The Naked Gentleman

by Sally MacKenzie

  He swirled his tongue around her nipple, close but not quite touching the aching center.

  “Oh. Oh, John. Ohh.”

  He flicked his tongue over the point, then latched on and sucked.

  “John!”

  Had she screamed? She was sure she’d wanted to, but had she actually done so? She—

  “Good God.” Parks abruptly pulled her up against him, but not before she’d caught a glimpse of the shocked-looking woman standing in the open doorway.

  “Good evening, Mother.”

  Chapter 3

  “Pardon me if I don’t stand.” Parks closed his eyes briefly. He was going to die. How had he gotten into this position? Stephen, now, he wouldn’t be surprised if Stephen turned up at a society ball with a half-naked woman on his lap. His brother was very…adventurous. But he? He’d never done a scandalous thing in his life.

  “Yes, I can see you have your…hands full.” His mother pressed her lips together and stared at Miss Peterson’s back—Miss Peterson’s shockingly naked back with his bare hand plastered across it. He dropped his hold to her very rigid, perfectly proper, though improperly exposed, corset.

  “Please tell me this is a nightmare,” Miss Peterson whispered into his cravat, “and I’ll wake up in a moment.”

  “I only wish,” he muttered. He needed something to cover her with. “Are you sitting on Lady Palmerson’s shawl, do you know?”

  She shifted slightly. “No. I think maybe I dropped it when you, ah, when we, um…Maybe it fell on the floor when you picked me up.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. The shawl was indeed in a puddle on the floor. Unfortunately, it was well out of reach.

  “Cecilia, what is going—oh.” Lady Beatrice’s substantial form joined his mother’s in the doorway. Thankfully, Mother was in a blue and gray phase at the moment, because Lady Beatrice would have clashed with any other color scheme. Her green dress with its knots of purple and red ribbon and the array of yellow plumes swaying among her gray ringlets made her look like an overgrown mulberry bush with a canary nesting in its boughs.

  “Meg, what are you doing sitting on Mr. Parker-Roth’s lap?”

  Miss Peterson moaned softly and pressed her face into his shoulder.

  Lady Beatrice chuckled. “Ah, I see. Young love…or young lust, hmm? Well, it’s spring. The birds and the bees and what have you. I believe there’s a wedding to plan, don’t you agree, Cecilia?”

  Mother smiled slowly. “I believe you are correct, Bea. Let—”

  “What is going on?”

  Mother and Lady Beatrice turned to see who had spoken. In a moment, a short, plump woman with spectacles and wildly curly brown hair came into view. She scowled at Lady Beatrice.

  “Lady Palmerson said Meg—” She glanced into the room. Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened in obvious shock.

  “Oh, no.” Miss Peterson twisted her head around to look at the new arrival. “What’s Emma doing in London?”

  “Emma as in your sister Emma, the Marchioness of Knightsdale?”

  “Yes.” She buried her face back in his shirt. “This has got to be a nightmare.”

  He had to agree. The woman pushing past Lady Beatrice looked like she wanted to carve off his balls with her hairpin.

  “Get your hands off my sister, you blackguard!”

  He put his hands on the chair arms, until Miss Peterson tried to turn to confront her sister. He grabbed her before she could move more than an inch.

  “You are not exactly dressed for company,” he whispered. He kept his eye on the marchioness. She wouldn’t really come after him with her hairpin, would she? She did look like she might vault the settee at any moment to reach him.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” The marchioness stepped toward him.

  “Just a minute!”

  His mother had perfected that tone with six children. Miss Peterson’s sister stopped immediately.

  “That’s my son you’re calling a blackguard.” Mother stepped up close to the marchioness. She was an inch or two taller than Miss Peterson’s sister, but Lady Knightsdale was probably a stone heavier and twenty years younger. Still, Mother was not one to back down easily, especially if one of her children was threatened. If they went foot to foot, it would be a close call who’d come out the victor.

  “And that’s my sister your bounder of a son has his hands on.”

  “I have got to get that shawl,” Miss Peterson muttered.

  “Yes, I quite agree. Do you suppose you could ask your sister to fetch it for you?”

  Miss Peterson glanced over her shoulder.

  “She looks rather occupied at the moment. She won’t hurt your mother, will she?”

  “She’s your sister. How would I know?” He frowned. “Should I be worried?”

  Miss Peterson bit her lip. “Emma has gotten more, um, outspoken since Charlie and Henry were born.”

  “Wonderful.” Now what was he to do? Dump Miss Peterson on the floor and leap the settee himself to separate the women?

  Fortunately, the issue was not put to the test.

  “Aunt Beatrice, what—” The Marquis of Knightsdale, a powerfully built man with a military bearing, stopped on the threshold. “Emma, what is the matter? Who is the woman you are glaring at?”

  “I don’t know her name. She is that man’s mother.” She pointed at Parks. The venom in her voice left everyone in the room with little doubt as to her sentiments.

  The marquis looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that your sister Meg sitting on his lap?”

  “Yes!”

  “This is ridiculous,” Miss Peterson muttered. “If I get up carefully I should be able to reach that shawl.”

  “Wait, there are more people arriving.” Parks wished someone would close the door. “Ah, perhaps help has come. Westbrooke and his countess are here.”

  “Good. See if you can get Lizzie to come over.”

  “Shall I shout across the room to her, Miss Peterson?”

  She made an odd little sound. “Please call me Meg. I do feel our acquaintance has gone beyond the formal.”

  He smiled slightly. That was an understatement.

  “Charles,” Westbrooke said as Lady Westbrooke hurried over to Meg, “don’t you think this room is getting somewhat crowded? I’ll shut the door, shall I?”

  “Please do, Robbie.”

  Westbrooke pushed on the door. Something was impeding its progress. He looked to see what the problem was.

  “So sorry, Lady Dunlee. If you could just step back a little? Need to give the family some privacy, you know.”

  “Oh, but I don’t think—”

  The rest of Lady Dunlee’s words were lost when Westbrooke shut the heavy wooden door in her face.

  “Hallo, Parks. What are you doing here?” Robbie grinned. “Is there a particular reason you’re entertaining a partially clad lady in this rather inappropriate location?”

  “Robbie,” Lady Knightsdale said, “that partially clad lady is Meg!”

  “It is? Well, well.” Westbrooke leaned against the door. There were still muffled noises coming from the other side. “It’s about time.”

  About time? Parks was definitely not going to add anything to the conversation—he had a strong sense of self preservation—but what the hell did Westbrooke mean? Fortunately Meg was whispering to Lady Westbrooke and appeared to have missed the comment.

  Lady Knightsdale had not. “About time? Did you know this was going on, Robbie?”

  “Since I’m not certain what ‘this’ is, no I did not. But I’m not surprised to see Parks and Meg together.” He coughed. “Well, perhaps I am a trifle startled so see them so, um, together in this particular venue.”

  “So you know the miscreant, Robbie? You would not counsel me to kill him?” Knightsdale smiled at his wife. “Much as Emma might like me to.”

  “Well, no, Parks—John Parker-Roth, that is—is actually a good fellow. I’ve known him since Eton.” Westbrooke nodded at Mrs. Parker
-Roth. “And I do suppose his mother might object to your dispatching her son to the hereafter.”

  “Indeed yes.” Mrs. Parker-Roth glared at the marquis.

  “My apologies, ma’am. No insult intended.”

  Lady Knightsdale snorted.

  “By me, at least,” Knightsdale said. “Come, Emma, do try to be civil. If you do not care for the man’s explanation, you may rend him limb from limb afterward.”

  “Yes, Emma.” Lady Beatrice lowered her bulk to the settee. “I do think you should ask Mr. Parker-Roth and Meg to explain what happened before you fly too high into the boughs.”

  “Well, I would like to know what happened, too.” Mrs. Parker-Roth turned to Parks. “John, would you care to explain?”

  Lady Westbrooke had just handed Meg the wayward shawl.

  “Of course, Mother. I—”

  “No,” Meg said, wrapping the shawl securely around her shoulders and standing. “This is all my fault. I shall explain.”

  What was Emma doing here? She was supposed to be home in Kent. Well, that was a question to be answered later. Now everyone was looking at her, waiting for her to speak.

  Meg pulled the shawl a little tighter around her. She had never appeared so disheveled anywhere but her bedchamber. She opened her mouth.

  What exactly was she going to say?

  She glanced at Mrs. Parker-Roth. Instead of anger, she saw cautious curiosity in the older woman’s moss green eyes, eyes that looked so much like Parks’s.

  “Go on, Meg.” Emma’s voice was sharp enough to draw blood. “You said you would explain.”

  “Give her a moment to gather her thoughts, my dear.”

  “That’s not the only thing she should be gathering, Charles. Her dress, her hairpins…”

  Meg felt Parks’s hand on the small of her back and took courage from his touch. She appreciated his letting her explain instead of trying to do it himself. Now if she only knew what to say…

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “First I should say that Mr. Parker-Roth is completely blameless.”

  Silence and stares of incredulity greeted this statement.

  “It’s true.” Why did they look as if they did not believe her? “He had nothing to do with my, ah, current situation.”

  Lord Westbrooke turned a sudden laugh into a cough.

  Meg glanced up at Parks. He appeared to be studying a large painting of a bewigged Palmerson ancestor.

  “So, let me be certain I understand this,” Lady Beatrice said. “Mr. Parker-Roth had nothing to do with your current dishabille?”

  “That’s correct. I was in the garden with—” Did she want to mention Bennington’s name? Surely Emma wouldn’t force her to wed that reprobate? “With another man. Mr. Parker-Roth happened upon us and rescued me.”

  “Who is this mysterious other man?” Emma was still glaring at Parks.

  “I would rather not say.” How could she have had the poor taste to consider the viscount for even a moment? She did not want Lizzie, Robbie, and Charles—let alone Emma—knowing how bacon-brained she’d been.

  Emma snorted. “Because there was no other man.”

  “Now see here—”

  Meg put a hand out to stop Parks. She felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach, but Parks’s intervention would not help matters. Emma’s face had its mulish expression.

  “Emma, you know I would not lie to you.”

  Emma simply glared in reply.

  “Yes, my dear,” Charles said. “You are letting your anger—”

  Emma turned to glare at him.

  “—your understandable anger cloud your judgment.”

  “Look at her, Charles.”

  Charles—and everyone—looked at her.

  Meg bit her lip. She knew she looked terribly shocking. And it was clear Emma wouldn’t rest until she had all the details. “Very well, it was Lord Bennington.”

  “Bennington? That lump?” Lizzie blushed and covered her mouth. “Pardon me. That just slipped out.”

  Lord Westbrooke grinned. “This will give old Bennie something else to hate you for, Parks.”

  “I am well aware of it.”

  Emma shook her head, clearly surprised. “I would not have expected such behavior from Viscount Bennington.”

  “Neither would I,” Meg said. “You can be sure I would not have ventured outside with the man if I’d had the least inkling of it.”

  “You should not be venturing outside with any gentlemen!”

  “Emma, I am twenty-one. I am not a child any more.”

  Charles put a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “Perhaps we should wait until a more private time to have our family squabbles?”

  Emma scowled. “Very well.” She shot an expressive look at Meg. “We will continue this discussion in the carriage on our way home.”

  Meg held her tongue. She had come with Lady Beatrice and she intended to leave with her, but there was no need to tell Emma that now. In fact, if she played her cards carefully, she should be able to avoid having Emma ring a peal over her altogether. She relaxed slightly. A mistake. She was only out of the frying pan and into the fire.

  “However, I do wonder,” Charles said, looking at her, “how you happened to be sitting on Mr. Parker-Roth’s lap when we arrived.”

  “Um.” No adequate answer presented itself.

  “Excellent question, Charles. It’s not as though the gentleman’s lap was the only option. He might have stood to give you a place to sit.” Lady Beatrice ran her hand over the dull red upholstery of the settee. “And while I grant you this seat is unattractive, I am quite comfortable.”

  “Well…”

  “And why did you become separated from that shawl you are now clutching? It does not seem especially warm in here”—Charles focused on Parks, his voice becoming sharper—“unless perhaps you were engaged in some, ah, heat-producing activity?”

  “I, um, well, you see…”

  Parks cleared his throat. “I am happy to offer an explanation for Miss Peterson, my lord.”

  “No.” She turned to search Parks’s face. His expression was pleasant, polite, and totally opaque. “We discussed this. You rescued me from Bennington. You should not be punished for a good deed. I said I would explain.”

  Parks smiled slightly. “Would you care to explain what we were doing when my mother came in?”

  Meg turned a bright shade of red. Her mouth opened and closed several times, but no words emerged.

  “What were you doing, Parker-Roth?” The marquis’s voice was soft and unpleasant.

  “Let us just say that, regardless of what happened in the garden, I believe it would be best if I wed Miss Peterson.”

  “Did you harm my sister, you…you…”

  Knightsdale put a restraining hand on his wife. “Have you harmed my sister-in-law, Parker-Roth?” His tone was even colder. Parks knew he was a dead man if he answered yes, but he was not going to truckle to the marquis. He turned to Meg.

  “Did I harm you, Miss Peterson?”

  “No, of course not. Don’t be absurd.” Meg turned to look at her sister and brother-in-law. “You are all making too much of this. There is no need for me to marry Mr. Parker-Roth. Let’s just pretend this evening did not happen.”

  “Let’s just pretend Lady Dunlee is not the world’s biggest gossip,” Lady Beatrice said.

  “Lady Beatrice—”

  “You know she’s right, Meg.” Lady Westbrooke put her hand on Meg’s shoulder. “Lady Dunlee will spread the story in a trice.”

  “No, she won’t, Lizzie.”

  Westbrooke coughed. “Thing is, Meg, she already has. Two fellows mentioned it to me in the ballroom. Were surprised Parks was such a wild…” He coughed again. “Well, the truth is, the word is out—be all over Town by morning.”

  “And all over England by next week.” The marchioness scowled at her sister. “You have no choice. You must marry Mr. Parker-Roth.”

  Meg’s mouth was set in a straigh
t line. She was beginning to look as mulish as her sister. “You are working yourself into a pother over nothing, Emma—as you always do.”

  Lady Knightsdale drew in an audible breath. Parks was certain her husband would have to hold her back from Meg. Surely this argument wouldn’t degenerate into the hair-pulling sessions his youngest sisters too often engaged in? He glanced at his mother. She gave him an intense look.

  It was definitely time to intervene.

  “Perhaps it would help if Miss Peterson and I could have a few moments alone to discuss the situation, Lady Knightsdale?”

  “There is nothing to discuss.” Meg almost spat the words. Was she going to take her venom out on him?

  He was shocked to realize he found the thought rather stimulating. In fact, a specific part of him was especially stimulated.

  “Exactly. The decision is made.” Lady Knightsdale turned her scowl on him. “And we’ve seen what happens when you two are alone together. Come, Meg. We are leaving.”

  “We are not leaving. I came with Lady Beatrice. I will leave with her.”

  “Meg—”

  Knightsdale put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “I believe we can give you a few moments, Parker-Roth.”

  “But Charles—”

  “You are understandably overset, Emma, but I think we can trust the man not to ravish Meg in the five or ten minutes we’ll allow them alone. We’ll wait right outside in the corridor in case Meg needs help, shall we?”

  “Well…”

  Mrs. Parker-Roth had obviously had enough. She was perfectly polite, but firm. “There is no need for concern, Lady Knightsdale. You can trust my son to behave as a gentleman. I did not raise a complete cad, you know.”

  The marchioness’s brows snapped down and she opened her mouth as if to flay Parks’s mother with her tongue, but stopped in time. She blushed. “No, of course not.” Her tone was stiff. “I meant no insult, of course. As my husband says, I am slightly overset. Please excuse me.”

  Mrs. Parker-Roth smiled. “That is quite all right. Indeed, I know exactly how you feel. I had a similar experience with my eldest daughter.”

  “You did?”

  “Indeed. You must remember the incident last Season involving Lord Motton?”