Free The Naked Prince by Sally Mackenzie Page B

7
    â€œ All right?! ” Damian took another deep breath. Good God. All this time he’d been corresponding with a female.
    He frowned. He hadn’t discussed anything he shouldn’t have, had he?
    No, of course he hadn’t. He didn’t make a habit of writing about improper subjects and, in any event, he’d thought he’d been addressing an older man. Most of their correspondence had been about Latin, though of late it had begun to stray into more personal topics.
    But not too personal, thank God. Not that he had anything of a salacious nature to write about these days.
    He scowled down at Miss Atworthy. Damn it all, he’d come to look forward to those letters, reading them eagerly and spending special effort on his replies. He’d thought of J.A. as a friend—but he wasn’t. She wasn’t. It was all a lie. He felt like an idiot. “You should have told me.”
    She flushed and pulled his coat tighter around her. “Why? My sex wasn’t important.”
    Was she insane? Her sex was extremely important. It was the crucial detail that changed everything.
    He made the mistake then of looking away from her toward the morning room. He caught sight of some fat male arse pumping away at—
    He took her elbow and hustled her farther down the terrace. The wind tossed her hair about her face and put more color in her cheeks; he hoped it was taking some color from his. He was suddenly very hot. She looked so delicate in his jacket, so damn feminine. “Single young ladies are not supposed to exchange letters with single men to whom they are not related.”
    God, he sounded like someone’s stuffy old, dry-as-a-stick great aunt.
    â€œThat’s why I didn’t tell you. I knew it was improper.” She snorted. “Well, improper by society’s ridiculous rules. There was nothing really improper in our correspondence. We didn’t discuss anything we couldn’t have talked about in a roomful of people.”
    â€œBut we weren’t in a roomful of people, were we?”
    â€œNo. We were each alone at our separate desks.”
    He ran his hand through his hair. Didn’t she understand? Writing letters . . . sharing thoughts . . . it was very private. Very intimate. He’d let Miss Atworthy into his mind. “There is good reason why society frowns on men and women corresponding.”
    â€œOh, please. I never took you for such a prude.”
    That stung. Perhaps she didn’t understand because his letters had meant nothing to her. Perhaps she wrote to many men—to all the men who had articles in The Classical Gazette .
    The thought ignited a slow, burning anger in his gut.
    She raised her chin. “You are making a great deal out of nothing.”
    â€œIt is not nothing.” He clenched his teeth. “You misled me.”
    â€œOh, for goodness’ sake, I did not mislead you. You never asked if I was a woman, and I saw no reason to bring it up because it was not significant . I never told you I had curly hair, either.”
    â€œBut I assumed—”
    â€œAnd whose mistake was that?” She crossed her arms, her chin still at that defiant angle.
    â€œYou knew who I was.”
    â€œI did not. I only discovered your identity when I arrived at this party and you mentioned you’d been writing to my father.”
    â€œAh.” He caught her gaze and held it. “So why didn’t you tell me then it wasn’t your father I was corresponding with?”
    She flushed. “I, er . . .”
    Suddenly his anger and hurt coalesced. The fire burned hotter. He wanted revenge. He wanted her to feel something.
    Lust. He wanted her to need him, to ache for him.
    He hadn’t been the Prince of Hearts for nothing. He stepped closer. “You didn’t tell me because you knew it was scandalous.”
    â€œImproper. Not scandalous.” She took a step back. She didn’t have much room to retreat. The