Читать книгу The Naked Gentleman - Sally MacKenzie - Страница 10

“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 straight 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?”

“Lord Motton…” Lady Knightsdale nodded. “Yes, I do remember the scan—I mean, story.”

Mrs. Parker-Roth took the marchioness’s arm and started toward the door. “Oh, it was indeed a scandal, and at first my husband and I—and John, too—were very angry. But once we saw how happy Jane was, well, we couldn’t stay angry.” She laughed and shook her head. “Even at the time I suspected Jane was an active participant in her seduction—she is not a namby-pamby sort of girl, you know—so I couldn’t think too harshly of Edmund. And now we like him very well, especially as Jane is expecting our first grandchild.”

“Really?”

“Yes. So, I’d say everything turned out well for my daughter, and I believe everything will turn out well for your sister.”

Lady Knightsdale paused in the doorway to glare back at Parks. “I hope so.”

The marquis was the last one to leave the room. “Ten minutes, Parker-Roth,” he said as he pulled the door closed.

Meg exploded the moment they heard the latch click.

“Can you believe Emma? She’s always tried to run my life, but since she married, she’s become unbearable. I thought once Charlie was born—and then Henry—she’d be too busy to concern herself with my affairs any longer, but I was wrong.”

“She loves you.” As Mother loves me.

He could certainly sympathize with Miss Peterson on the subject of interfering family members.

What did Mother think of this evening’s drama? She’d dragged him to Town to find him a leg-shackle—was she pleased with Miss Peterson?

Was he?

It made no difference. He had compromised the girl past redemption. Lady Dunlee had seen to that—and after the rather heated…exchange they’d had in this room, he couldn’t even consider himself an innocent victim. What the hell had come over him?

The long and short of it was he had no choice. The Marquis of Knightsdale was not letting him out of this room an unengaged man—he just needed to convince Miss Peterson of that fact.

She sighed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers twitched to touch the silky length again.

He clasped his hands behind his back.

“I know Emma loves me. I know she only wants the best for me, which makes me feel even worse, but I can’t let her dictate my decisions.”

“No, of course not. I’m sure she doesn’t wish to.”

“Ha! You have no idea. She thinks I must be married to be happy. She’s been torturing me about it for the last three years. You should have seen the men she was throwing at my head. It was enough to drive me to Town for the Season.”

“Surely they couldn’t have been that objectionable.”

“They were ancient. Well into their dotage.”

He laughed. He couldn’t help it, her expression was so horrified.

“I find it hard to believe your sister would think an old man a suitable match for you.” Especially if the rumors about the marchioness’s marriage were true. More than one wag had said the marquis and his wife didn’t need a fire in the bedroom grate—they produced enough heat on their own. After seeing them together, he believed it.

“Well, the younger men were equally revolting. Cabbage heads, all of them—and that’s insulting the cabbage.”

“Miss Peterson—”

Meg waved her arm—and caught the shawl before it slipped far enough to reveal anything interesting.

“I don’t live at Knightsdale—I live at the vicarage with my father and his wife, Harriet—so I’m not even underfoot. Well, not under Emma’s feet at any rate. There is no need for her to worry about my future.”

“Still, it is perfectly natural that she’d want to see you well settled. Surely your father has made a push in that direction as well?”

Meg shook her head. “No. He hasn’t said a word about my marrying.”

“So he’s happy to have you spend your life with him?”

“Yes. No. Oh, botheration.” She frowned at a garish red vase on the mantle. “Truth be told, I’m certain he and Harriet would enjoy the privacy my absence would give them.” She sighed. “And I would like a home of my own. It’s not marriage I object to, it’s Emma’s meddling.” She turned and met his eyes. “If you must know, I came to London this Season with the express goal of finding a husband.”

“Then you should be happy to have achieved your purpose so quickly.” He could not keep an edge from his voice. Why did he feel this spurt of annoyance? She had been honest. And it was far from surprising. Lady Palmerson’s ballroom was filled with young ladies intent on exactly the same objective.

“Well, I…” She flushed. “I had thought to, um, spend more time looking.”

So she was not happy with him as her bridegroom? He gripped his hands tightly together. What was it about him that failed to impress the ladies of the ton? Hell, Grace had been so unimpressed she’d left him standing at the altar.

It wasn’t a mystery. He had no title. A mere mister could not hope to compete with a lord.

He should have left her to Viscount Bennington.

Parks was scowling. Of course he was. He obviously did not want to marry her. His tone of voice made that abundantly clear. Mauling her, though, that was another matter. Men must all be alike. They were happy to—oh.

She suddenly remembered exactly what she and Parks had been doing when Parks’s mother had entered the room.

Dear God.

She covered her face and moaned.

“What must your mother think of me? We were…I was…I looked like a…well, I won’t say what I looked like. It is too shocking. And Emma and I were squabbling like children.” Had Emma actually shouted at Mrs. Parker-Roth? “My sister could hardly have been more insulting. I’m certain your mother must want nothing to do with me or my family.”

“And I’m certain Mother understood completely. As she said, Jane got herself into a similar predicament last year. Mother was as upset then as your sister was just now.”

“Still, she cannot want you to marry me.”

“Miss Peterson, I hope you will not take it poorly, but some days I think my mother would be delighted if I wed the lowest scullery maid just as long as I wed someone. You say your sister thinks you must be married to be happy? Well, my mother has the same notion. She firmly believes that a man cannot find contentment without a wife at his side, guiding him in the right direction.”

Parks sounded extremely bitter.

“And you do not agree?”

“I do not!” He frowned, running his hand through his hair. “I do not wish to marry. Ever. My mother has been dragging me to Town for years, nagging me on the subject without mercy. Since I turned thirty, she has become relentless—and Westbrooke’s marriage has only made matters worse. I don’t doubt she is in ecstasy now that I’ve finally been tricked into parson’s mousetrap.”

“I did not trick you.” Meg felt another spurt of anger. Yes, the situation was monstrously unfortunate; yes, Parks had not chosen his fate; yes, in some regards his predicament was her fault. But she had not planned for things to happen as they had. She was almost as much a victim as he.

Well, perhaps not. Some people would doubtless have said she’d gotten her just desserts if she’d been forced to marry Lord Bennington.

Apparently one of those people was Mr. Parker-Roth.

“No, you did not trick me. However, if you had not been so bold as to disregard society’s rules—if you had not gone out into the garden with Bennington—” He tugged on his waistcoat and pressed his lips together. “Well, the least said about that, the better, I suppose.”

She did not care for his tone of voice at all.

“You do not have to marry me, sir.”

He looked exactly as if he’d eaten a lemon.

“Come, Miss Peterson, be sensible. You know as well as I do that we have to marry. Your reputation can only be mended by wedding vows.”

“No.” She wanted to hit something—like Mr. Parker-Roth. She hated being forced to act because of someone else’s rules. “There must be another way to solve this problem.”

“There is not.”

Yes, she would definitely like to hit the man. Perhaps a well placed punch in the chest would wipe that supercilious expression from his face.

“There are always alternatives.”

“Not this time. Not this problem. Your sister—your brother-in-law, the marquis—will not allow me to leave this room without offering for you.”

“Then offer. I just will not accept.”

“Miss Peterson, you—”

“Just ask me, sir.”

Parks clenched his teeth so hard his jaw flexed. He glared at her. She glared back.

“Oh, very well. Miss Peterson, will you do me the honor—the very great honor—of giving me your hand in marriage?”

Sarcasm did not become him. It was very easy to reply.

“No.”

“You can’t say no.”

“I just have. Is your hearing defective? Do I need to repeat myself? No. There. It is not a difficult word to understand.”

“Miss Peterson—”

The door swung open.

“So,” Emma said, “when is the wedding?”