The Naked King (4 page)

Damn. They had only arrived in London yesterday. How could she have made micefeet of everything so quickly?

“Hey.” He touched her shoulder. “Don’t look so glum. We’ll muddle through.”

She tried to smile.

He cupped her cheek. “It would be easier to pass the story off if we seem to like each other, you know. Given the rather passionate display Lady Dunlee witnessed, we might even wish to appear somewhat ardent. Restrained, of course, but just barely—giving the impression that the moment society looks the other way, we’ll be in each other’s arms.”

“How are we to do that?”

He grinned. “Well, to begin with, I don’t think you should glare at me all the time. Do you suppose you might be able to manage that?”

“I might.” Her eyes focused on his lips. Her brain told her that was a stupid thing to do, but her eyes refused to listen.

His lips had felt so good.

“That’s it. You are doing an excellent job of not glaring at me now.” His voice had dropped. His arms came around her. They felt good, too.

“Hmm.” His lips were now so close and coming closer. He brushed them over her mouth, but it was not enough. She must have whimpered slightly, because he came back.

He didn’t mash her lips against her teeth. He didn’t try to force his tongue down her throat. He didn’t haul her body up against his so tightly she couldn’t breathe. He didn’t do any of the things Brentwood had done.

He held her firmly, yet gently, and slowly, leisurely, explored her mouth, filling her with a dark, liquid heat that pooled between her legs.

She knew what happened between a man and a woman. It was embarrassing and painful . . . but that was not what many of the married women said. No, they smiled and giggled and blushed when they talked about their marital duties.

Perhaps the act was different with different men like kissing appeared to be.

Her body insisted everything would be different, better, with Mr. Parker-Roth.

“Anne,” he said, his voice slightly breathless, “there’s no one here to fool. You’re supposed to be pushing me away and giving me that evil look of yours.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “You’re supposed to be lashing at me with your sharp tongue, telling me to stop.”

He kissed her again, his hands bringing her closer, up against the hard ridge of his erection.

Nerves fluttered through her. Brentwood had done a similar thing . . .

But his hands had been rough. She’d felt trapped.

She didn’t feel trapped now. She felt welcomed.

The King of Hearts had earned his title; there was no question about that.

He urged her toward one of the couches, but it was too low. She lost her balance and tumbled against him, ending in a tangle of skirts and legs as the carefully closed, but unfortunately unlocked, door flew open and Harry bounded in.

Chapter 3

Of course the dog hadn’t opened the door himself. Stephen looked over to see who else was in the room. A boy about ten years old stood in the doorway frowning at them.

“Anne, what are you doing with that gentleman?” he asked.

Anne was making embarrassed panicky noises, struggling to right herself with Harry’s dubious help. Her knee was again in danger of putting paid to any hope Stephen might harbor of fathering children. He grasped her elbows and lifted her off him, then stood and helped her up.

“Philip,” she said sharply, straightening her spectacles. Her hair was dangling down her back and her bodice was in some disarray. “You should knock before you enter a room with a closed door.” She frowned at Harry who was still barking. “Oh, hush, you silly dog. I can’t hear myself think.” She tugged at her bodice and looked waspishly at Stephen. “Do you see any of my hairpins?”

Philip was apparently far too polite to point out Anne was not currently in the best position to lecture him on proper behavior, but he wasn’t too polite to make a simple observation. “I don’t believe Papa would approve, Anne.”

Anne turned a darker shade of red. “Uh, that is . . . well . . .” She cleared her throat. “You aren’t old enough to understand, Philip,” she said in what sounded like her best older sister voice.

Stephen smiled as he looked for hairpins on the couch. He’d heard his sister Jane try that tone with Nick, but since there was only four years between them, it hadn’t been very effective.

Ah! He dug his fingers between the cushions and found two hairpins. How had they got down there? No matter. They should do. He wasn’t an expert in women’s coiffures, but he had helped his sisters—not Jane so much, but the younger two—with their hair often enough he could make Anne somewhat more presentable.

He straightened. Philip was watching him, a very serious expression on his face. Good. The lad s
hould
keep an eye on any man paying his sister attention.

“Here, let me—Hey, sir!” He frowned down at Harry who, in his enthusiasm, had so far forgotten himself as to jump up and put his paws on Stephen’s breeches. “I do not care to be mauled by you. Sit.” Harry complied, his tongue hanging out, his tail beating a tattoo on the floor. He stared up at Stephen with clear canine devotion.

Anne’s brother relaxed, obviously feeling his dog was a good judge of character.

Anne reached for her hairpins. “Thank you. I’ll take those.”

“Oh, no, you won’t,” Stephen said, holding them away from her. “I’ll attend to your hair.”

She scowled at him. “You will not.”

“You won’t be able to manage without a maid and a mirror, I imagine.”

She sniffed and looked down her nose at him. “You are mistaken. I’m not one of your London ladies who need such help.”

He laughed. “Stop fussing. I won’t stab you with the pins, if that’s your worry.” He gathered a handful of hair. Mmm. The silky curls wrapped around his fingers like soft vines.

Anne huffed. “Are you going to pin the hair up or hold it all day?”

He grinned. “Well . . .”

“Anne!” Two more people burst into the room—a young woman and a boy identical to Philip except for the sticking plaster on his forehead. Harry leapt up, barking enthusiastically.

The woman, a petite vision with golden curls and flashing blue eyes, screamed. “What are you doing to my sister, sirrah? Unhand her at once!” She lunged for the brass statue standing on the table just inside the door. “George, get Hobbes. Philip, help me.” She wrestled with the sculpture.

“Evie,” Anne began, but no one paid her any attention.

Philip frowned. “What are you going to do with that, Evie?”

“Knock the villain’s brains out, of course.” She grunted. “
Will
you help me? It’s heavy.”

Meanwhile George, ignoring his instructions, advanced on Stephen with clenched fists. “Move away from Anne, sir, or you will be very sorry.”

“Take a damper, bantling.” Stephen tried hard not to laugh as he quickly finished pinning Anne’s hair back into some semblance of order. Anne was apparently too embarrassed to speak at the moment, and Evie was still jerking on the statue without budging it an inch.

“I don’t see why we should brain a guest,” Philip said. He stooped to scratch Harry’s ears.

“Oh, for goodness sake”—Anne had finally found her voice. She sounded completely exasperated—“will you show some sense, Evie?”

George chose that moment to attack, but Stephen, being the second oldest of six children, caught the boy easily and held him firmly, but gently, as he kicked and squirmed.

“George! Where are your manners?”

“I won’t let him hurt you, Anne.”

“Does it look like he’s hurting me?”

George stopped struggling to peer at Anne. “No.”

“Of course I’m not hurting your sister,” Stephen said, cautiously letting George go. “That would be a daft thing to do to my betrothed.”

Stunned silence greeted this announcement, and then, just as in the study earlier, three shocked voices spoke at the exact same time.
“Betrothed?”

Anne made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a moan and dropped her head into her hands.

“You’re going to marry
Anne
?” George blinked. He flopped down on the couch that Stephen and Anne had so recently vacated. “Don’t you mean Evie? She’s the beautiful one.”

“Of course he doesn’t mean me, you cabbage head.” Evie had stopped struggling with the statue and now clasped her hands under her bosom. “That’s wonderful, Anne. I’m so happy for you. I’d quite given up hope you’d ever marry.”

Anne’s head snapped up and she glared at her sister. “I’m not a complete antidote, Evie.”

Evie shrugged. “Of course not, but you’ve never shown the slightest interest in any man.” She flushed. “Mama thought you might be . . . different.”

“What do you mean, ‘different’?” Philip asked. He and Harry had gone over to join George.

“Nothing. She means nothing,” Anne said. She was going to die of mortification. What must Mr. Parker-Roth think? She couldn’t bear to look at him.

George rolled his eyes. “Oh, yes, she does mean something otherwise she wouldn’t have said ‘different’ in just that way.”

“It’s something Papa will explain when you are older,” Evie said, her cheeks rather pink.

At least Evie’s brain had finally caught up with her mouth. Anne would have to have a word with her about that. They weren’t in the country any longer. Letting one’s tongue run on unchecked could be disastrous in London. The gossips—

Oh, why did she even worry about Evie saying the wrong thing? Anne had already done the wrong thing in a spectacular manner. To be discovered embracing—rather more than embracing really—the King of Hearts by the Queen of Gossip . . . Anything Evie did could only pale in comparison.

And then if her scandalous mistake with Lord Brentwood should come to light . . .

Anne rubbed the space over her nose, right between her eyebrows. Her head was beginning to throb.

“Does Papa know Anne’s betrothed?” Philip asked. “He didn’t say anything before he left.”

“He must know, Philip,” Evie said. “There are settlements and other things of a legal nature to be arranged. Depend upon it, he just forgot to tell us.”

Philip nodded. “Like the time he bought all Baron Redlawn’s library. We were so surprised when the first cartload pulled up at the house.”

“And of course Papa and Mama were away,” Evie said. “You had to sort it all out, remember, Anne?”

“Botheration!” George said. “You aren’t going to go on and on about those dratted books again, are you?” He looked up at Stephen. “Are you infernally bookish as well?”

Stephen smiled somewhat cautiously. “No, not
infernally
.”

“George, what a question to ask Mr. . . .” Evie’s mouth hung open a moment, a startled, blank expression decorating her beautiful features. She turned to Anne. “Did you tell us your betrothed’s name?”

“You didn’t give me much chance, did you?” Lady Anne said, a touch waspishly. She turned to Stephen. “Sir, as I’m sure you’ve surmised, this is my sister, Lady Evangeline, and my brothers, Philip—Viscount Rutledge—and George.” She looked at her siblings. “And this is Mr. Parker-Roth.”

Evie extended her hand. “Very nice to meet you, Mr.—oh!” She snatched her hand back before Stephen could touch her fingers. “But—” She bit her lip. “I must have misunderstood. I thought you were married, sir.”

“That’s his
brother
, Evie,” Anne said.

“Indeed, my older brother, John.” Stephen smiled. “I’m the second son, Stephen Parker-Roth.”

Evie’s eyes widened. “The King of Hearts?” She shot Anne an odd look.

“Er, yes,” he said. He’d never been much pleased with that sobriquet, but he was heartily sick of it now. “I’m rather good at cards, you see.”

“
Cards?
But—”

Anne cut her sister off. “Cards,” she said with a note of finality and a significant look at the boys.

Philip’s eyes lit up. “We shall have to play some day, sir.”

“Watch out,” George said. “Phil fleeces us all, even Papa.”

“Stubble it, you lobcock!” Philip glared at his brother and then turned back to Stephen. “We only play for pins, sir, not that I could get the better of you, of course. But it’s true none of the others has much of a head for cards. They can’t remember what’s been played.”

“A common failing.” Stephen smiled. “I’ll be happy to play with you when I’m not squiring your sisters to the Season’s entertainments.”

“Oh, will you, sir?” Evie sounded thrilled. “Escort us to all the balls and parties, that is.”

Anne looked alarmed. “Don’t be silly. Of course he won’t. Mr. Parker-Roth is far too busy for that.”

“Of course I will,” Stephen said, reaching over to take Anne’s hand. He thought at first she was going to protest, but at the last minute she must have realized how odd that would look—the boys might not remark on it, but her sister would—and let him wrap his fingers around hers. “What could be more important than attending the
ton
’s gatherings with my betrothed?”

“Indeed!” Evie almost bounced with delight. “I confess I was quite worried about my come-out. My particular friend, Constance Donbarton, warned me I would have a hard time of it, even when we thought Mama would be here to chaperone me. Mama is a rector’s daughter, you see, and Papa, though an earl, only goes to London when he must. Constance says the
ton
considers him peculiar, which isn’t surprising since he is rather.”

“Papa’s not peculiar,” Anne said, tugging to free her hand from Stephen’s grasp. He didn’t let her go.

“You know he is, Anne. He thinks of nothing but antiquities.”

Anne grumbled. She could not deny that fact.

Evie looked earnestly at Stephen. “Papa’s mama is sadly departed and his only sister has also gone aloft, so I have no one to help ease my way into society. It might be different if Anne had had a Season and was married to someone of importance, but she didn’t and isn’t, if you see what I mean.”

“It’s very clear, Evie.” Anne sounded as if she’d prefer to shout her words.

“And you must agree Cousin Clorinda will be no help at all, Anne. Rather the opposite—she’s even more of a bluestocking than you are.”

“She is not.” Anne’s scowl became even more pronounced. “I mean, she’s much more of a bluestocking than I.”

Evie ignored her, looking hopefully again at Stephen. “You have a sister, do you not, sir? I believe your consequence, especially as Anne’s betrothed, might be enough to do the trick, but female assistance must always be preferred.”

“I have three, but I expect you mean Jane since Juliana and Lucy aren’t out yet,” Stephen said. “If you read the gossip columns as your sister does”—he shot Anne a speaking look, which she ignored—“you might have seen Jane mentioned rather prominently the year before last.”

Evie’s face fell. “Oh, yes, now I remember . . . the scandal with Viscount Motton. But they wed, didn’t they?”

“Indeed they did and with no lasting damage to their social prominence, I believe. However, Jane has never been a great fan of the Season, and she firmly believes country air is far superior to London’s soot for her son, so she’s not planning to come to Town anytime soon.” He also suspected she might be in the family way again, but she and Motton hadn’t said so yet. “The only Parker-Roth you might encounter this Season besides me is my younger brother, Nicholas, who’s just finished his studies at Oxford.”

“Oh, well, I’m sure you must know everyone.” Evie looked both hopeful and nervous. “With you to guide us, I’ll fare much better than if I had only Cousin Clorinda and Anne to rely on.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” Anne said dryly. She did have to admit to some relief, though. Evie was completely correct—Anne knew next to nothing about London society. She’d woken up in a cold sweat early this morning—one reason she’d been out walking Harry—terrified of putting a wrong foot forward and blighting Evie’s chances. And she’d already done that . . . but Mr. Parker-Roth’s presence at their side would definitely help.

She couldn’t risk ruining Evie’s Season; who knew if Papa would think to give her another. Evie was too beautiful and vivacious to be condemned to spinsterhood or forced in desperation to marry one of the fat, old men hanging out for a young wife at home.

“I do have a friend or two who’s stepped into parson’s mousetrap,” Mr. Parker-Roth was saying. “I’ll wager their ladies will be more than happy to help steer you past society’s treacherous shoals.”

Evie clasped her hands together again. “That would be splendid.”

“And you said your younger brother had just finished Oxford, didn’t you, sir?” George asked.

Mr. Parker-Roth smiled. “Yes. Do you plan to go to Oxford yourself, George?”

“No. Or, that is, I don’t know. Philip’s the scholar, not me.” George shrugged and looked at Philip. “I was just wondering . . .”

“. . . if your brother—or, if not he, then a friend of his—might be interested in being our, well, tutor?” Philip finished.

“Except he wouldn’t have to do lessons,” George hastened to add.