The Naked Gentleman Read online

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh, Miss Peterson, you are naïve.”

  He mashed his mouth on hers, parting her lips. His tongue slithered between her teeth like a snake, threatening to choke her. She did the only thing she could think of.

  She bit down hard.

  John Parker-Roth—Parks to his friends and acquaintances—stepped out of the heat and noise of Lord Palmerson’s ballroom into the cool quiet of the garden.

  Thank God. He could still smell the stench of London, but at least he wasn’t choking any longer on the foul mix of perfume, hair oil, stale breath, and sweat that permeated the air inside. Why his mother wanted to subject herself to that crush of humanity was beyond him.

  He chose a path at random. Palmerson’s garden was large for Town. If he could ignore the cacophony of music and conversation spilling out of the house and the general clamor from the street, he could almost imagine he was back in the country.

  Almost. Damn. Had the plants Stephen sent arrived yet? He should be home to receive them. If they’d traveled all the way from South America to die waiting to be unpacked at the Priory…It didn’t bear thinking of.

  Would MacGill follow his instructions exactly? He’d written them down in detail and gone over each point with the man, but the pigheaded Scot always thought he knew best. All right, usually he did. MacGill was a bloody fine head gardener, but still, these plants required careful handling.

  He wanted to be there himself. Why had his mother insisted on dragging him to Town now?

  He blew out a pent up breath. He knew why—the blasted Season. She said it was to get more painting supplies and to catch up with her artist friends, but she didn’t fool him. She wanted him wed.

  He’d heard Palmerson had a good specimen of Magnolia grandiflora. He’d see if he could find it. With luck it would be in the farthest, darkest corner of the garden. He wouldn’t put it past his mother to come out here looking for him, dragging her latest candidate for his hand behind her.

  Why the hell couldn’t she accept the fact he did not want to marry? He’d told her time after time. Was it such a hard message to understand?

  Apparently it was. He grimaced. Now she sighed and got that worried frown every time she looked at him.

  He batted aside a drooping vine. The fact of the matter was there was no need for him to marry. He didn’t have a title to pass on. The Priory could go to Stephen or Nicholas, if Father didn’t outlive them all. He was very happy with his life. He had his work—his plants and his gardens. He had an accommodating widow in the village, not that he visited her much any more. Frankly, he’d rather be working in his rose beds than Cat’s bed. The roses were less trouble.

  No, a wife would just be an annoyance.

  Damn it, was that rustling in the shrubbery? That would make this evening complete—stumbling over some amorous couple in the bushes. He veered away from the suspect vegetation.

  The problem was Mother firmly believed marriage was necessary for male contentment. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. God give him patience. Didn’t she ever open her eyes and look around the bloody ballrooms she’d been dragging him to? She might be happily married, and Father might be content, but most husbands and wives were not.

  He had no interest in stepping into parson’s mousetrap. Maybe if Grace had—

  No. He would not entertain such a ridiculous notion. He’d decided that years ago. Grace had made her choice, and she was happy. Last he’d heard, she had two children. She’d been in the ballroom just now. He’d seen her laughing up at her husband at the end of the last set.

  The noise from the bushes was getting louder. Wonderful. Were the lovers having a spat? That was the last thing he wanted to witness. He would just—

  “You bitch!”

  Good God, that was Bennington’s voice. The man had the devil’s own temper. Surely he wouldn’t—

  “My lord, please.” The girl’s voice held a thread of fear. “You are hurting me.”

  He strode forward without another thought.

  She must not panic. Bennington was a gentleman.

  He looked like a monster. He stared at her through narrowed eyes, nostrils flaring, jaw hardened. His hands gripped her upper arms. She was certain his fingers would leave bruises.

  “You bitch!”

  “My lord, please.” She moistened her lips. Fear made it hard to get her breath. He was so much stronger than she, and the garden was so dark.

  He was a viscount, a peer, a gentleman. He wouldn’t really harm her, would he?

  She had never seen a man so angry.

  “You are hurting me.”

  “Hurting you? Ha! I’ll show you hurting.”

  He shook her so her head flopped on her neck like a rag doll’s, then he yanked her bodice down, tearing the fabric. He grabbed her breast and squeezed. The pain was excruciating.

  “Bite me, will you? How would you like me to bite your—”

  A well-tailored forearm appeared at his throat.

  He made a gagging sound, releasing her to claw at the black silk sleeve cutting across his neck.

  “You bastard.” Mr. Parker-Roth jerked Lord Bennington back, spun the viscount around, and slammed his fist into the man’s jaw, sending him backward into a holly bush. Meg would have cheered if she hadn’t been trying so hard not to cry. She pulled up her bodice and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Parker-Roth.” Bennington spat out the name along with some blood as he extracted himself from the prickly vegetation. “What the hell is the matter with you? The lady invited me into the garden.”

  “I’m certain she didn’t invite you to maul her.”

  “A woman who goes off alone with a man…”

  “…is not asking to be raped, Bennington.”

  The viscount opened his mouth, then closed it abruptly. His jaw was beginning to swell and he had blood on his cravat. “I wasn’t going to…I wouldn’t, of course…I merely lost my temper.” He glanced at Meg. “My humble apologies, Miss Peterson. I will do the proper thing, of course, and speak to your brother-in-law in the morning, then travel down to Kent to see your father.”

  “No!” She swallowed and took a deep breath. She spoke slowly and distinctly, “I will not marry you. I would not marry you even if you were the last man in England—no, the last man in all the world.”

  “Now, Margaret—”

  “You heard Miss Peterson, Bennington. I believe she was quite clear as to her sentiments. Now do the proper thing and take yourself off.”

  “But—”

  “I will be happy to assist you in finding the back gate—in fact I would be delighted to kick your miserable arse out into the alley.”

  “Margaret…Miss Peterson.”

  “Please, Lord Bennington, I assure you there is nothing you can say to persuade me to entertain your suit.”

  “You are merely overset. I was too impassioned, perhaps.”

  “Perhaps?” She pressed her lips together. She would not have a fit of the vapors here in Lord Palmerson’s garden.

  He frowned at her, and then sketched a small bow. “Very well, I will leave since you insist.” He turned, then paused. “I do apologize most sincerely.”

  Meg nodded. He did sound contrite, but she just wanted him gone. She closed her eyes, listening to his steps fade away. She could not bear to look at the man still standing beside her.

  Why had Parks been the one to find her in such an embarrassing situation? What must he think of her?

  Perhaps he would just go away and let her expire in solitude.

  She felt a gentle touch on her cheek.

  “Miss Peterson, are you all right?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’m so sorry you had to endure Bennington’s attentions. You shouldn’t have…Well, he is not the sort of man you should…He has a terrible temper.”

  That was supremely evident.

  “You can’t go back to the ballroom like this. Who is your chaperone?”
/>
  She forced herself to speak. “Lady Beatrice.”

  “I shall fetch her. Will you be all right alone?”

  “Y-yes.” She bit her lip. She would not cry—well, not until he left.

  He made an odd noise, a short exhalation that sounded both annoyed and resigned.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, come here.”

  His hands touched her shoulders, urging her gently toward him. She resisted for only a heartbeat.

  The first sob escaped as her face touched his waistcoat. She felt his arms, warm and secure, come around her, felt his hand lightly touch her hair. A tight knot in her chest loosened.

  She sobbed harder.

  Parks repressed a sigh. The girl was Miss Margaret Peterson—Meg, Westbrooke had called her. He’d met her at Tynweith’s house party last spring. He’d liked her. She’d seemed quite levelheaded—very knowledgeable about garden design and plants in general. He’d enjoyed talking to her.

  And looking at her.

  All right, he had enjoyed looking at her. She was very attractive. Slim, but with generous curves in all the right places. Warm brown eyes with flecks of gold and green. Silky brown hair.

  He tangled his fingers in that hair, massaging the back of her head. She felt very nice in his arms. It had been too long since he’d held a woman.

  Much too long, if he was feeling amorous urges toward a lady who was blubbering all over his cravat. He would pay Cat a visit as soon as he got back to the Priory, right after he checked on that plant shipment.

  He patted her shoulder. Her skin was so smooth, soft…

  He dropped his hand to the safety of her corseted back.

  What had she been thinking, coming out into Palmerson’s dark garden with a man of Bennington’s stamp? Was she no better regarded than she should be? She had been a guest at Tynweith’s scandalous house party.

  And had behaved perfectly properly there. She had gone into the garden with him, but always in the daylight and always to discuss a particular planting.

  She made a peculiar little sound, a cross between a sniff and a hiccup.

  “Are you all right, Miss Peterson?”

  She nodded, keeping her head down.

  “Here—take my handkerchief.”

  “Thank you.”

  She still would not meet his eyes.

  He studied her. There was enough light to see one slender white shoulder was completely exposed, as was the lovely curve of her breast…

  He moved his hips back to save her the shock of his sudden attraction.

  Damn, he had definitely been too long without a woman.

  “I’m sorry to be such a watering pot. I’ve thoroughly soaked your clothing.”

  “You’ve had an upsetting experience.” He cleared his throat. “You do know you shouldn’t be alone with a man in the darkened shrubbery, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.” She stepped a little away from him. “None of the others so forgot themselves.”

  “Others? There have been others?”

  Meg flushed. Parks looked so shocked.

  “I’m not a debutante.”

  “No, but you are young and unmarried.”

  “Not so young. I’m twenty-one.”

  Parks lifted an eyebrow. Meg felt a spurt of annoyance. Was the man criticizing her?

  “Lady Beatrice has not commented on my behavior.”

  He lifted the eyebrow higher. Suddenly she wanted to grab his spectacles and grind them under her slipper. She was so tired of people looking at her in just that way.

  “Ohh, you are as bad as the rest of the priggish, nasty beasts in that ballroom.”

  She spun on her heel, took a step—and caught her foot on a root.

  “Aaa!” She was falling face first toward the holly bush Bennington had recently vacated.

  Strong hands grabbed her and hauled her up against a rock hard chest. She shivered. The cool night air raised goose bumps on her arms and…

  She looked down. Her breasts had fallen completely out of her dress.

  “Ack!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Close your eyes!”

  “What?”

  Oh, lud, was that the crunch of shoes on gravel? Someone was coming this way! She had to hide.

  There was no place to hide. She twisted around and plastered herself up against Parks. Perhaps God would work a miracle and make her invisible.

  The Almighty was not interested in assisting her this evening.

  “Halooo! Mr. Parker-Roth…is that you? I didn’t know you were in Town.”

  “Ooo.” Meg muffled her moan in Parks’s cravat. It couldn’t be…Please, not Lady Dunlee, London’s biggest gossip!

  She felt Parks’s arms tighten around her. His response rumbled under her cheek.

  “I’ve recently arrived, Lady Dunlee. Good evening, my lord.”

  “Good evening, Parker-Roth. We were just taking a turn in the garden, but, um…” Lord Dunlee cleared his throat. “I, um, believe it’s time we returned to the ballroom.”

  “Just a minute.” Lady Dunlee’s voice was sharp. “Who’s that with you in the shrubbery, sir? I can’t see.”

  “My dear, I think we interrupt the gentleman.”

  Lady Dunlee snorted. “Obviously. The question is, what exactly are we interrupting?”

  Meg closed her eyes. She was going to die of embarrassment.

  “That’s Miss Peterson, isn’t it? My word, I had no idea you two were quite so…friendly.”

  Chapter 2

  It looked as if his mother was going to get her wish.

  Parks crossed his arms and stood in a corner of the small parlor where Lady Palmerson had deposited them. She’d given Miss Peterson a shawl and him a contemptuous look before leaving to find Lady Beatrice. She must have assumed Miss Peterson’s reputation was as shredded as her gown—or that he had exhausted his animal instincts—since she closed the door behind her when she left.

  Damn, damn, damn. He looked up and met the accusatory scowl of some long dead Palmerson ancestor.

  I’m innocent, God damn it. I’m the hero of this tale, not the villain.

  The painted peer was not impressed.

  What the hell was he going to do? He felt society’s noose tightening around his neck as surely as if he were off to dance the Tyburn jig.

  Miss Peterson sat on the settee, staring down at her slippers, worrying the fringe on her borrowed shawl.

  He should have left her to Bennington. If the man was to be believed, it was the girl’s own fault she found herself in the bushes with an over-amorous male.

  No. He wouldn’t wish Bennington on any woman. And Miss Peterson had looked completely terrified when he’d come upon them. She must not have known what the man was capable of.

  Why had she asked Bennington to stroll in the shrubbery?

  Well, it really didn’t matter now. There was no way in hell they were going to keep their interesting little garden scene a secret. He’d wager his latest plant shipment that Lady Dunlee was already spreading the shocking news as fast as her short little legs would carry her around the ballroom.

  Only an act of God would save him now, and it appeared the Almighty was in league with Mother. Would she approve of Miss Peterson?

  He watched the woman twist the shawl’s fringe. “If you aren’t careful, you will ruin that.”

  “What?” She finally looked up at him.

  “The fringe. You are in danger of pulling it out.”

  “Oh.” She smoothed the colored silk and sighed. “I am very sorry to have gotten you into this mess.”

  He grunted. He didn’t trust himself to say more.

  “I’ll explain everything, of course. You don’t have to worry that there will be any repercussions.”

  He snorted. “Miss Peterson, if you think I’ll escape unscathed from this evening’s little contretemps, you have windmills in your head.”

  She frowned up at him. “What do you mean?”

  Good Go
d, she could not be that dense, could she? If she were, it didn’t bode well for the intelligence of his future offspring.

  Future offspring. His traitorous body leapt at the thought.

  Damn. He had most definitely been too long without a woman.

  But that was going to change, wasn’t it? He studied Miss Peterson. If he had to marry, he could do far worse. Her hair was lovely, spread out over her borrowed shawl, the candlelight picking out golden strands among the warm brown mass. It was straight, smooth. Silky. His fingers twitched at the memory. And her skin was creamy, tinged pink at the moment. Her mouth…her full lower lip begged to be kissed. The tip of her tongue peeked out to moisten it…

  He had a sudden vision of her stretched naked on his bed.

  He turned away abruptly.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” He adjusted the fall of his pantaloons. Think about soil composition. Watering schedules. The new plant shipment.

  “Why were you looking at me like that?”

  He cleared his throat. “Like what?”

  “You were staring at my hair.”

  Anger was a good antidote to desire, wasn’t it? And he certainly had plenty to be angry about. He turned back to face Miss Peterson.

  Bloody hell! She had let the shawl slip. He could see her lovely rose-colored nipple blooming from the snow white of her breast.

  She followed his gaze.

  “Eek!”

  The beautiful skin disappeared under the fabric.

  Anger. He was supposed to feel anger, not this maddening desire—maddeningly obvious desire. He hadn’t had such an uncontrolled physical response to a woman in years, not since he was little more than a boy.

  He couldn’t turn away again, so he stepped behind a splendidly ugly upholstered high-backed chair.

  Was it possible to die of embarrassment, Meg wondered? Apparently not or she’d have cocked up her toes already.

  Mr. Parker-Roth had seen her br—

  She’d fan her cheeks if she didn’t have both hands fully occupied clutching this shawl.

  He was obviously appalled by the situation. He was hopping around as if he could barely contain his annoyance. And now he was hiding behind that hideous red chair. Did he think she was going to attack him?