”

Damn, damn, damn. He was trapped, he knew it, but he wouldn’t give up without a fight. “No offense, Knightsdale, but your charming wife’s interest in my affairs is not welcome. Nor appropriate.
I’m
not married to her sister.”

Knightsdale just looked at him.

Blast it, he knew it was a weak argument—no, in truth it was a perfectly good argument, if one were arguing with a reasonable person. But Emma was not reasonable. She was a damned officious busybody. The mere possibility that his activities might affect her sister in any way was enough in her demented mind for her to meddle. And if Emma was involved, Knightsdale would be involved. He obviously loved his wife completely, even though they’d been married almost five years and had two sons as well as charge of Knightsdale’s two nieces.

Knightsdale clasped his hands behind his back. “Emma wishes to know if this is a sham engagement you are involved in.”

How the hell had she guessed that?
Stephen crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I publicly announced my betrothal at dinner this evening—you and Emma both heard me. I cannot honorably withdraw now, even if I wanted to, which I do not.”

Knightsdale nodded slightly, never breaking eye contact. He must have been a damnably intimidating officer when he served on the Peninsula.

“Lady Anne’s waltz with Lord Brentwood was quite a spectacle. Society is buzzing over it, though no one seems to know quite what to make of it.” Knightsdale’s gaze sharpened, if that were possible.

Stephen shrugged. “Society loves to speculate about everything.”

“True. But if I were to speculate, I would say your betrothed has a pronounced dislike for Lord Brentwood.”

“Does anyone of good sense like the marquis?”

Knightsdale inclined his head. “No. However, Brentwood doesn’t always return the dislike. My guess is the bastard means to cause Lady Anne problems, and any problems Brentwood causes are usually markedly unpleasant.”

Stephen could be intimidating, too. “I invite him to try.”

Knightsdale relaxed slightly. He was still standing straight as a board, but he didn’t look dangerous any longer. “If you need any assistance in dealing with him, I shall be delighted to help.”

“Thank you, but I think I can handle the man on my own.”

“Still, the offer stands, and I know Westbrooke and Alvord would lend their support as well.” Knightsdale grinned suddenly. “You might be interested to know Brentwood is far up River Tick. It’s not common knowledge, but the cent-per-centers will soon be camping on his doorstep unless he finds a way to come about.”

So Brentwood was in dun territory, was he? That was interesting. Men drowning in debt were usually willing to grasp at anything to keep their head above water, taking all manner of ill-advised risks. Stephen smiled. He would very much enjoy manipulating some of those risks to his advantage. He would begin by buying up the bastard’s vowels. “Thank you. That does open up a number of attractive options, doesn’t it?”

Knightsdale laughed. “I thought you’d see it that way.”

“What have you been doing, miss?” Clorinda snorted. “Not that I need to ask.”

“Eep!” Anne jumped and almost dropped her candle. She did drop her hold on her bodice which drooped guiltily. Clorinda was standing in the doorway to her bedroom, attired in a rather alarming puce dressing gown and frilly white nightcap. “I thought you’d gone to bed.”

Clorinda looked her up and down from her pin-less, wild hair to her sadly crumpled skirt. “Obviously.”

She could say that things weren’t as bad as they looked, but they were almost that bad and she didn’t at all wish to debate the matter. “I’m so sorry if I kept you up.” She stepped toward her own bedroom door. “I’ll be going to bed now. Do sleep well.”

Evie poked her head around Clorinda’s body. “Anne!” The poor girl’s eyes almost popped out of her head. Her expression was a mix of horror and fascination.

Anne flushed an even brighter red, she was sure. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“We were waiting for you”—Evie turned red, too—“and talking about the ball. I was too excited to go to bed right away. And then when you didn’t come up . . . I was on the verge of going downstairs a number of times, but Clorinda stopped me.”

“I didn’t want poor Evie to get too advanced an education,” Clorinda said. “Thank God the boys are asleep.”

Anne covered her face with her left hand, her right still being occupied with the candle. She was finally unmasked as the jezebel she was, except this time she didn’t feel at all like a jezebel. Yes, it was embarrassing to have Clorinda and Evie guess what she’d been doing—though she hadn’t been doing
that
, not exactly—but she wasn’t truly sorry she’d done it. Worse, she’d like to do it—and more—again. Soon.

“Oh, Anne, what a beautiful ring!” Evie’s voice had more than a touch of awe in it. “Did Mr. Parker-Roth give it to you?”

Anne held out her hand. Her gloves had been misplaced somewhere—she’d best check the green sitting room in the morning before the boys were up—so Stephen’s ring was very evident.

“He must have, Evie. Where else would she have got it?” Even Clorinda sounded impressed. “Come into my room so we can look at it more closely.”