The Naked Gentleman Page 11

  Miss Witherspoon clicked her tongue, throwing her hands in the air and sitting back on the settee.

  “Oh, pish! That is what you have persuaded yourself to believe, Cecilia. It’s what men want us to believe. We’ve been taught from our cradles that marriage is a woman’s highest calling. Gammon!”

  “Just because you’ve never wed—”

  “Thank God! I have more sense than to sell my body to the highest bidder.”

  “Agatha!”

  Meg looked down quickly and studied her hands. Miss Witherspoon on the Marriage Mart? The thought of anyone bidding for her stout, aging form was beyond ludicrous, but perhaps she had not resembled a hedgehog—an angry hedgehog—so markedly in her youth.

  “Don’t ‘Agatha’ me. It’s too true that many women would be happier if they’d remained single. They say ‘I do’ once, and their husbands say ‘you won’t’ ever after.”

  Emma was scowling. “You make marriage sound like prison.”

  “It is, Lady Knightsdale. Oh, you may be confined to a lovely estate and your warden might be rich and handsome, but you’ve still given up your freedom. You must serve his needs, letting him use you as he will, when he will, pawing you whenever the urge strikes, leaving you bulging with child over and over again—”

  “Agatha!” Mrs. Parker-Roth almost shouted. “You exceed the bounds of propriety.”

  Miss Witherspoon’s nose twitched. “My apologies if I’ve offended anyone’s sensibilities. I merely wish to save Miss Peterson from disaster.”

  “Disaster? Are you equating marriage to my son with disaster?”

  “I’ve nothing against Pinky, you understand, Cecilia. He’s nice enough, for a male.”

  “Miss Witherspoon.” Emma’s tone was a touch strident. “Disaster will strike if my sister does not marry Mr. Parker-Roth. Her reputation will be in tatters.”

  “Balderdash.” Miss Witherspoon waggled her finger at Emma. “A reputation is required only if one wishes to wed in the ton. If that is not of interest, then reputation, as society defines it at least, becomes irrelevant. Look at your husband’s aunt, Lady Beatrice.”

  “I’m not certain we should look at Lady Beatrice.”

  Miss Witherspoon continued as if Emma had not spoken. “Bea chose to live her life to suit herself. The society tabbies whispered, but she ignored them all and eventually they had to accept her.” She tapped Meg on the knee. “You can do the same, Miss Peterson. Ignore the old cats. Let them hiss among themselves—you turn a deaf ear. Follow your passions. You do have passions, don’t you?”

  “Uh.” Passion. The word was becoming synonymous with Parks. With his hands, his mouth, his tongue…Heat flooded her. “Um, I’m very interested in plants.”

  “Agatha, Miss Peterson cannot expect society to treat her as it does Lady Beatrice,” Mrs. Parker-Roth said. “Lady Beatrice is the daughter and sister of a marquis. Society is much more tolerant of women who have powerful families behind them.”

  “And Miss Peterson is a marquis’s sister-in-law. Most of the tabbies will hesitate to give her the cut direct. They’d be afraid of alienating Knightsdale.”

  “As well they should be,” Emma said. “Charles would eviscerate anyone who insulted Meg.”

  “Exactly. So you see, Miss Peterson, you don’t have to wed Pinky.”

  “Johnny, Agatha.”

  “Johnny. You don’t have to chain yourself to some man—”

  “Johnny is not ‘some man,’ Agatha. He is an excellent, steady, loyal—”

  “—boring—”

  “He is not boring.” Mrs. Parker-Roth paused, and then sighed. “Well, perhaps he is just a slight bit boring, but he is very reliable.”

  “Predictable.”

  “There is nothing the matter with being predictable, Agatha!”

  Were these women talking about Mr. Parker-Roth? The man who’d appeared deus ex machina in Lord Palmerson’s garden to save her from Bennington’s evil attentions? Who’d felled the viscount with one blow? Who’d gathered her close and held her while she sobbed into his shirtfront?

  The man who had put his tongue in her mouth and his mouth on her breasts and his hands…everywhere?

  Meg shivered, the odd throbbing starting low in her belly again.

  There had been absolutely nothing boring or predictable about Mr. Parker-Roth’s actions in Lady Palmerson’s parlor.

  “Are you feeling quite the thing, Meg?” Emma frowned at her. “You look rather flushed.”

  “Um.”

  Fortunately, Mr. MacGill chose that moment to bring in the tea tray.

  Chapter 8

  “Domestic bliss becomes you.” Felicity tried to keep her tone light and sarcastic, but the vaguely pitying look Charlotte gave her indicated she’d not been completely successful.

  “It does.” Charlotte’s eyes drifted over Lord Easthaven’s ballroom, stopping when they reached a man of middle height with thinning hair and thickening waist. She smiled. “I’ve never been happier.”

  Of course Charlotte had never been happier. Her first husband—that old goat, the Duke of Hartford—had cocked up his toes just over a year ago. Well, if rumors were true, it was his cock, not his toes, which had been up at the end. But his last effort had apparently born fruit, and nine months after the duke’s demise, Charlotte delivered a boy to her great relief and the previous heir’s greater consternation. A year and a day after Hartford breathed his last, his poor widow wed Baron Tynweith.

  Lord Tynweith concluded his conversation with Sir George Gaston and made his way toward his wife’s side. Felicity frowned. One would think they were starry-eyed young lovers instead of mature, experienced adults. Their devotion was nauseating.

  Her gut twisted. Nausea—that’s what she felt. Not jealousy. Of course not. How ridiculous. “You have taken to motherhood much more enthusiastically than I would ever have guessed.”

  Charlotte kept her eyes on Tynweith, a slight smile playing over her lips. “I’ve surprised myself.”

  “And how fortunate the baron seems so content to be a step-papa. Not every man would welcome his predecessor’s brat, even if the brat is a duke.”

  “Edward is wonderful.”

  Felicity kept herself from snorting. Tynweith’s generosity was not hard to explain. She’d wager the baron, not the dearly departed duke, was the new Duke of Hartford’s real father. She examined the man as he approached. He looked…boring. True, he’d been wild in his youth, but now he was no different from any other aging country squire.

  Except he had climbed into Charlotte’s bed and stolen her heart. There must be something special about him. Something that didn’t show in his unremarkable façade.

  Bennington’s face with its prominent nose pushed its way into her thoughts. Hmm.

  He was here tonight. She’d seen him talking to Lord Palmerson when she’d arrived. They were probably discussing horticulture. Bennington was quite partial to plants.

  Would he take a turn in the garden with her? Charlotte had said he’d strolled through Palmerson’s foliage with Miss Peterson.

  Her stomach clenched. The clock was ticking. At any moment, her father’s financial failures might come to light. She had no time to waste. She must lure some man into the bushes as soon as may be. Bennington might do.

  “Do you hear from Lord Andrew? He’s in Boston, isn’t he?”

  “Hmm?” But would he go? She’d always thought him a trifle staid. More than a trifle. As stuffy as a churchman. But if he’d been frolicking in the foliage with Miss Peterson…And surely no churchman would have been filling Aunt Hermione’s urn…

  He was a viscount. He needed an heir. He was heading rapidly toward forty.

  Perhaps he, too, heard a clock ticking.

  “Felicity.”

  “What?” She looked at Charlotte. What was she prosing on about? Where was Tynweith? Ah, he had stopped again to chat with Lady Dunlee. Now that he was a married man, he was a social pussycat.

  “Felicity,
you are not attending.”

  Perhaps she had been looking for the wrong type of man all along. Perhaps the less showy specimens were the most…rewarding.

  “Felicity!”

  “What?! There is no need to shout, Charlotte.”

  Charlotte looked heavenward for a moment. “I asked you if you ever hear from Lord Andrew. Really, it’s a wonder Westbrooke and Alvord let him live, after what he did to Lady Westbrooke at the house party.”

  It was a wonder. What had he—and she—been thinking? “No. Andrew is not a correspondent.” He had written once, asking for money. When she’d said she had none, he’d lost interest in her.

  Andrew was showy. He was quite beautiful to behold, but his beauty was only skin deep. He was rather rotten on the inside. Bennington, however…

  She definitely needed to take a stroll through Lord Easthaven’s gardens with the viscount.

  “I cannot believe not a single gentleman has requested you stand up with him this evening, Meg! If only Charlie did not have the earache and want his papa at his side. You can be sure if Charles were here, you would have plenty of partners.”

  “Hmm.” Emma was probably correct, but somehow the thought of dancing with a man who had the social equivalent of a gun to his head was not especially appealing.

  “Perhaps Mr. Symington is looking for a partner.”

  “Mr. Symington is always looking for a partner.” He was looking for one now. Meg watched ladies duck behind pillars and potted palms as the short, balding, portly Mr. Symington—Simple Symington, the wags called him—walked past. Rumor had it his good wife had died of boredom during one of her husband’s discourses.

  Rumor also had it she’d died with a smile on her face.

  Simple Symington was coming her way. Botheration! Was the man actually going to ask her to dance? It would be torture. Not only was he fat and boring, he reeked of garlic and onions. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Standing up with him would be better than—

  Symington glanced at her, reddened, and scurried off in the other direction.

  “Lady Dunlee must have beckoned to him,” Emma said. “She is always looking for gentlemen to partner her silly daughter.”

  “Of course.” Emma made perfect sense—except that the new Lord Frampton was already escorting Lady Caroline, Lady Dunlee’s daughter, to join a set, and Lady Dunlee was dragging her husband toward the garden door, probably to see what other scandals she could flush out of the bushes.

  Tonight Meg had all the attraction of a fresh pile of horse-dung. The fastidious ton was stepping carefully around her.

  She did not care. Miss Witherspoon had the right of it. She would not let society rule her. She would follow her passion.

  Mr. Parker-Roth’s strong face—his green eyes behind his spectacles, the brown lock of hair falling down over his forehead—flashed into her thoughts.

  She flushed. No. Plants. Plants were her passion. Stamens and stigmas. Leaves and stems and habitats. Not hands and lips and tongues. Not broad shoulders or hard chests or a chin with the slightest cleft. Definitely not.

  She did not need a husband. She could do very well on her own. Well, there was the small problem of funds. She didn’t have a rich, eccentric aunt kind enough to pop off and leave her a fortune. She couldn’t very well ask Charles to support her, even though he could afford to. She didn’t want to be beholden to him.

  Perhaps she would ask Miss Witherspoon if she could travel with her. The two older ladies might have use for a younger companion. She would like to see the world beyond England—dahlias in Mexico, roses in China, orchids in the West Indies. She could do some plant hunting of her own. She might even find a new species—Rhododendron Petersonus or Fuschia Petersonia.

  The thought was not nearly as enticing as she’d expected.

  “Oh, look,” Emma said. “Mr. Parker-Roth has arrived.”

  “He has?” Surely she hadn’t squeaked those words? The look Emma sent her confirmed that she had. What was the matter with her? Her heart fluttered in her chest like a bird trapped in a net.

  She was being foolish. She was not some silly debutante, sent into paroxysms of delight at the sight of a well formed male—though Mr. Parker-Roth was indeed well formed. Very well formed. Excellently formed.

  He was standing in the doorway with his mother, greeting their hostess. His black coat stretched tight across his shoulders; his pantaloons hugged his powerful legs. He was not especially tall, but his presence dominated the room. Surely all the other women in attendance must have noticed his arrival.

  They had—or if they hadn’t, the women standing next to them alerted them to the fact. Whispers spread like wind through tall grass. All female eyes swiveled from Parks to her.

  She wanted to puke.

  “I believe I need to repair a tear in my gown, Emma.”

  “Nonsense. You can’t—”

  There was no time to debate the issue. Her stomach insisted she find the ladies’ withdrawing room immediately.

  He wanted to puke.

  He nodded at Lady Easthaven and smiled. Why the hell had he allowed Mother to talk him into coming to this asinine ball? He should have stayed at White’s. He should have refused to leave the Pulteney Hotel. He could have pleaded a headache. She knew he’d been plagued by the damn things since childhood. And it would have been true. His head had begun pounding at White’s. Listening to Mother’s discourse on marriage all the way over in the carriage hadn’t helped matters a whit.

  How many different ways could he say Miss Peterson had declined his offer? What did Mother not understand about that? Certainly she didn’t expect him to abduct the girl? This was England, for God’s sake, not some heathen country. Women could not be spirited away in the dark of night and forced into matrimony.

  If Miss Peterson said no, there was no more to be said. And she was the Marquis of Knightsdale’s sister-in-law. She would manage perfectly well without the protection of a mere mister such as himself.

  Devil take it, he just wanted to go back to his room, drink a cup of MacGill’s medicinal tea, snuff the candles, and lie down with a cold compress on his forehead.

  He glanced around while his mother chatted with Lady Easthaven. Where was Miss Peterson? She must be here. Mother would not have dragged him to this blasted gathering if she hadn’t been certain the girl would be attending. Surely Lady Knightsdale had shared her schedule when she’d visited this afternoon.

  There. He saw Miss Peterson’s hair, the warm brown of rich earth glinting gold with the candlelight. Back straight, head high, she was striding away from him to a door on the far side of the room, leaving her sister-in-law standing by a pillar. Where was she going?

  “You’ve caused quite a stir, Mr. Parker-Roth. As you can hear, everyone is buzzing about your antics.”

  “Antics, Lady Easthaven? I don’t know what you mean.” There was a lot of whispering going on and far too many arch looks directed his way.

  Lady Easthaven tapped his arm with her fan. “You know, sir.” Blast, she was smirking. “They involve a certain lady.” She winked at Mother. “Such a naughty boy you’ve raised, Cecilia.”

  Mother’s jaw had dropped. She clearly could not gather the breath to reply to this affront.

  He clenched his teeth. He had a reply, but he was quite certain it was not good form to whack one’s hostess over the head with her own fan. Still, he was sorely tempted. “I believe you are misinformed, Lady Easthaven.”

  “Misinformed? I don’t think so. Lady Dunlee—”

  “Is the biggest gabble grinder in England. Surely you don’t believe every tale she spins?”

  “Well, I—”

  Mother gathered her wits enough to retort. “Have you ever known John to engage in anything even remotely resembling an antic, Dorthea?”

  Lady Easthaven frowned. “Well, no, not exactly.”

  “Not at all. John does not believe in antics, do you, John?”

  Antics? He could tell them about antics. He
had been the perpetrator of some very interesting antics in Lady Palmerson’s parlor.

  “Definitely not. Most improper.” And he was feeling shockingly improper at the moment. Surely Miss Peterson wasn’t looking for more sport in the garden?

  “Mr. Parker-Roth.” Lady Easthaven’s voice sounded oddly gleeful. “Did you just growl?”

  He glanced at the ladies. Eyes wide, they stared back at him like a pair of barn owls.

  “No, of course not. I do not growl. Preposterous.” He needed to speak to Miss Peterson. She had vanished through the blasted doorway. “If you’ll excuse me?”

  He didn’t bother to wait for the ladies to murmur their permission.

  Lady Easthaven could congratulate herself on a shocking squeeze. He could barely inch around the edge of the room, damn it. Where the hell had Miss Peterson gone? One would think Lady Knightsdale would keep a closer eye on her sister. It was the girl’s penchant for disappearing into the shrubbery that had propelled the marchioness out of the wilds of Kent and into London’s ballrooms, after all.

  Lady Knightsdale was proving to be as lax a chaperone as Lady Beatrice.

  Surely Miss Peterson couldn’t have gone into the garden, could she? She’d taken the wrong door if that were her destination—of course, she might be getting wilier. Perhaps she’d chosen a circuitous route to meet this evening’s paramour.

  “Parks, I see you managed to pour yourself out of White’s. Are you taking my advice and pursuing Meg?”

  Westbrooke had obviously gotten too friendly with the brandy bottle. “Will you keep your voice down?”

  “Don’t get into such a pother. No one can hear me in this din.”

  Parks glanced around. Plenty of ladies were staring at him, but none was obviously reacting to the earl’s words. Perhaps Westbrooke was correct, but he didn’t care to risk it. Besides, his goal was none of Westbrooke’s damn business. He lowered his own voice in the hopes that the earl would follow suit. “Where is your lovely wife?”

  The earl pointed with his chin—his hands were occupied with what looked to be two glasses of lemonade. “Lizzie’s over there with the Duchess of Alvord.” He raised his burdens. “I was sent to procure them drinks.”