The Naked Viscount (24 page)

She licked his neck to underline her determination. She thought she heard two or three ladies swoon, and a few more called for their vinaigrettes. Some of the men resorted to whistles and rude encouragements.

“Jane!”
That was Mama's voice. It loosened the aphrodisiac's grip on her for a moment.

“Help?” she whispered. Edmund was her only hope of salvation, whatever salvation might be.

He did not desert or disappoint her. He gave her a swift kiss and then threw her over his shoulder, pushing through the crowd and out into the night.

 

Motton stretched, careful not to disturb Jane. She was sleeping on her back, snoring slightly. A strand of hair twisted close to her eye; he brushed it out of her face.

She grunted softly and turned away from him. He studied the gentle curve of her neck and shoulder. He wanted to kiss her there, and on her delicate back, following her spine to—

He slipped out of bed to find the chamber pot behind the screen. He hadn't bothered putting in plumbing—he didn't use this house much anymore—but he'd been happy to have it last night. Taking Jane home would have strained her mother's and his aunts' tolerance. And there would have been little chance of hiding what they were doing—Jane had been very loud and enthusiastic.

He grinned.
Very
loud and
very
enthusiastic. But he would like to make love to her slowly, without the aphrodisiac driving her. Perhaps when she woke up.

He headed back to bed, but stopped when he saw a sheet of paper on the floor. What was this? He picked it up. Someone—Henry, this house's butler, was the most likely person—had slipped it under the door. Why? He'd sent the man to Motton House last night to let the ladies know Jane was fine and they'd be back today. He hadn't wanted them to worry. Though what they were thinking…they must realize he and Jane were planning to marry.

At least, he was planning to marry Jane. She might need some persuading. He grinned again, looking over at her. She'd turned onto her back again. The covers had slipped to her waist, revealing the mounds of her lovely small breasts, their pink nipples just waiting for him.

He glanced down at the paper again. Henry'd written that Wolfson had broken his neck when he'd landed on the pavement under his study's window; Helton had slipped out a secret door during all the commotion and got away scot free.

Motton shrugged. He felt certain without Satan, Beelzebub would not be a threat—it sounded as if he'd been an unwilling pawn for Wolfson all these years. In any event, he'd pose no further danger to Jane.

And what was this? He read farther down Henry's missive. Jane's father and brother John had arrived in London and were none too happy with him. They had, in fact, been on the verge of searching him out last night, castration apparently on their minds. He had Aunt Winifred and Jane's mother to thank for the fact he'd remained intact.

“What's that?”

Ah, Jane was awake. She was leaning up on her elbow, holding the coverlet to her chest. He put the paper down on his desk and walked toward her. “Why are you covering yourself? Are you shy this morning?” He laughed. “You weren't at all shy last night.”

She turned bright red. “It was the damn devil's brew.”

He watched her eyes dart to his growing cock and back to his face. She grew even redder.

“Really? Is that all it was?” He stopped next to her, close enough to touch her, but he didn't touch her…not yet.

Her glance dropped from his face to his cock again, and then skittered away to stare at the boring pastoral he'd hung on the wall years ago when he'd first bought the house.

Where was his sharp-tongued, prickly, demanding Jane?

Mmm, he'd like to feel her tongue again.

He reached out and gently pulled the coverlet down to her waist. She didn't resist; she let go with a small sigh and flopped back on the pillows, closing her eyes. He studied her pale, beautiful breasts for a moment—and watched their dusky pink nipples pebble. Did anticipation thrum through her as it did through him?

He looked at her face. Her eyes were still closed, her top teeth biting her bottom lip.

Yes, he thought it did. He'd wager if he touched her between her legs, he'd find her already wet and ready for him—and his cock swelled even more at the thought.

He skimmed his fingers lightly over her breasts, and she sucked in her breath, arching slightly.

Then he dropped his hand. “
Was
it only the devil's brew, Jane? Do you feel no passion for me without that driving you into my bed?” He grimaced. “Or my carriage.”

She peeked at him and then squeezed her eyes shut again as if she were afraid to look at him. “The first time I shared your bed had nothing to do with drugs.”

“No, but that time you were reacting to a brush with death. Relief can be another kind of drug.”

Jane frowned. It was hard to think—her breasts ached; the place between her legs throbbed. Her body was almost vibrating with need. Why wouldn't Edmund just climb into bed and do all the wonderful things he'd done last night? Why was he torturing her with talk?

Because he was uncertain. She struggled to control her lust long enough to think about his words. There'd been a thread of vulnerability in his voice. She finally looked up at him. There was vulnerability in his eyes as well. How could that be? Hadn't she been spectacularly obvious in her lust for him?

But lust was for a body;
love
was for a person—body, soul, heart, mind. He needed her to say she wanted
him.
She leaned up on her elbow again and met his gaze. “You must know it was never the urge to find Clarence's sketch that drew me into this search.”

“No?” He looked surprised. Men could be so stupid at times.

“Of course not. It was you. I've loved you for years, Edmund, even when you didn't know I existed, and I love you more now. I wouldn't be here if I didn't.”

His smile lit up the room, and she could almost see the tension flow out of his body. He reached for her breasts, but she slipped away from him.

“Not yet.” She had uncertainties, too. “Do you lov—care for me? Or am I just another woman to find comfort with in bed?”

He laughed then. “I'm not sure I've found comfort with you, Jane. You've made me work far too hard.”

She scowled at him, then dropped her eyes to his enthusiastic male member. “You seem no worse for wear.”

“Apparently I'm not. I'm even eager to get back to work.”

He touched her breast and this time she didn't have the self-control to pull away. The pleasure of it shot like an arrow to the part of her most in need of his attention. She whimpered and shifted her hips. She should wait, insist he answer her question, but her body didn't want to wait.

But then he removed his hand—and she almost wailed with frustration.

“Jane.” He cupped her face so she had to meet his eyes. “I never sought you out before, because you weren't a candidate for anything but marriage—and I wanted to put marriage off for as long as I possibly could.” He grimaced. “You know my parents didn't have a pleasant association.”

“I know. And that's why I don't want you to feel compelled to marry me. I don't want to trap you as your mother trapped your father.”

He laughed. “Believe me, I don't feel trapped in the slightest. I'm very, very eager to get a special license as quickly as possible.” He grinned. “Though I do believe your family and my aunts will insist as well.”

She frowned. He said he wasn't trapped, but he was. “I don't want them to force you to marry me. I—”

He covered her lips with his fingers. “Our relatives would have to use force to keep me from marrying you. You are maddening and annoying—and amusing and intelligent and strong and beautiful. You have wormed your way into my life so I cannot imagine living it without you. Of course I love you.”

Happiness bloomed in her heart—but need was still blooming elsewhere. “Then come to bed and show me.”

“Again?”

“Yes.” He didn't look as if he needed encouragement, but she would offer it anyway. She threw the rest of the covers off, so she was completely naked—body and heart. “Please, Edmund?”

“I wouldn't be a gentleman if I refused such a delightful—and polite—request,” he said, leaning over to kiss her forehead. “But slowly this time.”

Slowly was torture. His tongue explored every corner of her mouth and his fingers teased her nipples. His lips trailed a lazy path down her jaw to her neck and then to her breasts. He lingered there, even when she moaned and wiggled, trying to encourage him to move on. She loved his lips—and tongue and teeth—on that sensitive flesh, but there was other, more sensitive flesh that required his urgent attention.

He finally took her hints and proceeded in the correct direction, down over her belly through her nether hair to—

“Oh!” The wet flick of his tongue was exquisite. The second stroke shot her to the edge of release. She tugged on his hair. She needed him inside.

“I thought we were going slowly this time?” he said. Did his voice sound a little breathless?

She yanked again and growled at him. He grinned.

“Or perhaps next time. I take it you are ready now?”

“Yes. Now.”

“Very well.” He slid inside and she shivered with delight. “As luck would have it, I am ready, too.” His voice was as strained and tight as she felt. He withdrew and stroked in again.

“Ah!” It was all she needed. She shattered, and as she did, she felt Edmund's warm seed pulse deep into her.

They lay tangled together as their hearts slowed; then Edmund lifted himself off her. The cool air chilled her damp skin before he covered them with the blanket. She sighed and snuggled close to him.

“I'm afraid it may take a lot of practice to master the slow approach,” he said, smoothing her hair off her face. She smiled. She felt relaxed—and pleasantly wanton. “But we'll have years to perfect our technique.”

“Mmm.” Years with Edmund. That sounded lovely. And to think, just a few days ago she'd been bored and wanting adventure, certain this Season would be like every other.

“But we don't have years before we have to face your parents and brother and my aunts,” Edmund was saying.

“What?”
Jane sat up abruptly. “Da is in London?”

“He is, as well as your brother John. I cannot think they'll be happy you spent the night in my company.”

“Da and John hate London.” Her eyes widened. “You didn't tell them what we were doing, did you?”

Edmund laughed. “Do I look like I have a death wish? No, I didn't give them any particulars, but after the scene at Wolfson's, I don't believe I had to. All of society must have a very good idea what we've been up to. I merely sent round a note telling them you were well and with me so they should not worry. I doubt that put their minds completely at rest, however.”

Jane snorted. “It should. Your aunts and my mother have been throwing me at your head all week.”

He grinned. “True. So shall we go tell them their efforts have been successful?”

Jane looked down at the naked man lying beside her on the sheets. It was hard to imagine this scene was real. She should pinch herself…or maybe touch him…

“Jane, we'll never get to Motton House if you do that or, ah, mmm, yess…” He flipped her onto her back. “I'm afraid your poor family will have to wait a little longer for our news.”

Dear Readers,

 

The Naked Viscount
is the seventh “Naked” story I've written. New readers—and even fans of the series—sometimes ask me if the books need to be read in order. I don't think so—in fact, I didn't
write
them in order. I found as I went along, I discovered new characters that intrigued me—and then I'd have to figure out what
their
story might be.

However, for those of you who are interested, here's a chronology of the stories—the year in the parenthesis is the year the book was published.

I hope you enjoyed
The Naked Viscount.
Thanks so much for being a “Naked Reader”!

Sally

And here's a selection from Sally's
next sexy Regency romance,

 

THE NAKED KING,

 

to be published by Zebra Books in 2011.

Stephen Parker-Roth landed in a large puddle. Mud and water splashed into the air, soaking his breeches, spattering his coat, and decorating his face with flecks of dirt. He wiped a blob off his right cheek with a clean corner of his cravat and frowned at the perpetrator of this sartorial disaster. “You have deplorable manners, sir.”

The miscreant blinked at him, tongue lolling. He looked not the slightest bit abashed, damn it.

“This wouldn't have happened if I weren't very, very drunk, you know.”

The fellow tilted his head to one side.

“You doubt me?” Stephen leaned forward and poked his finger at the beast to emphasize his point. “I warn you, I'm an exceedingly dangerous man. I've won brawls from Borneo to Buenos Aires to Boston. More than one blackguard has rued the day his path crossed mine.”

The dog barked, a rather startlingly deep, ringing sound, and put his head down on his front paws. His hindquarters remained in the air, tail waving like a flag in a stiff gale.

Stephen unbent enough to scratch the creature's ears. “Ah, well, I won't hold your ignorance against you. You're just a…” He frowned. “No, you can't be a homeless cur—you're far too clean. How is it you're roaming Hyde Park by yourself?” His fingers found a collar in the dog's deep fur—and then he noticed the leash dragging in the grass. “Oh ho, you're not alone. What have you done with your master, sir?”

The dog's ears pricked up. A woman's voice, rich and incredibly alluring, called out, “Harry!”

“Or mistress…” Stephen found himself addressing empty air. Harry was already bounding across the grass to a figure about a hundred yards distant. Stephen squinted in the sun. The female wore an enormous bonnet and a dress that looked like an oversized flour sack.

Pity. A voice that evoked twisted sheets and tangled limbs should not belong to an antidote.

The woman stooped to reclaim the leash, and Harry promptly began towing her back toward him. He'd best stand, then, like a gentleman should.

He struggled to his feet. The mud didn't want to let him go. MacInnes was going to have an apoplexy when he saw him. Why his valet, who didn't blink at tending his gear in the Amazon or the wilds of Africa, got as priggish as a damned dandy when they reached England's shores was beyond him.

Eh. The change in altitude was not felicitous. He bent over, resting his hands on his knees, and swallowed several times until the landscape stopped whirling and his last meal agreed to remain in his stomach. It would be shockingly bad form to greet the lady by casting up his accounts all over her slippers.

“Harry! Slow down!”

Even sharp and breathless, her voice sent a jolt of pleasure through him. He leaned forward a bit more to shield any obvious evidence of his interest.

Rein up, you cawker. She might have buck teeth and garlic breath; she might be toothless and eighty years old.

He glanced up. Well, not eighty. She was moving too quickly to be that ancient.

The dreadful bonnet slid back off her head as he watched. Ah! Now he saw the purpose of that hideous headgear—it hid her riot of bright red curls. They glinted in the sunlight like dew-kissed roses.

She had spectacles, too, that looked to be in danger of falling off her rather prominent nose, and delightfully full lips, currently twisted into a grimace. She wasn't beautiful, but she was definitely attractive.

Who was she? A maid assigned to walk the family dog? No sane butler or housekeeper would assign this girl that task—the dog was walking her, not she the dog. A lady of the night? Unlikely. It was now an awful hour in the morning, and he'd never heard of a dasher with an obstreperous dog, the voice of a siren, red curls, and spectacles. A fallen female with those striking attributes would be the talk of the male
ton.
Perhaps she was a widow.

Or married. Damn, he hoped she wasn't married. He didn't dally with married ladies.

He shook his head. Was he insane? How the hell had dalliance crept into his thoughts?

He was drunk. That was it. Very, very drunk.

And she was very flushed and very annoyed. She was glaring at him.

He
was
covered in mud—his shoes squelched with the stuff—but that wasn't his fault. Her dog was to blame.

Harry dragged her the last few yards and plopped down at his feet. The girl's brows were the same shade as her hair. She looked more like a flame than a rose, actually. Was she as fiery in bed?

He closed his eyes briefly. If he could remember how many glasses of brandy he'd had, he'd vow never to have so many again.

He regarded her glowering countenance. “Er, good morning.” He sounded perfectly sober, if he said so himself. “It's, ah, a lovely morning, isn't it?”

“No, it's not.” She blew out a short, sharp breath and pushed her hair back out of her face. Her green eyes were as stormy as a wind-tossed ocean, full of passion…

Perhaps he should swear off brandy entirely, though drink had never made him so lustful before.

“I mean…” She swallowed, obviously trying to get her spleen under control. “That is, yes, it is a lovely morning. How nice of you to say so after Harry caused you to fall into the mud. I apologize for his behavior.”

Mmm, that voice. He'd so like to hear it threaded with need and desire, panting his name—

Definitely no more brandy.

“He's a sheep dog,” the woman said. “I imagine he was trying to herd you away from the puddle, not into it.” She reached back to reclaim her bonnet.

Oh, no. He couldn't let her cover her beautiful curls again with that monstrosity. His hand shot out, plucked the millinery mistake from her fingers, and dropped it into the mud. He mashed it down with his foot for good measure.

 

“My bonnet!” Lady Anne Marston gaped down at her poor bonnet, flattened under this rude person's shoe. What sort of gentleman attacked a woman's hat?

No sort of gentleman. The man might be handsome as sin with his startlingly clear blue eyes and shaggy, sun-streaked hair, but handsome is as handsome does—she had learned
that
lesson beyond hope of forgetting—and destroying a woman's bonnet was not handsomely done.

She drew in a breath to tell him exactly what she thought of such behavior—and stopped. Was that brandy she smelled? Certainly the man wasn't foxed at 10 o'clock in the morning!

“Your bonnet is an abomination,” he said.

“It is not!” And now he was insulting her as well. That was her favorite bonnet under his foot. It might not be stylish—
she
wasn't stylish—but she liked it. She'd had it for years.

“You didn't buy it in London, did you?”

She gritted her teeth. “Of course not. London bonnets are frilly, silly dabs of straw and feathers and gewgaws. I need something serviceable.”

She should leave. Yes, the man had landed in the mud, but it was probably more his fault than Harry's. Drunkards were notoriously unsteady. She tugged on Harry's leash, but the idiotic animal stayed where he was, at this human animal's feet.

“Serviceable?” He ground her poor hat deeper into the muck. “How could this atrocity be the least bit serviceable?”

“It protected me from the sun”—
and kept critical eyes off my disreputable hair.

She would admit that last only to herself, certainly not to him. What did this fellow know of the matter anyway? He didn't have red hair—though, being a man, he probably wouldn't care if he did.

He snorted. “It protected you from the sun and every male who saw you in it, I'll wager.”

Oh, she'd like to kick the cod's-head exactly where it would hurt him most. He didn't think she was some silly miss on the catch for a husband, did he? “I'd hoped it would protect me from annoying men”—she sniffed, giving him her best pretention-depressing look—“such as yourself.”

He chuckled. “Now that's put me in my place, hasn't it? And here I just rescued you from the ugliest bonnet in Britain.” He leaned forward slightly, sending another whiff of brandy her way. “When you go looking for a replacement, try Madam de Fleur's on Bond Street. Fleur's hats are far more attractive.”

Of course this fribble would be an expert in female fashion. She jerked on Harry's leash again; Harry merely yawned. “You are drunk, sir.”

He nodded, looking not the least bit repentant. “I'm very much afraid that I am.”

“Did you rise early, then, to begin your debauchery?” It was a shame—in an academic, aesthetic sense only, of course—that such a handsome man was so dissipated.

“Er, no. I haven't yet been to bed.”

“You haven't?” She looked at his clothes more closely. Under all the mud they were indeed evening wear.

And under the clothes were exceptionally broad shoulders, a flat stomach, narrow hips…She flushed. Damn her coloring. She squeezed her eyes shut and drew in a deep breath—still tainted with the scent of brandy. What was the matter with her? She was not interested in men, certainly not this man.

“I don't believe I've engaged in any debauchery yet this morning…”

He paused suggestively, and, damn it, she couldn't keep her eyes shut. She looked at him.

“…but I'd be willing to attempt some now, if you'd like.” He waggled his eyebrows.

Surprisingly, she had to swallow a laugh instead of a gasp.

His eyes gleamed and his lips slid slowly into a smile—with dimples, blast it all. “Care to tuck me into bed?”

“No!” This man was the very worst sort of London coxcomb she could imagine—had imagined when she'd worried about this unfortunate trip these last few months. Only, he didn't seem so bad. He seemed…amused and amusing.

The horrifying truth was part of her did wish to tuck the handsome rascal in. “Behave yourself.”

Hadn't she learned her lesson ten years ago? Apparently not if the odd warmth in her belly—lower than her belly—was any indication.

She would not let herself be taken in again. This man might not seem like Lord Brentwood on the surface, but his heart was likely as black. His heart and another, specifically male organ.

“Oh, well.” He shrugged. “I'll be off to bed straightaway then once I've seen you home.” He raised his brows, looking ridiculously hopeful. “If you're certain you'd not like to read me a bedtime story at least?”

She turned another laugh into a cough. The fellow was indeed an accomplished seducer if he could charm her well-armored heart. She must be sure to keep her half sister away from him. At eighteen, Evie was too young to have learned to be suspicious of handsome scoundrels. “Quite certain. And there is no need for you to escort me.”

“Oh, but there is. You know I wouldn't be a gentleman if I didn't see you safely home.”

She turned her nose up at him. “You are not a gentleman—and I am quite all right by myself.”

“No, you're not. A gently bred woman needs a male to protect her.”

She glared. “I have Harry—he is both male and protective.”

“And you have no control over him.”

“Oh, and I have more control over you?”

The moment the last word left her lips, she froze, as if she'd shocked herself, and then bit her lip and flushed. Her eyes dropped in apparent embarrassment—and focused on his crotch.

Damn. He wasn't about to hide behind his hands like a bashful virgin, but if she stared at him much longer, she would get quite an education in male anatomy.

“I assure you, I can find my way home by myself.” Her eyes moved on to her dog, thank God. “Forgive me for not apologizing earlier for the state of your clothing. I intended to immediately”—her eyes came back up to scowl at him—“and would have if you hadn't accosted my bonnet.”

“I wouldn't have accosted your bonnet,” he said, stepping on it once more and twisting his foot to grind it farther into the grime, “if it hadn't so vilely accosted my eyes and my male sensibilities.”

She pressed her lips into a tight line, obviously wishing to brangle with him, but equally obviously restraining herself. Too bad. He found sparring with her surprisingly stimulating.

She took a deep breath, causing her formless bodice to swell in a rather interesting fashion. “In any event,” she said, “Harry was at fault.” She dropped her eyes to his muddied cravat. “Your clothing is likely irreparably damaged; my father will wish to make it right. Please have your bills sent to Lord Crane.”

“Ah.” That was why he didn't know her. Crane spent even less time in London than Stephen did. “So you're Crazy Crane's daughter.”

He was sober enough to notice her flinch, but she must be used to hearing the nickname. Everyone called Crane crazy. His passion for finding antiquities was even greater than Stephen's for discovering new plant species. The word at White's was the earl had come to Town—briefly, as it turned out—to fire off his daughter on the Marriage Mart. Stephen frowned. He was drunk, but he wasn't completely disguised. This girl was too old to be a debutante.

“So you're here to find a husband?” he asked.

Her brows snapped down as her eyes snapped back to his face. “Of course not.” She curled her delightful upper lip slightly. “Were you quaking in your boots?”

“Don't have boots.” He lifted his foot to show her and almost left his shoe in the quagmire. “And you don't scare me. I've been dodging debutantes for years—though you do seem a little long in the tooth to be just making your bows.”

“I am twenty-seven”—it sounded as if she were gritting her teeth again—“not that it is any of your business. It is my half sister who is being introduced to the
ton.
”

“Ah!” He nodded. Now he remembered. “You're Crane's older daughter, the one by his first wife. The bluestocking as opposed to the—”