The Naked Gentleman

by Sally MacKenzie

  She had the oddest feeling she was being watched.

  She opened her eyes—and looked directly into Lady Dunlee’s disapproving face.

  Chapter 11

  She was letting her emotions run away with her. She should stop and confront Mr. Parker-Roth. Hadn’t she decided just this evening to take charge of her life?

  Her feet kept flying over the grass.

  She would take charge tomorrow, in a more public location, far, far away from the man currently pursuing her.

  She dodged around a shadowy shrub.

  Why was he pursuing her? Couldn’t he take the hint that she did not want his company?

  A vine grabbed at her hair. She ducked and tripped over a root, almost falling full length into an ungainly rhododendron. Her skirts tangled around her legs and something hard poked into the sole of her foot. Her silly little dancing slippers had not been designed for any activity more strenuous than a lively reel. They had certainly not been meant to be taken on a mad dash through the shrubbery.

  She panted, heart pounding, and pushed her hair out of her face. How close was he? Was it possible he wasn’t following her at all? Perhaps he’d realized the impropriety of haring off after her into the bushes. After all, the man did not seem overly fond of scandal. Perhaps—surely—he’d reconsidered.

  “Miss Peterson?”

  “Ulp—” She pressed her lips tightly together, but it was too late. The sound had already escaped. Damn. She couldn’t see him yet, but he wasn’t far away. Her name hadn’t been much more than a whisper, yet she had heard it clearly.

  She had to hide. Where? The infernal garden was not half so dark as it had seemed from the terrace. She needed someplace darker, someplace sheltered. Some snug little hidey hole where, with a bit of luck, she could secrete herself and watch Mr. Parker-Roth walk right past. Then she’d be able to return to the ballroom by herself.

  A stray beam of moonlight illuminated a streak of mud on her dress.

  It would take more than luck for her to reenter Lady Easthaven’s ballroom. It would take a miracle. How could she get Emma’s attention to let her know she wished to return home? Would she be required to lurk in the bushes until her sister noticed her absence and sent out a search party?

  She repressed a groan. She couldn’t worry about that now—she had more pressing concerns. She heard the scrape of a pebble. Definitely more pressing.

  She raised her skirts higher and ran. Another branch pulled at her hair, sending it tumbling over her shoulders. She would not be surprised if she were adorned with more than one stray leaf. She rounded a substantial yew—and knew hope.

  Easthaven must have decided to experiment with the picturesque style of garden design, because the vegetation here was extremely wild. She had never been especially enamored of overgrown plantings, but if the excessive leafage screened her from Parks tonight, she might become a devotee.

  She spotted a small forest of pine trees clustered together to shield the garden from the back alley. Perfect! She’d squeeze her way past the feathery branches to the stone wall. No one would find her there. She could watch Parks go by and then—

  “Eek!”

  A large, bare, male hand closed around her upper arm.

  “Going somewhere, Miss Peterson?” Mr. Parker-Roth’s voice held a distinct edge—and blast it all, the man wasn’t even breathing hard.

  “Uh…” She certainly was breathless. She swallowed, staring at his large male fingers. They were so dark against her pale skin. He had spent too many hours working in the sun among his plants.

  He pulled, turning her. She took a sustaining breath. God willing, she’d manage more than a squeak when she spoke. She forced her lips into a smile.

  “Mr. Parker-Roth. Fancy meeting you here.”

  Heavens, did he growl? His face was expressionless, but a muscle jumped in his cheek. His eyes narrowed slightly.

  She wanted to look away. Instead she raised her chin and stared back.

  A peculiar heat coiled deep in her middle. Odd. The evening had turned unseasonably warm. She needed a fan—not that she could use it with his hand holding her hostage.

  “A man might wonder, Miss Peterson, what you are looking for in this darkened garden.”

  “Really? I thought that would be obvious. Solitude, Mr. Parker-Roth. I am seeking solitude.”

  His fingers tightened and she drew in a sharp breath.

  “You are hurting me, sir.”

  “My apologies.” He loosened his hold. “I find your answer somewhat disingenuous, Miss Peterson. You left the ballroom in Lord Frampton’s company. Rather odd behavior, wouldn’t you say, for someone wishing to be alone?”

  Exceedingly odd behavior, but she certainly was not going to admit that. “The man is not with me now, is he?”

  “Only because he refused your invitation to scandal.” Parks took a deep breath as if he were struggling to control his temper.

  “Balderdash. He merely did not care to take a turn in the garden.” She forced her smile wider. “And my desire for solitude struck me rather suddenly. It came on when I saw you approaching in the ballroom and intensified when you stepped onto the terrace.”

  Did she actually hear his teeth grind? Impossible! Still, his nostrils flared and his jaw looked as if it had been carved from marble. His eyes narrowed to slits.

  This might be the first time she’d encountered someone literally speechless with anger.

  Perhaps she had pushed him more than was wise. She wet her lips. Yes, circumspection might have been the better course, but he wouldn’t harm her, would he?

  If he decided to turn nasty, there was little she could do. She certainly couldn’t free herself from his grasp—he was much too strong. And she was too far from the ballroom to call for help. She—

  No. She was letting her imagination run wild now. Mr. Parker-Roth was a gentleman. Of course he would not harm her.

  Just as Lord Bennington was a gentleman…

  But Lord Bennington had been amorous. Mr. Parker-Roth was merely murderous.

  “Miss Peterson—”

  “Mr. Parker-Roth, do not say another word. Please. Just return to the ballroom. I shall be fine by myself.”

  His grip tightened again, but he relaxed his fingers the moment she inhaled.

  Why should he be agitated at all? It was not as if she had accepted his offer of marriage. What she did or didn’t do was no concern of his. He was being completely unreasonable.

  Unfortunately her heart was being unreasonable as well. It was pounding so hard, she had trouble breathing. She felt slightly ill. Her stomach was…shivering and her cheeks were hot. She was fevered, that was it. Hot and…throbbing. Damp in the most embarrassing place…

  “I will not leave you alone. It is not proper.”

  He was glaring at her.

  Damn it, why was he reprimanding her? He was behaving like a colossal prig. Apparently, he had never committed the slightest transgression. He must be unbearable to live with.

  “Unhand me, sir, and I will do you the favor of leaving you alone.”

  “I would like nothing better, but I am a gentleman. I cannot leave a lady—a woman—alone in the dark.”

  What did he mean by calling her a woman in that tone of voice? “You are insulting, sirrah!”

  “You are incorrigible, madam.”

  “I am not! How can you say so?”

  “How can I not say so? Have you not made a habit of frequenting the darker corners of the ton’s vegetation with a variety of men? One would think, if you were an intelligent woman, you would have learned your lesson after your encounter with Bennington.”

  She had a sudden desire to see the red prints of her fingers on his face. Unfortunately, his reflexes were excellent. He grabbed her hand before she’d fully raised it.

  She pulled back, but his hold was like iron. She could kick him in the shins, but her foot throbbed even as she thought of it. Her dancing slippers had already proven how flimsy they were—sh
e’d only bruise her toes further.

  She contented herself with the fiercest glare she could manage. “At the risk of repeating myself, Mr. Parker-Roth—go away!”

  “And at the risk of repeating myself, Miss Peterson, no. I am not leaving you alone in this garden.”

  She really, really would like to kick him.

  “Sir, you are not my keeper—”

  “Bloody hell, woman.” Mr. Parker-Roth transferred his grip to her shoulders—he looked as though he would have preferred to put his hands around her neck. “Someone needs to be your damn keeper and I don’t see a blasted queue forming for that honor.”

  “I do not need a kee—mphft.”

  The annoying man had covered her mouth with his own.

  The woman was driving him mad—stark, raving mad. Did she think she could hide from him in the vegetation? She was beyond bird-witted if that were the case. Her light blue gown and pale skin—an inordinate amount of pale skin—were laughably easy to see in the dark.

  Best let her get farther into Easthaven’s plantings. He had a few choice words to say to her that could best be communicated without an audience. He did not care to entertain any idiot of the ton who happened to stroll onto Easthaven’s terrace.

  He stepped from the grass to the garden path. Even if he were blind, he’d be able to follow Miss Peterson. She was crashing through the shrubbery like a frightened deer. What did she think he would do to her?

  Some entrancing possibilities popped into his head.

  Damn! Heat flooded his face and, um, another part of his anatomy.

  Bloody hell! He was not some unlicked cub, at the mercy of his urges. He was a mature—an experienced—man. He had a mistress, for God’s sake. Such salacious thoughts had no business intruding on his consideration of Miss Peterson—and they certainly had no business affecting him in such a…prominent way. The girl was a well-bred, well-connected virgin.

  He paused. Was she a virgin?

  He clenched his teeth. Of course she was. What was he thinking? He repressed an odd thrill of, of…something…that thudded in his chest. He should not be considering Miss Peterson’s state of virginity.

  Another odd sensation assailed him, though this time it did not target his chest. He adjusted the fall of his pantaloons. He was feeling very out of sorts. Perhaps the lobster patties had not agreed with him, or he’d had a bit of bad fish.

  Miss Peterson’s behavior in Lady Palmerson’s parlor gave evidence of her innocence. She’d struggled to keep that damn shawl covering her—No, he would not think about her lovely, white—

  Well, she was admittedly less innocent now than she’d been before she’d entered that parlor, and if she didn’t stop frequenting dark corners, she’d be much, much less innocent shortly. There was a reason young women were cautioned to avoid the shrubbery. Men could—

  The shocking image of what a man…what this man could do with Miss Peterson in the shrubbery sent a jolt of molten lust directly to the part of him most eager to misbehave.

  Damn, damn, damn. He needed to get his thoughts under control.

  All right, perhaps it wasn’t his thoughts that most needed control.

  Miss Peterson was safe from him. He had offered her his name and she had declined. That was the end of it. She did not want him, and he had asked merely for convention’s sake. He had no interest in her at all.

  His lack of interest chose that moment to increase the intensity of its throbbing disinterest, forcing him to bend over slightly.

  He avoided a boring, nondescript shrub. No matter what he thought, it must be clear to anyone with half a brain that Miss Peterson was in desperate need of close supervision. Why wasn’t Lady Knightsdale keeping her sister out of the bushes?

  He ducked under a low hanging vine. Easthaven’s gardeners needed to do some judicial pruning. It was one thing to cultivate a wild look, quite another to risk hanging one’s visitors.

  Well, if Lady Knightsdale would not do the job, he would see that Miss Peterson understood the appropriate behavior for an unwed young woman. Hell, if she were his sister—

  His stomach twisted. She was not his sister. He definitely did not have brotherly feelings for the woman. The very thought was obscene.

  Still, if Jane had—well, Jane had, but only with Lord Motton.

  Perhaps he should demonstrate exactly what could happen to a young lady alone in the dark with a man.

  He paused. He needed a nice, cold fountain. Icy cold. Freezing. A dunk in very, very cold water would certainly help his concentration.

  What he really needed was to get back to the Priory. The noxious London air had infected his brain.

  All right, they were far enough from the ballroom now. He would stop Miss Peterson and give her the sharp edge of his tongue—

  God! The ache turned into a stabbing pain. He bent over, bracing his hands on his knees. Where was a nice icy fountain when you needed one?

  No tongues. Best leave tongues out of consideration entirely. Scold her. That was what he would do. She would feel his anger. Anger. That was all she would feel.

  Truly, if he didn’t drag his mother home from London soon, he’d be moving into Bedlam.

  “Miss Peterson?” He whispered in case someone else was out in the garden. He knew she wasn’t far away.

  “Ulp.”

  The small sound was cut off abruptly. There was a pause, and then he heard the sound of more furious running.

  Was the woman completely crazy?

  He followed her. The foliage grew more dense and bushy. Either Easthaven had chosen to attempt a picturesque landscape or he should fire his gardeners.

  There she was, standing by some pine trees. Was she thinking of hiding? Ridiculous. He stepped forward and wrapped his fingers around her upper arm. Her flesh was incredibly soft.

  “Eek!” She jerked and stared at his fingers. Was she afraid to meet his eyes? Was she afraid of him? He did not care for that thought. Why would she fear him? Had he ever used her poorly?

  Well, perhaps in Lady Palmerson’s parlor, but she had not been complaining—not at all. She’d been a very active participant in those activities.

  “Going somewhere, Miss Peterson?” Even he heard the odd anger in his voice.

  “Uh…” She kept staring at his fingers. They were large and dark against her skin. He turned her.

  “Mr. Parker-Roth.” Her voice was breathless. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  Surely she was not going to act as though she’d just been out for a leisurely stroll? Her hair had tumbled over her shoulders and down her back and was sporting more than one leaf. Her bosom was rising and falling rapidly. She was panting, for God’s sake.

  He was panting.

  “A man might wonder, Miss Peterson, what you are looking for in this darkened garden.”

  A man might wonder many things. He drew in a deep breath and smelled pine needles and woman. Miss Peterson. Meg.

  He wondered if he’d imagined how soft her breasts were, how wonderful her skin tasted, how quickly he could get her out of her ball gown.

  No, no, of course he didn’t wonder that.

  She was saying something about wanting solitude. Solitude? Right. That was just what she needed. What he needed. Time alone to get his raging lust under control. He could never reenter the ballroom in his current state of…excitement.

  “You are hurting me, sir.”

  Damn. “My apologies.” He loosened his hold. He was going to give her his tongue. No! No tongues. He was going to jump down her throat—no, no. He was going to ring a peal over her. That was it. No tongues, no throats.

  The tip of her tongue peeked out to moisten her lips. She swallowed, her delicate throat flexing, arching. He would love to taste those lips again; to run his tongue from the sensitive point under her ear down her throat to the pulse he knew was beating—

  A scold. She deserved a scold.

  “I find your answer somewhat disingenuous, Miss Peterson.” God, did he really sound l
ike an old prig with a poker up his arse? “You left the ballroom in Lord Frampton’s company. Rather odd behavior, wouldn’t you say, for someone wishing to be alone?”

  Even in the dim light of the garden, he saw her flush. The dark color swept up her throat to her cheeks. Did it move down as well? If he lowered her bodice, if he freed her from her corset, would he see her breasts pinken? Her belly, her sweet—

  Well, his skin was certainly changing color. He didn’t need to look to know that. He could feel the heat, the swollen—

  “The man is not with me now, is he?”

  Good thing. He wasn’t certain he could behave in a civilized manner if Frampton were present. He feared he’d darken the poor man’s daylights for him.

  “Only because he refused your invitation to scandal.” Frampton had behaved like a gentleman.

  “Balderdash. He merely did not care to take a turn in the garden. And my desire for solitude struck me rather suddenly. It came on when I saw you approaching in the ballroom and intensified when you stepped onto the terrace.”

  God give him patience. He was going to wipe that smirk off her face if it were the last thing he did. How dare she act as if he were the one behaving unreasonably? She was in need of a lesson and he was just the man to give it to her.

  “Miss Peterson—”

  “Mr. Parker-Roth, do not say another word. Please. Just return to the ballroom. I shall be fine by myself.”

  Fine by herself?

  He heard her sharp intake and relaxed his fingers again.

  Fine by herself? The woman was mad. She was the one who belonged in Bedlam.

  “I will not leave you alone. It is not proper.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Unhand me, sir, and I will do you the favor of leaving you alone.”

  “I would like nothing better, but I am a gentleman.” And a liar. No, he did want to leave her, but he also wanted to wrap his arms around her, back her up against a tree, and—

  He was losing his mind.

  “I cannot leave a lady—a woman—alone in the dark.”

  “You are insulting, sirrah!”