The Naked Gentleman Page 10

  “Miss Peterson is not clamoring to wed me, either, as you may have noticed.”

  “No?” Westbrooke smirked. “I didn’t see her struggling to get off your lap in Lady Palmerson’s parlor. And one does wonder how she happened to disarrange her dress so noticeably.”

  “You know she’d been attacked by that bounder, Bennington.”

  “Bennington wasn’t the only one attacking that evening.”

  Certainly it was too dark in this corner of White’s for Westbrooke to see him flush? And he wasn’t blushing in any case. He was merely overly warm.

  “The fact remains—Miss Peterson rejected my offer. There is nothing more to be said on the matter.”

  “Oh, I give up. You are impossible.” Westbrooke stood abruptly. “Stay here and stew if you like. I will leave you the brandy so you can be well marinated. Just think on this—I almost let my past rule my future. If events hadn’t fallen out as they did—if I hadn’t been forced by scandal to wed Lizzie—I would never have known happiness. I’d hate to see you miss such pleasure because you also lack the courage to face your past.”

  “Now wait a minute—”

  Westbrooke was already gone.

  Bloody, bloody hell. Parks took a large swallow of brandy. It went down the wrong way, sending him into a coughing fit. A few denizens of White’s peered around the sad ficus to see who was choking. He muffled his paroxysms with his handkerchief.

  He couldn’t muffle the galling thought—was Westbrooke right? Was he a coward?

  Ridiculous. The earl had no idea what he felt. He had not been left standing before a church filled with friends, family, and the gossip-hungry ton. Westbrooke had not had to see pity in his parents’ eyes or listen to the whispering.

  Westbrooke had no bloody idea how much Grace’s betrayal had hurt.

  Damn. He pounded his fist on his knee. The pain felt good. Westbrooke was right about one thing. The disaster with Grace was in the past. It should stay there. It would stay there. As soon as Mother finished buying her blasted paints, they would go home to the Priory and he would see if MacGill had taken proper care of the latest shipment of exotic plants.

  He would be delighted to leave London. Bloody delighted. He poured himself another large glass of brandy. God, how he hated Town. Once he’d shaken its dust from his feet, he’d feel much better. Everything would be back to normal.

  He had a sudden image of Miss Peterson in Lady Palmerson’s hideous red parlor, her hair spread over her shoulders. Her long, lovely hair, her white skin, her soft, white breasts. The lovely taste of—

  Bloody hell.

  He couldn’t help it if his male instincts were inflamed by the sight of a half-naked female, could he? He frowned at the specific organ that was currently so inflamed it was almost painful. He shifted in his seat. He was a man, after all. Men were made with certain…needs. It was a purely physical, animal reaction.

  He took another swallow of brandy.

  The worst of it was he couldn’t get a decent night’s sleep. The damn woman had invaded his dreams. He’d woken twice—no, three times—last night in an extremely uncomfortable state.

  He shifted position again. He needed to visit Cat as soon as he got home. A quick session in her bed would cure him of this malady, he was sure of it. It had to or he would go stark, raving mad.

  Chapter 7

  “Emma, this is most definitely a bad idea.”

  “Nonsense, Meg. You need to become acquainted with your future mother-in-law.”

  Meg was sorely tempted to drum her heels against the carriage floor. “Mrs. Parker-Roth is not my future mother-in-law. Do I need to take out an announcement in The Morning Post for you to understand that?”

  “Hmm. Excellent point. Mr. Parker-Roth should place an announcement in the Post as soon as possible. I will hint about it to his mother, though I imagine she has already mentioned it to him. She struck me as a very capable woman.”

  “Emma!” Meg took a deep breath. Shouting never worked with Emma. The woman existed in her own little world, merrily planning away other people’s lives. A mature, measured tone would be better.

  “Emma.” Yes, that sounded more the thing. Calm. Mature. “There. Is. No. Announcement.” Excellent. Taking a breath after each word worked wonders. Relaxing her hands would also be a good idea. She was not going to engage in fisticuffs with her sister. “Do. You. Comprehend?”

  Emma frowned at her. “What is the matter with you? You sound as queer as Dick’s hatband. You didn’t hit your head getting into the coach, did you?”

  Fisticuffs sounded like an excellent notion. Or strangulation.

  “I am not marrying Mr. Parker-Roth.”

  “Meg, please, lower your voice. Whatever would Mr. Parker-Roth’s mother think of you?”

  Meg tried another deep breath, but it wasn’t working. Mature and measured had deserted her. Once Emma got the bit between her teeth, there was no stopping her. She was just like a runaway horse.

  She only hoped Mrs. Parker-Roth was more rational.

  The coach slowed. Emma looked out the window and nodded. Meg’s stomach dropped to her slippers.

  “Here we are. Come along, Meg. We don’t want to keep our hostess waiting.”

  Emma was out of the carriage the moment the footman let down the steps. Meg paused and looked up at the impressive façade of the Pulteney, one of London’s most fashionable hotels.

  It looked like the gates of Hell.

  Lud! What if Parks was with his mother? She hadn’t considered that, but obviously he was staying here as well.

  “Miss Peterson?” The footman extended his hand again to assist her down the steps.

  She stared at his gloved fingers. They looked smaller than Parks’s. Were they as unfashionably tanned as well? Not that she objected to sun-darkened skin…or strong fingers, slightly roughened, sliding over her, cupping her breast, touching her aching nipples—

  She took a deep, shuddery breath.

  She definitely did not want to see Mr. Parker-Roth, especially in the company of his mother and Emma.

  “Are you all right, Miss Peterson?” The footman’s voice held a note of worry.

  Emma came back to the carriage. “Meg, what is the matter with you?” She glanced at the men and women walking by and leaned closer to hiss, “You are making a spectacle of yourself.”

  “I—” People were beginning to stop and gape at her. “I, um…”

  “Come on!” Emma turned to nod at Mrs. Windham who’d chosen to examine them through her lorgnette. The old bat raised her eyebrow; Emma raised her nose and looked down it as if she were a…a…marchioness. Meg blinked. Emma was a marchioness, of course, and had been for almost four years, but she’d been simple Miss Peterson, the vicar’s daughter, for twenty-six years before that. She’d always been somewhat bossy—at least toward Meg—but hardly imperious. Apparently now she’d mastered the trick of putting nasty old tabbies in their place.

  Mrs. Windham flushed and nodded back, resuming her progress down Picadilly.

  “Stop sitting there like a complete stock and come inside.” Emma crossed to the Pulteney’s front door where a doorman stood ready to throw open the portal.

  Meg scrambled down the steps and grabbed Emma’s wrist.

  “I really don’t think…that is, do we have to…?” Meg struggled to breathe.

  Emma scowled at her. “What is the matter? You are behaving like a bedlamite.”

  Meg looked at the doorman. He looked straight ahead as though he were just another Coade stone statue. He had probably seen any manner of minor dramas while at his post, but Meg did not want to add another tale to his collection. She lowered her voice.

  “Emma, did Mrs. Parker-Roth happen to say if her son was going to be present?”

  Emma grinned. “Anxious to see him again, are you?”

  “No!” Just the thought threatened to send her luncheon ignominiously spilling over the walk. Her cheeks felt clammy and her fingers tingled.


  God forbid! Was she going to faint?

  Emma patted her hand. “Calm yourself. I’ll wager Mr. Parker-Roth has taken himself off. He would be very much in the way, as I’m sure he knows.”

  “He would?” Meg eyed the Knightsdale coach. The footman hadn’t put up the steps yet. If she made a dash for it, she could climb back in before it pulled away. “What exactly are we going to discuss?”

  “This and that. His family, his interests, his estate.”

  “Emma…”

  “Wedding plans—”

  “Emma! I told you, I’m not marrying Mr. Parker-Roth.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you are marrying the man. You have no choice.” Emma linked her arm through Meg’s and nodded to the stoic doorman. “Come along. Mrs. Parker-Roth must be waiting for us.”

  A red-headed giant opened the door to the Parker-Roth apartment.

  “Please tell your mistress that the Marchioness of Knightsdale and Miss Margaret Peterson are here,” Emma said.

  “Ack, is that so?” The giant turned to examine Meg from her bonnet to her slippers. “Is this the master’s lassie, then?” He gave a low whistle. “I’m thinking Johnny will be a happy man afore he’s much older.”

  Meg felt her cheeks flush. They must be as red as the giant’s hair.

  “Sir!” Emma said, “I don’t believe we asked for your opinion.”

  The man grinned. “Then ye’ll be thanking me fer giving it to ye so generously, won’t ye?”

  Emma drew in a sharp breath. “You are impertinent.”

  “Aye.” His grin broadened. “I’ve been told that afore.”

  “MacGill!” Mrs. Parker-Roth’s voice echoed from somewhere in the suite of rooms. “Stop toying with the ladies and show them in.”

  MacGill smirked. “If ye’ll follow me?”

  Emma leaned close as the giant set off down a short corridor and whispered, “The man is a very odd sort of butler. You must have a word with Mr. Parker-Roth after the wedding about his suitability.”

  “Emma,” Meg whispered back, “how many times do I have to tell you that there will be no wedding?”

  “And how many times do I have to tell you that you have no choice? You will marry Mr. Parker-Roth.”

  Emma spoke a little too loudly. MacGill snorted. Meg was certain he was going to make some comment, but instead he stepped aside for them to enter the parlor.

  “Lady Knightsdale, Miss Peterson, welcome.” Mrs. Parker-Roth came forward to take their hands. Her face creased into well-worn smile wrinkles, and her green eyes, so like her son’s, twinkled at them. “I am so happy you could visit.” She gestured to a woman on the settee. “Let me make known to you my traveling companion, Miss Agatha Witherspoon. Agatha, Lady Knightsdale and her sister, Miss Margaret Peterson.”

  Miss Witherspoon nodded at them. She looked to be on the shady side of sixty. Her hair was gray and wiry, cut so short she bore a striking resemblance to a hedgehog. She wore an odd, reddish orange printed garment wrapped around her body.

  “A sari,” Meg muttered in surprise as Mrs. Parker-Roth conferred with MacGill. Father had spoken of these Hindu garments once, but she had never seen one.

  “Don’t be sorry,” Emma said. “Just be sensible.”

  “What?”

  “Didn’t you just say you were sorry?”

  “No.”

  “Yes, you did. I heard you quite distinctly.”

  Miss Witherspoon snorted. “I believe your sister was referring to my gown, Lady Knightsdale.”

  Emma frowned. “Meg would never make such an impolite observation, would you, Meg?”

  “Emma—not sorry—sari!”

  “I don’t know why you need to talk in riddles. If you are not going to—”

  Mrs. Parker-Roth turned as MacGill left the room. “Pardon me, Lady Knightsdale. I am sorry. I’m sure MacGill’s behavior is not what you are used to.”

  “Definitely not.”

  Meg bit her tongue. Until Emma had married Charles, she had not been used to any servant behavior whatsoever.

  Her sister was not usually so haughty. The strain of being in London—and of dealing with Meg’s situation—must be testing her sorely.

  “The man’s Scottish, you know. Very independent. He’s my son’s valet, but he acts as our general manservant when we travel. His twin brother is Johnny’s head gardener.”

  “I see. So your son thinks highly of him?”

  “Oh, yes indeed. Johnny thinks both the MacGills are beyond reproach.” She smiled. “MacGill will be bringing tea in just a few minutes. Please, take a seat.”

  Meg chose a straight-backed chair with sturdy wooden arms and a seat cushion that had all the give of a small boulder. Emma joined Miss Witherspoon on the settee. Her eyes widened as she finally focused on the woman’s attire.

  “That is quite an unusual frock you are wearing, Miss Witherspoon. I don’t believe I’ve seen its like in Kent. Is it something new?”

  “It’s a sari, Lady Knightsdale,” Miss Witherspoon said, speaking very distinctly. “Many of the native women in India wear them. They are quite comfortable.”

  “Ah. I…see.”

  Emma was obviously struggling to find a suitable rejoinder. Meg took pity on her.

  “Have you been to India, Miss Witherspoon?”

  “Oh, yes—several times. And to Africa and South America—all over the globe. We just returned from Siam a few weeks ago.”

  “We?” Meg glanced at Parks’s mother. Miss Witherspoon followed her gaze and laughed.

  “Oh, not Cecilia. I could never get her away from the Priory for so long a time, though I have tried. No, I travel with my very dear friend Prudence Doddington-Prinz.”

  Emma frowned. “Is that safe—two ladies traveling by themselves?”

  “Well, we don’t go alone, of course. Often we have an expedition leader. And Mr. Cox accompanies us as well. He’s a former pugilist who can be quite intimidating when the need arises. Not that it does. We are experienced travelers. We do not take unnecessary risks.”

  Mrs. Parker-Roth snorted.

  “Now, Cecilia, you cannot judge. This is the riskiest thing you do—travel to London occasionally.” Miss Witherspoon rolled her eyes heavenward. “You lead such a sheltered—such a tame—existence. Frankly, I don’t see how you bear it.”

  “There is nothing tame about my existence, Agatha. I have six children who often bring more excitement into my life than I quite care for.”

  “But how can you call yourself an artist when you’ve never visited Italy or Greece and seen the art of the Masters?”

  Mrs. Parker-Roth’s mouth thinned to a tight line. “Agatha—” She stopped, obviously getting hold of her temper, and then smiled at Meg and Emma. “Forgive me. This is a long-running argument, I’m afraid.”

  “Indeed it is.” Miss Witherspoon leaned toward Meg. “Consider carefully, Miss Peterson. Do not make the same mistake Cecilia did and fall in love with a pair of broad shoulders.”

  Meg flushed, remembering exactly how being pressed up against a certain pair of broad shoulders—and broad chest and muscular arms—had felt.

  “I did not make a mistake,” Mrs. Parker-Roth said.

  “You did, Cecilia. You could have been a great artist.”

  “Agatha—”

  “Marriage and motherhood are all very well for some people. Obviously if we want the human race to continue, someone must produce the next generation. It just didn’t have to be you, Cecilia, and you didn’t have to produce so much of it. A little restraint would have been a good thing.”

  Mrs. Parker-Roth flushed. “Agatha—”

  “It’s not as though your husband has a title to pass on—and in any event, you took care of that concern, had it been one, promptly with Pinky and Stephen.”

  “Pinky?” Meg asked. A distraction seemed to be in order.

  Mrs. Parker-Roth gave her a somewhat harried smile. “We called Johnny ‘Pinky’ when he was little to differentiat
e him from his father. His middle name is Pinkerton. He doesn’t care for the nickname now.” She turned back to Miss Witherspoon. “Agatha, really, I don’t think—”

  “That is self evident,” Miss Witherspoon said. “You didn’t think. Once you met John Parker-Roth at your come-out ball, your brain ceded control of your behavior to your—”

  “Agatha!”

  “—to some other organ which led you into marriage and then motherhood. Still, if you’d stopped after Stephen, you could have been free years ago—though I grant you, Napoleon made continental travel extremely difficult, if not impossible, for some of that time. But that’s neither here nor there. It wasn’t the Corsican Monster keeping you chained to England, but your own brood of little demons.”

  Mrs. Parker-Roth gasped. “You go too far!”

  Miss Witherspoon shrugged. “Yes, all right. I apologize. They are very well-behaved demons.”

  “They are…you called my children…”

  Miss Witherspoon touched Mrs. Parker-Roth’s arm. “You could have been such a fine artist, Cecilia.”

  Parks’s mother finally mastered her breathing sufficiently to emit a short, exasperated noise. “I am persuaded I’m as fine an artist as I could ever have been, Agatha.”

  “I don’t think so. Remember all those years ago when we met at Lady Baxter’s soiree? You were such a fiery young woman. You said you were only tolerating a Season because it brought you to London and the Royal Academy of Arts. You swore you’d defy your father to pursue your muse.”

  “I was ridiculous.”

  “You were passionate.” Miss Witherspoon sighed. “It is partly my fault, I suppose. I should not have put John in your way, but I never suspected you’d be tempted by a poet.”

  Meg glanced at Emma. Her sister looked distinctly uncomfortable, as if the conversation was galloping at breakneck speed toward a precipice and she had not an inkling how to rein it in.

  “Agatha, why can’t you understand? I don’t need—or want—to go to Italy or Greece. I can see as well in England’s light as I can anywhere. There is plenty of beauty in my own little corner of the world. And if the choice is between my painting or my children—well, there is no choice. Nothing—nothing—is as important to me as my family.”