The Naked Gentleman

by Sally MacKenzie

  He smiled briefly. “I go to the House of Lords, to White’s, to meetings with likeminded men. I come home and read—and miss you and the boys and Isabelle and Claire.”

  “Oh.”

  “And, as you say, Meg is not a debutante. She survived last Season with Aunt Bea. I didn’t think there was cause for concern.”

  Emma sighed. “Neither did I, but obviously I was mistaken. What am I going to do?”

  “Come to bed. You’ve fed Henry?”

  “Yes. He should make it through the night now.” She smiled. “He’s a greedy little devil.”

  “Just like his father. I have missed you dreadfully, you know.”

  “As I’ve missed you.”

  She came over and climbed into bed. Charles stretched out his arm, and she laid her head on his shoulder, putting her hand on his chest. He held her close.

  He was so big and solid. She got used to sleeping alone when he was in London, but she much preferred having his comforting body next to hers. She closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling his scent, soaking up his warmth and strength.

  She wanted this for her sister—this connectedness. This love. Would Meg find it with Mr. Parker-Roth?

  How could she? Scandal was not a very good matchmaker.

  Charles started stroking her hip, reminding her of all the other reasons she missed him.

  “I should have come to Town when I first received Lady Olston’s letter.” She ran her fingers through the short, springy hair on his chest. “I should have been Meg’s chaperone instead of Lady Beatrice.”

  Charles shifted to lean up on one elbow. He started unbuttoning her nightgown. “Emma, you had the children to care for. You know they are happier in the country.”

  “Hmm.” His fingers felt so good brushing against her skin. She knew his mouth would feel even better. “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the children would do fine in London, and then we wouldn’t be away from you so much.”

  He grinned down at her. “Well, I’d certainly like to have you here.”

  And she would like to be here, if she could spend all her time in bed with him. She ran her hands over his shoulders and chest. She felt his erection heavy against her leg, and her body came to life. Heat and dampness blossomed between her thighs. She remembered so clearly it was almost painful just what he felt like sliding deep inside her.

  Need and a sharp emptiness expanded in her womb.

  He kissed her eyelids. “But London is not a good place to raise children. It is much too dirty and noisy. And if you were going to all the society events with Meg, you’d be exhausted all the time.”

  “Yes, but—oh.” Charles’s hands were on her breasts now. She wanted his tongue and lips there.

  “Meg is not a silly, young girl, Emma. She is twenty-one, in her second Season, independent, and strong willed. She is more than capable of making her own decisions.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  Charles put his finger on her lips.

  “I do understand that you feel the need to take responsibility for too many people. Let Meg live her own life. You have Charlie and Henry and Isabelle and Claire and me to take care of. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Part of loving is letting go, sweetheart. It’s time to let Meg go. From what Robbie tells me, Parks is a good man. She could have done much worse. Would have done much worse if Bennington had been found with her.”

  Charles sounded so reasonable. “Perhaps you are right.”

  “Of course I am right. I’m always right.”

  She pushed on his chest. “No, you’re not.”

  He covered her hand with his and grinned down at her. “No? Well, I think I’m right in saying it’s time to stop talking about Meg.”

  “Well…” She sucked in her breath as his hand skimmed over her breasts again.

  “And I am also right in my opinion that this nightgown is very much in the way. I want to have your beautiful body naked under mine.”

  He started to pull her nightgown up. She lifted her hips to assist him, and then sat up to yank the gown over her head. She sent it sailing off into the shadows.

  “On that point at least, Lord Knightsdale, I will not argue.”

  Chapter 5

  God, he had to piss.

  Viscount Bennington pushed himself into a sitting position and paused. His head throbbed, his jaw ached, and he felt every damn scratch from his encounter with Palmerson’s holly bush.

  He was in Lord Needham’s house. He felt like hell.

  He cradled his poor head in his hands. How many bottles of port had they consumed last night—or was it this morning? His mouth felt like the bottom of a horse’s stall.

  He should have gone home after that scene in the shrubbery. He would have if he hadn’t stepped out of the alley right into Claxton’s path. Of course the man had wanted to know what had happened to him. He’d looked like he’d been set upon by brigands.

  He had been. Damn Parker-Roth. The bounder had given him no warning, sneaking up behind him like that. He’d had no chance to defend himself.

  But then what did he expect from horse dung like Parker-Roth?

  Lord Peter emitted a loud snore from a nearby couch. Bennington considered stuffing his cravat in the man’s mouth. The linen was beyond saving anyway, covered with blood as it was.

  Really, the scene in the garden had all been Miss Peterson’s fault. She had lured him into the bushes. Not that he hadn’t known what she’d wanted, of course. It wasn’t a secret. She’d been working her way through the men of the ton. At least he’d offered marriage.

  He snorted. She was little better than a light-skirt. He was well quit of her.

  Lord Peter must be the loudest snorer in Christendom. Bennington picked a snuff box off a nearby table and flung it at the man. It bounced off his shoulder. He didn’t waken, but at least he turned over.

  Blast. Would Miss Peterson tell Knightsdale what he had done? He didn’t relish explaining to the marquis that his sister-in-law was Haymarket ware, but he would if he had to. He could only tell the truth, after all.

  Damn, where was the bloody chamber pot? You’d think Needham would have several in evidence given the number of men scattered about the room.

  He struggled to his feet. Perhaps Needham had a water closet, but he didn’t have time to go searching for it and he sure as hell couldn’t make it to the privy out back.

  He couldn’t abuse the potted palm…it would just have to be the hideous urn by the door. The way he felt, he could probably fill the damn thing to the brim.

  Lady Felicity rested her head against the cool glass of the window and watched the sun struggle through the sooty London air. One ray of light managed to reach the garden, illuminating the tangled mass of greenery.

  Once she had thought the garden exciting, a place for endless trysts. Now it merely looked untidy. Well, of course it did. The gardeners had all quit. They were tired of not being paid.

  She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead harder against the glass, swallowing the panic that was becoming her constant companion. How long before the ton knew her father was teetering on the edge of penury?

  She took a deep breath. Calm. She must remain calm.

  Perhaps society would not find out for a few more months. She had not known until just a fortnight ago. The signs had been there, of course. She just had not seen them.

  She took another breath. She needed to get out of this house before her father was completely disgraced. She needed to find a husband while she still could. She needed…

  Damn. She dashed the stupid tears from her eyes. Crying never solved anything. What was the matter with her? It wasn’t even the right time of the month for her to be all weepy.

  She turned from the window, her eyes sliding over the empty spot on her bureau where the little china cat had stood. She winced. How could she have been so stupid? It had taken this to make her see the facts right under her nose.

  The servants
had been complaining and then leaving, but her father often didn’t bother himself with paying wages on time. Certainly he would never pay a tradesman promptly. He still had his brothels, his gambling dens. He went out every night. How was she to know?

  And then she’d come home from the Amberson soiree and found the china cat gone. She’d stared at the blank spot, the clear round circle surrounded by dust, and realized how many other empty circles she’d noticed recently. She’d gone directly to the earl.

  At first he’d said the maid had broken it, but she’d heard the lie in his voice. His words had been just a little too smooth—and the maid had left the week before. Finally he’d told her the truth. He’d sold it.

  She gripped her bedpost tightly. Why? It was just a trumpery piece of crockery. She’d only kept it because it had belonged to her mother. He couldn’t have gotten more than a farthing or two for it.

  When she’d asked, he’d shrugged and said he was sorry, but he was that desperate. He’d made one bad investment too many, that was all. He would come about shortly.

  Once she heard he’d gone to the cent-per-centers, she knew there was little hope of that.

  What was she going to do?

  Marry. A husband would solve her problems. She’d been such a fool to waste four years of her life running after the Earl of Westbrooke.

  Enough. She was like a dog chasing its tail. Her senseless pursuit of Westbrooke was in the past. She had to look to the future. Quickly. Surely she could find a man to marry before her father’s financial situation became known. It could not be so obvious. The denizens of the haut ton never paid their bills on time, and the earl was still spending as if he had plenty of the ready.

  She sighed. He’d had another of his parties last night. Why couldn’t he entertain the riffraff of the ton at his brothels or gaming halls instead of his home?

  At least this had been a male-only gathering. The men played cards and drank themselves into a stupor. Occasionally there was a fist fight, but the commotion was nothing compared to that which ensued when a few prostitutes were added. She’d taken to arming herself with a suitably long, sturdy pin if she had to venture into the corridors during one of those entertainments.

  Well, the beaux and dandies should be waking up and taking themselves off in a few hours. She would just curl up with her book and read until they had vacated the premises. With luck, the detritus of their visit would not be too disgusting to clean up.

  She looked on the table by her favorite chair for the novel she was reading. It wasn’t there. She searched her sitting room. The book wasn’t by her bed or on her bureau or desk. When had she last had it?

  Ah, now she remembered. She’d been reading in the blue drawing room when her father had come in with four or five loud, tipsy men. He’d asked her to tell Cook to make up a late supper. She must have put the book down when she’d gotten up to hurry to the kitchen.

  She rubbed her forehead. Cook had not been happy. She was certain the woman was going to quit at any moment. It didn’t help that she, too, had not been paid recently.

  She glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was not quite ten. The men would still be asleep. She should be able to fetch her book without having to deal with any unpleasant gentlemen.

  She made her way downstairs, slowing as she approached the door to the blue drawing room. Long experience had taught her to be cautious.

  She heard only snoring. Good. The men were still sleeping off the effects of their carousing. If she tread lightly, she should be able to retrieve her book with no one the wiser.

  She stepped up to the door—and froze.

  Oh, my.

  Not all the men were asleep. Viscount Bennington was standing not five feet from her, urinating into late, unlamented Great Aunt Hermione’s favorite urn.

  Damn. She was going to lose another servant over this. She opened her mouth to tell the man exactly what she thought of his action.

  And then she looked at the action a little more closely.

  Impressive—very impressive. She never would have guessed such a short, unimposing man could be so, so…imposing. Apparently the size of a man’s nose did reveal the size of his other attributes.

  Hmm. Lord Bennington might be an excellent matrimonial candidate. He certainly was well equipped to perform his marital duties.

  “My lord—”

  “What?!”

  The viscount jerked toward her. Unfortunately he had not yet completed his previous activity. She dodged.

  “Lady Felicity—ack!”

  Bennington hit Mrs. Tadmon, this week’s housekeeper, squarely in the bodice. He had quite a remarkable range.

  She didn’t need to hear the woman scream to know she’d soon be trying to fill that position, too.

  “Lady Isabelle, Lady Claire, and Miss Peterson, my lady.”

  Meg stepped past Bentley, the Earl of Westbrooke’s butler. She didn’t want to be here, but when she’d received Lizzie’s note this morning, she’d known there was no help for it. Lizzie was quite capable of hunting her down at some society affair to ferret out whatever information she wanted. Best to see her now, in the privacy of Westbrooke House. Hopefully the girls’ presence would keep the conversation from becoming too uncomfortable.

  Of course, if she were really engaged, she’d be dying to discuss the details with her best friend.

  “Thank you, Bentley.” Lizzie put down the letter she’d been reading. “I see you’ve brought the girls, Meg. How lovely.”

  Lizzie raised her brows, giving Meg a very pointed look. Meg tried not to flush. So, Lizzie had seen through her subterfuge. Well, she’d known it was a weak plan.

  “Would you bring our guests tea and cakes, Bentley? I assume you’d like some refreshment, ladies?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “No, thank you.”

  Claire skipped over to take a seat by Lizzie. “Don’t pay any attention to Isabelle, Lady Westbrooke. She’s practicing being perfect for her come-out.”

  “I am not. My come-out’s not for four years, Claire.”

  “Well, you’re worrying about it already. I can tell.” Claire rolled her eyes. “You’re always trying to be extra good and grown up. You’re like a mouse with a cat staring at it, afraid to move.”

  “That’s not true!” Isabelle’s face turned red.

  “Yes, it is.” Claire smiled at Lizzie. “Cakes would be lovely, Lady Westbrooke. I ’specially like poppy cake. Do you suppose you have any in your kitchen?”

  “Claire!” Isabelle said. “You have no manners at all. What would Emma say?”

  “She’d say I was acting just as I should.”

  “She would not.”

  “Would, too.”

  “Girls!” Meg felt like rolling her own eyes. “Please do not argue.”

  “I’m sorry, Aunt Meg, Lady Westbrooke. It’s just that Claire—” Isabelle pressed her lips together, obviously holding back a few choice words.

  “Sorry.” Claire shrugged, then grinned at Lizzie. “I would like tea and cake, Lady Westbrooke, if it’s not too much trouble. I do get so hungry, you know.”

  Lizzie laughed. “Yes, I can see that you do.” She looked up at her butler. “Bentley, could you see if Cook has any poppy cake?”

  “Certainly, my lady.”

  Bentley left to search out provisions. Claire tapped Lizzie on the knee.

  “Where’s your baby, Lady Westbrooke? I was hoping to see him.”

  “He’s up in the nursery, Claire, sleeping. Nurse should be bringing him down in a little while, though, as it’s almost time for his next feeding.” Lizzie turned to Isabelle. “You’ve changed so much since last I saw you, Isabelle. You look very much like a young lady now.”

  “That’s because she’s grown breasts, Lady Westbrooke,” Claire said. “It makes her shape all different.”

  Isabelle’s face grew even redder, assuming the color of a very ripe apple.

  “Claire! I would not have brought you if I’d realiz
ed you lacked any sense of decorum.” Meg frowned. She felt a surge of sympathy for Emma. She knew her sister loved her nieces as much as her sons, but raising a thirteen-year-old girl and an eight-year-old had to be challenging. She certainly felt challenged at the moment.

  Claire crossed her arms and pushed out her lower lip. “I don’t see why you are in such a miff, Aunt Meg. It’s just us ladies. I wouldn’t have said it if Lord Westbrooke were here. Isabelle is quite proud of her breasts—she studies them in the mirror all the time.”

  Isabelle made a strangling sound.

  “Claire,” Meg said, “you are not making things better.”

  Lizzie bit her lip, her eyes dancing. “It is my fault for broaching the subject. I apologize, Isabelle. I do remember what it was like to be thirteen, though I didn’t have the…joy…of having a sister.”

  “You were very lucky, Lady Westbrooke.”

  “You may be correct, Isabelle, but I did want a sister desperately.” Lizzie smiled at Meg. “I made do with a good friend.”

  “Friends are much better than sisters.” Isabelle glared at Claire.

  Claire stuck out her tongue. “I don’t know what you are so upset about, Isabelle. Most women like their breasts. I’m looking forward to having a pair.”

  “You are?” Meg had always thought Claire precocious, but surely she was much too young for such concerns.

  “Of course. I want to have babies and feed them like Emma does Henry. I’ll need breasts to do that, won’t I?”

  “Well, er, yes.”

  Fortunately Bentley returned just then. Claire grabbed a cake before the butler could set the tray on the table.

  “Claire, Lady Westbrooke will think you are starving.”

  “I am starving, Aunt Meg,” Claire said around a mouthful of cake. “It’s been hours since breakfast. And Lady Westbrooke’s Cook will be offended if we don’t eat some of her treats.” Claire popped the last of the cake into her mouth and reached for a biscuit.

  “Would you care for something before your sister eats it all, Isabelle?” Lizzie asked. “Cook is a very good baker.”