The Naked King Read Free

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 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 he did. “So you’re Crazy Crane’s daughter.”
    He was sober enough to notice her flinch, but she must be used to hearing that 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. Wasn’t this girl 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—“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—”
    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. She had a long stride, but 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