The Naked Gentleman Page 8

  “No, thank you, Lady Westbrooke.”

  “A cup of tea, then? Meg?”

  Claire licked her fingers. “I’d really like to see your new baby, you know, Lady Westbrooke. If Nurse doesn’t bring him down soon, do you think we could go up to the nursery? After we finish the cakes, of course.”

  A mouthful of tea went down the wrong way. Meg coughed. “Claire!”

  Lizzie laughed. “Once you’ve assuaged your hunger, Claire, we can—”

  “Waaah!”

  They turned to see the Earl of Westbrooke standing in the doorway holding a small, screaming bundle.

  Meg felt a sudden, sharp pain around her heart. How would Parks handle a baby? Their baby.

  What a ridiculous thought. She would not be having any babies with Mr. Parker-Roth.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Robbie said, “but Lord Manders is hungry.”

  “So I hear.” Lizzie held out her arms. “Why are you bringing him? Where’s Nurse?”

  The earl flushed slightly and handed the wailing viscount to his mother. “She’s in the nursery. I just happened to stop by when the baby woke up.”

  “I see. Did you, perhaps, wake the baby?”

  Robbie grinned sheepishly. “Perhaps. He was so quiet, I needed to be certain he was still alive. And Nurse said it was almost time for him to eat.”

  “Hmph.” Lizzie adjusted her clothing and offered her son her breast. He stopped crying immediately.

  “Ah,” Robbie said. “Peace at last.”

  Lizzie smiled slightly. She was looking down at the viscount, stroking his tiny hand. She had a completely besotted expression on her face.

  Meg felt another odd stab of pain. Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them away. What was the matter with her? She’d never felt maudlin when she’d watched Emma nurse Charlie or Henry.

  She looked at Robbie instead, but that didn’t help. His expression was even more besotted than Lizzie’s. It was such a mix of love and joy, wonder and pride, it made her want to cry all the more.

  Robbie had been forced to marry Lizzie. Perhaps if Parks—

  No. Her situation was not the same at all. Robbie and Lizzie had known each other forever. No one had been able to understand why they hadn’t wed years ago, when Lizzie’d made her come-out.

  Parks barely knew her. He had no feelings for her at all.

  She flushed, remembering with painful clarity their activities in Lady Palmerson’s parlor.

  Well, yes, he had those sorts of feelings, but they meant nothing. They weren’t feelings, really—they were urges. Animal instincts. Appetites. He would feel the same…frenzy with any female.

  She swallowed a sob.

  Robbie tore his gaze away from his wife and son. “Did you say something, Meg?”

  “Oh, no. A crumb got stuck in my throat.” She took a sip of tea.

  “Oh.” He looked at her searchingly and then smiled at the girls. “Forgive me for not greeting you when I arrived, ladies, but as you saw—or heard—I had other issues to deal with.”

  “We understand completely, my lord,” Isabelle said.

  Robbie grinned. “Did you have a pleasant trip up to Town, Lady Isabelle?”

  The girl’s thin face flushed and she sat even straighter. “Yes, my lord. Very pleasant.”

  For once Claire didn’t squeeze into the conversation. She was still sitting by Lizzie, watching Viscount Manders.

  “The weather has been unexceptional, don’t you agree, my lord?”

  Meg hid her smile. Bless Robbie. He didn’t laugh at Isabelle’s attempt at conversation. He was treating her as if she were indeed a society lady.

  “Yes,” he said. “I—”

  “Bwaaap!”

  Claire—and even Isabelle—giggled.

  “My lord, your manners!” Robbie said. “Don’t you know it is impolite to belch in the presence of ladies?”

  Lord Manders gave his father a wide smile, dribbling a bit of milk down his chin, before returning to his meal.

  “Did you know,” Claire said, “that he has red hair?”

  “By George! So he does!”

  “Robbie…” Lizzie gave her husband an intense look. He grinned back at her.

  “I guess it is no surprise, since many people say my hair is red.”

  “It is, my lord,” Isabelle said seriously.

  “Do you think so, Lady Isabelle? Then it must be true.” The earl sat back, his smile growing broader. “But enough about me and mine—what do you think of Miss Peterson’s approaching nuptials?”

  Dead silence met this query.

  “Oops,” Robbie said.

  “Aunt Meg is getting married?” Isabelle turned to Meg.

  “When? Why didn’t you tell us, Aunt Meg?” Claire demanded.

  Meg felt her face flame. “Nothing is decided. I have not…I really don’t think I’ll…there’s been no announcement.”

  She hoped. Oh dear. She hadn’t thought to check the papers this morning. But surely Parks wouldn’t put anything in print when she had clearly refused his suit.

  “Robbie,” Lizzie said, “why don’t you take the girls out to the stables? I believe Bentley mentioned there’s a new litter of kittens.”

  “Kittens?” Claire jumped up. “I love kittens.”

  “These are an especially splendid set, I’m sure.” Robbie rose and offered Claire his arm, then turned to Isabelle. “Are you coming, Lady Isabelle?”

  Isabelle flushed. She looked at Meg.

  Meg repressed a sigh. It was clear Isabelle was dying to go. It wasn’t fair to hide behind her—and Lizzie was completely capable of saying what she pleased even with Isabelle present.

  “Go along. I’ll stay and talk with Lady Westbrooke.”

  Isabelle treated Meg to her sweet, fleeting smile and took the earl’s other arm.

  “I think Isabelle may be forming a tendre for Robbie,” Meg said once the voices and footsteps had faded down the corridor.

  “It will do her good. He’ll be careful of her feelings.”

  “I know he will.”

  Lizzie held Lord Manders on her shoulder. “I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but it was a blessing in disguise when the former Lord and Lady Knightsdale were killed. The girls are much better off with Emma and Charles for parents.” She patted the viscount on the back. He burped again.

  “Ooo, what a good baby.” She bussed his fat cheeks loudly. He giggled.

  Meg tried not to roll her eyes. She certainly would not be such a ninny when she had a child.

  If she had a child.

  “So tell me about Parks,” Lizzie said, putting the viscount to her other breast. “What did he say when he proposed? When is the wedding? Are you excited?”

  “Um. Well…”

  “I knew you two would make a match of it when I saw you together at Tynweith’s house party.” Lizzie frowned. “I don’t think I saw the notice in the paper this morning. Was it there?”

  “Ah…no.” So that question was answered. She shouldn’t have worried. Why would Parks send something to the papers? He obviously did not want to tie the knot.

  “Oh. Well, I expect it will be in tomorrow.”

  Meg avoided Lizzie’s eyes. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, well…I’m not engaged.”

  “What?! How can you not be engaged? You were sitting on Parks’s lap, your dress—”

  “Yes. I know. But it really wasn’t Mr. Parker-Roth’s fault—”

  “You pulled your dress down?”

  “No, of course not.” Meg shifted in her chair. “One thing just led to another, if you know what I mean.”

  “I can’t say that I do.” Lizzie grinned. “Oh, I understand the bit about one thing leading to another, but usually that all leads to an engagement.”

  “Well, in this case it didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Lizzie! I really don’t want to discuss it.” Meg cleared her throat. “I hope we di
dn’t interrupt anything with our visit this morning. You were in the middle of reading a letter?”

  Lizzie gave her a searching look. She was clearly not giving up on the topic. “Yes, I was. From Aunt Gladys.” She laughed. “You may not be engaged, but Aunt Gladys is.”

  “Lady Gladys?” Lady Gladys would not see seventy again. She had been Lizzie’s chaperone until she’d retired to Bath. She was much stricter than Lady Beatrice. If Lady Gladys had been in charge last year, they would never have gone to Tynweith’s house party and Meg would never have met Mr. Parker-Roth—which would have been a very good thing.

  If her first encounter with Parks had been in Lord Palmerson’s garden last night, would she feel differently now? She was not a starry-eyed debutante. She hadn’t expected to fall madly in love with a potential suitor. She’d been prepared to make an intelligent, rational choice without the discomfort of a pounding heart and heaving bosom.

  Viewed dispassionately, Parks was a perfect matrimonial candidate. He was wealthy, male, and interested in horticulture. Perfect—except he’d not shown the slightest interest in her from the time he’d left Tynweith’s estate until he’d rescued her in the garden. And his reaction in the parlor could hardly be called “interest.” Animal lust, that was all it was.

  She didn’t need to be loved, but she didn’t care to be ignored and then treated like a…whore.

  She sniffed. She would not cry. How ridiculous. And she would not marry a man who could treat her with such a lack of respect.

  An annoying little voice whispered in her conscience: You weren’t exactly pushing him away, were you?

  Heat rushed up her neck to her cheeks. Her heart pounded in her ears.

  All right, perhaps she, too, had experienced lust. She would not have thought herself capable of such a feeling, but apparently she was. How embarrassing! Certainly Emma and Lizzie were not prone to such a base emotion. They must conduct their conjugal encounters in a much more dignified fashion.

  “Are you finished eating, sweetums?” Lord Manders had twisted to look at Meg. Lizzie lifted him up, patting him on the back. “Is your little belly full?”

  He answered with yet another hearty burp.

  “Good, boy.” She kissed him—and he grabbed a fistful of her hair.

  “Ow!”

  Lord Manders squealed and grabbed more hair.

  Meg tried not to laugh. “Do you need help, Lizzie?”

  “What does it look like? Of course I need help.”

  Meg wrapped her hands around the baby’s sturdy middle while Lizzie worked to free herself. The viscount had gotten so much stronger since last she’d seen him. He was four months old now.

  “Come, my lord. Let go of your poor mother.”

  He looked up and gave her a wide baby grin.

  Lizzie curled his last finger open.

  “There.” She sat back quickly. “You take him, will you? I’ll never be able to look at the letter if I’ve got him on my lap. He’s turning into a regular octopus.”

  Meg sat down with Lord Manders in her arms. His solid little weight felt good. Emma’s Henry was already nine months old, so holding him was more like a wrestling match—he always wanted to be off crawling into mischief. Viscount Manders was too young to squirm. She cuddled him closer.

  She’d never been one of those girls who cooed over babies. She’d expected to have some, of course. It was her duty—an inconvenient but inevitable chore that would take time away from her horticultural pursuits. But now…well, perhaps having children would not be so dreadful. She just had to find the proper husband and father.

  Resolutely, she banished Mr. Parker-Roth’s image from her mind.

  Lizzie squinted down at the letter she now held in her hand. “Yes, Lady Gladys is definitely engaged.”

  “To whom?”

  “Lord Dearvon.”

  Meg frowned. Lord Dearvon…surely it couldn’t be…“The elderly bald man with the hairy ears who’s always talking about Waterloo?”

  “Well, I believe Aunt Gladys refers to him as an old friend who shares her love for the theater, but yes, I think you have the correct gentleman.”

  Lady Gladys and Lord Dearvon. Together. Married. Doing things married people did…

  No. It was not possible.

  “Isn’t Lady Gladys rather old for marriage?”

  “One would certainly think so.”

  One would certainly hope so. “Perhaps she is looking for a companion to share her old age—though I thought she already had a companion.”

  Lizzie grinned. “You won’t believe this either, but Lady Amanda is marrying as well—a Mr. Pedde-Wilt. I think, though I am not completely certain—Aunt Gladys, in a moment of false economy, crossed her lines so much I have trouble understanding her scribble—but I think they are having a joint ceremony. Soon. In May—unless Aunt Gladys was saying Lord Dearvon’s gout may keep them from a wedding trip. It really is very hard to puzzle out.”

  The entire situation was very hard to puzzle out.

  Lizzie put down the letter and leaned forward. “So about Parks—”

  “Ack!”

  Lord Manders looked up to see who had made that strange sound.

  “I do not wish to discuss Mr. Parker-Roth.”

  “I don’t care what you wish, Meg.” Lizzie frowned at her. “You know, Robbie and I were getting very worried about you.”

  “Worried?” Meg tried to laugh. “Why would you worry about me?”

  “You’ve been disappearing into the shrubbery at every social event.”

  Meg flushed. “I only stepped out with one or two—”

  “Or five or six. If you thought you were being discreet, you were mistaken. Robbie told me men were starting to make wagers as to whom your next partner would be.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. Surely you noted the rakes beginning to cluster around you?”

  “Um…” She had been slightly uncomfortable recently. She hadn’t missed the men’s odd pauses, significant glances, and muffled laughter, but she’d chosen to ignore them. Most of the men of the ton were coxcombs and jinglebrains—she didn’t expect much rational behavior from them.

  “You used to be very observant; I thought you must have noticed. And it’s not just that—mothers are starting to shepherd their little debutantes away from you. In fact, all the marriageable misses are avoiding you as if you had the plague.”

  “No.” Meg frowned. “I’m certain you must be mistaken.” Perhaps she had noticed fewer women talking to her, but she’d been happy for it. She didn’t like the London girls. They were silly, shallow, boring creatures capable of discussing only the weather and the most recent gossip.

  “Robbie and I were delighted to see you with Parks last night. I don’t know why you refused his offer—he did offer, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why did you decline? You were quite taken with him at Tynweith’s house party.”

  “I was not.”

  Lizzie just looked at her. Meg shifted in her chair.

  “I enjoyed talking to the man. He is very knowledgeable about horticulture. It was nothing more than that.”

  Lizzie raised one eyebrow. “I seem to remember at least one luncheon you missed because of Mr. Parker-Roth.”

  “We were discussing garden design.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Don’t look at me like that. It is perfectly permissible for a man and a woman with common interests to have a sensible conversation without the need to call the banns. My feelings for Mr. Parker-Roth are nothing more than respect for another horticulturist.”

  Lord Manders chose this moment to let out a very ominous noise. The sound did not emanate from his mouth.

  Meg wrinkled her nose and looked down in horror at the smelly little creature sitting on one of her favorite dresses. The creature grinned back.

  “Those are my sentiments exactly, Bobby,” Lizzie said, picking up her son. “Auntie Meg is indeed full of…”

&nb
sp; Lizzie rolled her eyes and went to change her baby.

  Chapter 6

  “Lady Knightsdale would like to speak with you, Miss Peterson. She’s in the nursery with the Duchess of Alvord.”

  “Thank you, Blake.”

  “Did the duchess bring her children?” Claire asked.

  “Yes, Lady Claire.”

  “Oh, good.”

  Claire ran ahead. Isabelle waited for Meg.

  “Did you enjoy your visit with Lord and Lady Westbrooke, Isabelle? Claire was rattling on so in the carriage about the kittens, I don’t believe you got a word in edgewise.”

  Isabelle smiled fleetingly. “Yes, Aunt Meg.” She looked down, fiddling with her bonnet ribbons. “Are you getting married?”

  Trust Isabelle to remember Robbie’s comment.

  “No, of course not.”

  Isabelle looked up, her eyes full of doubt and worry. “Then why did Lord Westbrooke think you were?”

  “I don’t know.” Meg did not want to discuss last night’s events. The entire business was best forgotten. “Let’s go see the duchess, shall we?”

  Isabelle frowned, then dropped her gaze back to the floor. “All right.”

  They started up the stairs. It was so quiet, Meg could hear the whisper of their slippers on the marble. Isabelle was not a chatterbox by any means, but she usually said something.

  This silence was heavy, too full of unspoken words.

  “Did you like the kittens, Isabelle?”

  “Yes.”

  There was no enthusiasm in her voice. Meg glanced at her. Isabelle had grown. Her eyes were almost level with Meg’s—if she would raise them from the stairs.

  “Did you have a favorite?”

  “No.”

  Meg felt like a chatterbox now. “Are you certain? Claire seemed very partial to the black one.”

  That made Isabelle look up. “Aunt Meg, I am thirteen. I am not a baby. I—” She bit her lip and looked back down at her slippers.

  They climbed the last few steps in silence.

  Isabelle was correct—she was not a baby. She had survived a cold, abusive mother and a selfish, self-centered father—and the shock of their murder when she was nine. Physically, too, she was almost a woman. Too soon she would take an interest in men—and they would take an interest in her. She deserved the truth. She needed it.