Meg nodded. He did sound contrite, but she just wanted him gone. She closed her eyes, listening to his steps fade away. She could not bear to look at the man still standing beside her.
Why had Parks been the one to find her in such an embarrassing situation? What must he think of her?
Perhaps he would just go away and let her expire in solitude.
She felt a gentle touch on her cheek.
“Miss Peterson, are you all right?”
She shook her head.
“I’m so sorry you had to endure Bennington’s attentions. You shouldn’t have…Well, he is not the sort of man you should…He has a terrible temper.”
That was supremely evident.
“You can’t go back to the ballroom like this. Who is your chaperone?”
She forced herself to speak. “Lady Beatrice.”
“I shall fetch her. Will you be all right alone?”
“Y-yes.” She bit her lip. She would not cry—well, not until he left.
He made an odd noise, a short exhalation that sounded both annoyed and resigned.
“Oh, for God’s sake, come here.”
His hands touched her shoulders, urging her gently toward him. She resisted for only a heartbeat.
The first sob escaped as her face touched his waistcoat. She felt his arms, warm and secure, come around her, felt his hand lightly touch her hair. A tight knot in her chest loosened.
She sobbed harder.
Parks repressed a sigh. The girl was Miss Margaret Peterson—Meg, Westbrooke had called her. He’d met her at Tynweith’s house party last spring. He’d liked her. She’d seemed quite levelheaded—very knowledgeable about garden design and plants in general. He’d enjoyed talking to her.
And looking at her.
All right, he had enjoyed looking at her. She was very attractive. Slim, but with generous curves in all the right places. Warm brown eyes with flecks of gold and green. Silky brown hair.
He tangled his fingers in that hair, massaging the back of her head. She felt very nice in his arms. It had been too long since he’d held a woman.
Much too long, if he was feeling amorous urges toward a lady who was blubbering all over his cravat. He would pay Cat a visit as soon as he got back to the Priory, right after he checked on that plant shipment.
He patted her shoulder. Her skin was so smooth, soft…
He dropped his hand to the safety of her corseted back.
What had she been thinking, coming out into Palmerson’s dark garden with a man of Bennington’s stamp? Was she no better regarded than she should be? She had been a guest at Tynweith’s scandalous house party.
And had behaved perfectly properly there. She had gone into the garden with him, but always in the daylight and always to discuss a particular planting.
She made a peculiar little sound, a cross between a sniff and a hiccup.
“Are you all right, Miss Peterson?”
She nodded, keeping her head down.
“Here—take my handkerchief.”
“Thank you.”
She still would not meet his eyes.
He studied her. There was enough light to see one slender white shoulder was completely exposed, as was the lovely curve of her breast…
He moved his hips back to save her the shock of his sudden attraction.
Damn, he had definitely been too long without a woman.
“I’m sorry to be such a watering pot. I’ve thoroughly soaked your clothing.”
“You’ve had an upsetting experience.” He cleared his throat. “You do know you shouldn’t be alone with a man in the darkened shrubbery, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course.” She stepped a little away from him. “None of the others so forgot themselves.”
“Others? There have been others?”
Meg flushed. Parks looked so shocked.
“I’m not a debutante.”
“No, but you are young and unmarried.”
“Not so young. I’m twenty-one.”
Parks lifted an eyebrow. Meg felt a spurt of annoyance. Was the man criticizing her?
“Lady Beatrice has not commented on my behavior.”
He lifted the eyebrow higher. Suddenly she wanted to grab his spectacles and grind them under her slipper. She was so tired of people looking at her in just that way.
“Ohh, you are as bad as the rest of the priggish, nasty beasts in that ballroom.”
She spun on her heel, took a step—and caught her foot on a root.
“Aaa!” She was falling face first toward the holly bush Bennington had recently vacated.
Strong hands grabbed her and hauled her up against a rock hard chest. She shivered. The cool night air raised goose bumps on her arms and…
She looked down. Her breasts had fallen completely out of her dress.
“Ack!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Close your eyes!”
“What?”
Oh, lud, was that the crunch of shoes on gravel? Someone was coming this way! She had to hide.
There was no place to hide. She twisted around and plastered herself up against Parks. Perhaps God would work a miracle and make her invisible.
The Almighty was not interested in assisting her this evening.
“Halooo! Mr. Parker-Roth…is that you? I didn’t know you were in Town.”
“Ooo.” Meg muffled her moan in Parks’s cravat. It couldn’t be…Please, not Lady Dunlee, London’s biggest gossip!
She felt Parks’s arms tighten around her. His response rumbled under her cheek.
“I’ve recently arrived, Lady Dunlee. Good evening, my lord.”
“Good evening, Parker-Roth. We were just taking a turn in the garden, but, um…” Lord Dunlee cleared his throat. “I, um, believe it’s time we returned to the ballroom.”
“Just a minute.” Lady Dunlee’s voice was sharp. “Who’s that with you in the shrubbery, sir? I can’t see.”
“My dear, I think we interrupt the gentleman.”
Lady Dunlee snorted. “Obviously. The question is, what exactly are we interrupting?”
Meg closed her eyes. She was going to die of embarrassment.
“That’s Miss Peterson, isn’t it? My word, I had no idea you two were quite so…friendly.”
Chapter 2
It looked as if his mother was going to get her wish.
Parks crossed his arms and stood in a corner of the small parlor where Lady Palmerson had deposited them. She’d given Miss Peterson a shawl and him a contemptuous look before leaving to find Lady Beatrice. She must have assumed Miss Peterson’s reputation was as shredded as her gown—or that he had exhausted his animal instincts—since she closed the door behind her when she left.
Damn, damn, damn. He looked up and met the accusatory scowl of some long dead Palmerson ancestor.
I’m innocent, God damn it. I’m the hero of this tale, not the villain.
The painted peer was not impressed.
What the hell was he going to do? He felt society’s noose tightening around his neck as surely as if he were off to dance the Tyburn jig.
Miss Peterson sat on the settee, staring down at her slippers, worrying the fringe on her borrowed shawl.
He should have left her to Bennington. If the man was to be believed, it was the girl’s own fault she found herself in the bushes with an over-amorous male.
No. He wouldn’t wish Bennington on any woman. And Miss Peterson had looked completely terrified when he’d come upon them. She must not have known what the man was capable of.
Why had she asked Bennington to stroll in the shrubbery?
Well, it really didn’t matter now. There was no way in hell they were going to keep their interesting little garden scene a secret. He’d wager his latest plant shipment that Lady Dunlee was already spreading the shocking news as fast as her short little legs would carry her around the ballroom.
Only an act of God would save him now, and it appeared the Almighty was in league
with Mother. Would she approve of Miss Peterson?
He watched the woman twist the shawl’s fringe. “If you aren’t careful, you will ruin that.”
“What?” She finally looked up at him.
“The fringe. You are in danger of pulling it out.”
“Oh.” She smoothed the colored silk and sighed. “I am very sorry to have gotten you into this mess.”
He grunted. He didn’t trust himself to say more.
“I’ll explain everything, of course. You don’t have to worry that there will be any repercussions.”
He snorted. “Miss Peterson, if you think I’ll escape unscathed from this evening’s little contretemps, you have windmills in your head.”
She frowned up at him. “What do you mean?”
Good God, she could not be that dense, could she? If she were, it didn’t bode well for the intelligence of his future offspring.
Future offspring. His traitorous body leapt at the thought.
Damn. He had most definitely been too long without a woman.
But that was going to change, wasn’t it? He studied Miss Peterson. If he had to marry, he could do far worse. Her hair was lovely, spread out over her borrowed shawl, the candlelight picking out golden strands among the warm brown mass. It was straight, smooth. Silky. His fingers twitched at the memory. And her skin was creamy, tinged pink at the moment. Her mouth…her full lower lip begged to be kissed. The tip of her tongue peeked out to moisten it…
He had a sudden vision of her stretched naked on his bed.
He turned away abruptly.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” He adjusted the fall of his pantaloons. Think about soil composition. Watering schedules. The new plant shipment.
“Why were you looking at me like that?”
He cleared his throat. “Like what?”
“You were staring at my hair.”
Anger was a good antidote to desire, wasn’t it? And he certainly had plenty to be angry about. He turned back to face Miss Peterson.
Bloody hell! She had let the shawl slip. He could see her lovely rose-colored nipple blooming from the snow white of her breast.
She followed his gaze.
“Eek!”
The beautiful skin disappeared under the fabric.
Anger. He was supposed to feel anger, not this maddening desire—maddeningly obvious desire. He hadn’t had such an uncontrolled physical response to a woman in years, not since he was little more than a boy.
He couldn’t turn away again, so he stepped behind a splendidly ugly upholstered high-backed chair.
Was it possible to die of embarrassment, Meg wondered? Apparently not or she’d have cocked up her toes already.
Mr. Parker-Roth had seen her br—
She’d fan her cheeks if she didn’t have both hands fully occupied clutching this shawl.
He was obviously appalled by the situation. He was hopping around as if he could barely contain his annoyance. And now he was hiding behind that hideous red chair. Did he think she was going to attack him?
This evening had been a disaster. Who would have thought Lord Bennington would behave in such an outrageous fashion? And then to have Parks come along. Meg closed her eyes and bit her lips on a moan. Of all the men in England, why did it have to be him? Wouldn’t Lord Dunlee have done as well?
Parks had dispatched the viscount decisively—it was unlikely Lord Dunlee was so handy with his fives. And when he’d caught her from falling…Well, she had admired the depth of his botanical understanding during Lord Tynweith’s house party, but she had not fully appreciated all his other attributes.
She flushed. All right, she had dreamt of his dark brown hair, green eyes, and slow smile more than once. Several times. Almost every night. But if she’d known he had rock-hard muscles, she would never have gotten any sleep.
How could she have guessed? He looked like a scholar with his spectacles. He’d sounded like a scholar when he’d discussed Repton’s Fragments on the Theory and Practice of Landscape Gardening with her at the house party. He’d been so intent, so passionate. She’d been captivated by his mind.
It was a very good thing she’d not been aware of exactly how captivating his body was. She examined what wasn’t hidden by the chair. Hmm. What would he look like without all that muffling cloth?
It really was uncomfortably warm in this room. She would benefit from a fan and an unencumbered hand with which to wield it.
“We should talk before Lady Palmerson returns with your chaperone and my mother.”
“Your mother?” Lud! She was sure her eyes were starting from her head.
Parks had a mother? Well, of course he did. Most people had a mother tucked away somewhere. Except her. Her mother had died not long after she was born. But gentlemen’s mothers were supposed to stay conveniently absent in the country, unless they had a daughter to put on the Marriage Mart.
“Your mother is here?” Had she squeaked? She swallowed. She had to get her voice under control. “Is your sister out this year?”
He frowned. “No. Jane is already married, and Juliana and Lucy are too young.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.” She’d met his sister Jane at some society function last year. “I haven’t seen Lady Motton this Season, have I?”
“No, fortunately for you.” He smiled slightly. “Poor Jane is not the most pleasant companion at the moment. She is increasing—well, she has already increased significantly at this point—and is not terribly comfortable. And when Jane is uncomfortable, everyone else is as well.”
Meg understood completely. “Emma was the same way, especially at the end. You must not consider upon it too much. Is the baby due soon?”
“Not for a month or so.” He cleared his throat. “But that is beside the point.”
It certainly was. Meg felt another spurt of panic. Parks’s mother was going to see her with her hair down and her dress torn. She couldn’t do anything about her dress, but could she fix her hair? Impossible. Even if she had any pins, which she didn’t, she couldn’t let go of her shawl long enough to manage the task.
“What am I going to do?”
“I don’t believe you have any choice, Miss Peterson.”
The man was right. The hair would have to stay as it was, unless…? He was looking at it again. Well, not looking precisely. Darting glances, really. What was the matter with him?
“I don’t suppose you know how to braid hair, do you?”
“Braid hair?” Now he was staring at her as if she were completely addled.
“Yes. You do have sisters. I thought perhaps you’d know how.”
“God give me strength! Why are you talking about your hair?”
“Because your mother will be here at any minute and I don’t want to look like a scarecrow.”
Parks grabbed the back of the chair so hard his knuckles showed white. “Believe me, Miss Peterson, my mother will not be concerned about your hair.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain about that. I look a complete hoyden.” She grabbed the shawl with one hand and tried to gather her hair with the other. She felt cool air—and Parks’s gaze—on her chest. She flushed, dropping her arm. Apparently the shawl was not quite large enough.
“I assure you, Miss Peterson, my mother will not remark upon your hair. She will have much more interesting things to occupy her mind.”
“She will?” If she knotted the shawl in front, would it stay in place when she lifted her arms? She would feel much better if her hair was properly restrained. “What else could possibly concern her? This really is not the time to play guessing games, sir.”
Was that his teeth she heard grinding?
“I am not playing guessing games!”
“There is no need to shout. My hearing is perfectly adequate.”
“Your hearing may be, but your understanding is sadly lacking.”
“Mr. Parker-Roth!”
“Miss Peterson! You do understand that we will be compelled t
o marry?”
Her jaw dropped. The man’s tone was beyond insulting. He might just have said they’d be compelled to crawl naked through a bramble bush. Well, she knew she was not a diamond of the first water but she was not precisely an antidote, either.
She shot to her feet, tugging the shawl securely around her. “I’m so delighted the prospect of wedding me sends you into such raptures.”
Parks frowned. He was eyeing the shawl. “I did not come to this blasted ball with the expectation that I’d leave an engaged man.”
“And you won’t. I told you I would explain everything.”
Did the man roll his eyes? She stepped closer. Her hands went to her hips—until she felt a slight breeze and his gaze on her skin again. Damnation. She knotted one hand securely in the ends of the shawl, sidestepped the chair he was hiding behind, and poked him in the chest with her finger.
“Don’t condescend to me, Mr. Parker-Roth. I will make it very clear to your mother and Lady Beatrice that you are not the villain of this piece.”
He trapped her hand against his body. “And will you also make it very clear to the rest of the ton? Will you hurry off to the ballroom, dressed as you are—or rather, not dressed as you are—and make an announcement?”
“Of course not! Don’t be ridiculous.” She pulled back, but he wouldn’t release her.
“Then how are you going to stop the news from flying through society? Come, Miss Peterson, surely you know Lady Dunlee is flitting through the ballroom right now, like a bee in a flower bed, spreading every detail she noted.”
“No one will care what we were doing.” She was only a vicar’s daughter after all—and a marquis’s sister-in-law. She tried to ignore the dread growing in her stomach.
Parks snorted. “How long have you been in society, Miss Peterson?”
“This is my second Season—”
“Then you know everyone cares what we were doing.”
“Well—”
“And you know you can’t stop the gossip just by addressing the crowd in Palmerson’s ballroom. I’m certain several people have already hurried off to their next engagement hoping they’ll be the first to entertain their acquaintances with Lady Dunlee’s delightful report. No, you’ll have to take out space in all the papers to stop this story—and, of course, that won’t work either, will it?”
Sally MacKenzie Bundle Page 33
