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 to 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?”
“You are absurd.”
“I am correct. Admit it, Miss Peterson. You are as surely caught as I.” One of his obnoxious eyebrows flew up. “But perhaps that is what you wanted. Why did you invite Bennington into the garden?”
She dropped her gaze to study his cravat. It was sadly limp. Cravats were not designed to be cried on.
“Miss Peterson?”
She did not want to lie to him, but she most definitely did not want to tell him the truth, that she was auditioning potential husbands.
A sharp note entered his voice and his grip on her hand tightened. “Did you hope to catch a viscount? Is that what this was all about? You were angling for a title?”
“No, of course not.”
“Speak up, Miss Peterson. My waistcoat cannot hear you.”
She raised her chin to meet his gaze. “I was not interested in Lord Bennington’s title, sir.”
The right corner of his mouth crooked up, but he did not look amused.
“No? What were you interested in then? I do not presume to know the female mind, but I would not have supposed Bennington had much else to recommend him.”
Parks had a very nice mouth. Surely his lips wouldn’t feel like slugs on her skin.
“The viscount has extensive horticultural holdings.”
The lips turned up into a sneer.
“Miss Peterson, you cannot go to bed with his begonias.”
She sucked in her breath. “You are insulting, sirrah!”
She jerked back again. His hold on her was unbreakable. Not that his fingers were hurting hers—they weren’t. Neither did they appear to exert any effort to keep her in place.
Somehow he had managed to shed his gloves between the garden and this small room, but his hands were not hot and damp like Bennington’s. They were warm, strong, tanned from his hours working with his plants.
She wished she could remove her own gloves to better feel his touch. Her breasts tingled, as if they, too, would like to encounter his fingers.
What an idea! Heat flooded her—her face must be as red as a ripe tomato.
“How many men have you lured into a darkened corner?”
“Mr. Parker-Roth, I must insist that you release me.” She certainly was not going to answer that question. Not that the number was so great. There had been only five before Bennington.
“Did they all maul you? Is that what you want, Miss Peterson? Are you that anxious for male attention?”
The man was insufferable. His words were beyond insulting. She opened her mouth to give him a set down and noticed a peculiar gleam in his eye. It was…hot. Quite at odds with his cold tone.
“Shall I kiss you, then? Is that what you would like?”
“Yes, indeed.”
It wasn’t until she saw the startled look in his eyes that she realized she had spoken aloud.
Good God! Parks blinked. Had he heard correctly? She wanted him to kiss her?
What was it about this woman? He did not make a habit of lusting after ladies of the ton. Of course, most society ladies did not appear in shredded bodices with their hair tumbled about their shoulders. When she had asked him if he could braid it for her, he’d thought he was going to explode. To have his fingers in all that warm silk again…And then she kept moving her arms so her lovely white breasts flickered in and out of view.
And now the girl had asked him to kiss her.
She was mad—and maddening. A proper young lady would be sitting demurely on that settee, sobbing quietly into her handkerchief, overset by the scene in the garden. Hopeful that she would get an engagement ring on her finger immediately. But when he’d stated the obvious, Miss Peterson had flown into the boughs. She’d put her hands on her hips—until she realized what a delightful view it afforded him—and had poked him in the chest. And now she’d asked him to kiss her.
He was a gentleman, first and foremost. He could never turn down a lady’s request.
He smiled slightly. She was gaping up at him as if she had even shocked herself. How nice that her mouth was already ajar. He would perhaps discover just how much she’d learned from those other men.
He kept her hand cradled against his chest, but pulled her slightly closer. She came without protest. He bent slowly, giving her time to flee, but she stood still, like a startled deer.
His mouth touched hers. He half expected her to bolt then, just as a deer would when one approached too close, but she didn’t. Her lips were soft and motionless under his.
He cupped her jaw with his free hand, stroking her cheek with his thumb. It was soft, like a rose petal. She smelled of roses, too—light, sweet.
She made a small inarticulate noise. Her other hand released its grip on the shawl to come up to rest on his waistcoat. Still her mouth was quiescent under his.
He smiled slightly, putting his arms around her, gently pulling her close. These were not the reactions of an experienced woman. Whatever Miss Peterson had been doing in the shrubbery with the men of the ton, she had not lost her air of innocence. It was proving incredibly seductive.
He ran a hand through her hair, lifting a heavy length away from her neck. He trailed kisses along her jaw line to a spot just below her ear. She tilted her head, giving him more room. Her breath came in little pants. Her hands slid up to his shoulders, and her shawl slipped to reveal more of her creamy skin.
Beautiful.
The line of her throat, her collar bone, the sweet curve of her breast. He gathered one breast into his hand. It was warm and heavy, filling his palm. He glanced at her face for any sign of alarm at his boldness, but her eyes were closed. Her small white teeth caught her lower lip.
He kissed each eyelid lightly while he stroked the treasure in his palm. Her body sagged into his.
When his thumb found her hard, stiff nipple, she inhaled—and he let his tongue follow into her moist heat.
His last coherent thought was a wish.
If only the door were locked and the settee bigger.
Embarrassment was definitely not fatal—she had proven that too many times to count tonight. Had she actually asked Parks to kiss her? Surely not. But then why had his eyes widened in just that fashion? And then they’d narrowed and assumed a very alert, intent gaze.
She should step back. He had her hand against his chest, but he would let her go if she wanted. He would not force her. There was no coercion in his hold.
She felt a slight pressure urging her closer, and she went. He was going to grant her request. She knew it.
She should move her head away from his descending lips.
She couldn’t move. Like a field mouse faced with an adder, she stood perfectly still, but unlike the field mouse, she wanted to be caught.
She watched his mouth come closer. She closed her eyes.
His lips were cool and firm on hers. Gentle. Asking, not demanding. Inviting, promising, teasing.
His fingers cradled her jaw, his thumb brushed her cheek. His skin was slightly rough against hers, but his touch was light.
Her heart beat like the wings of a caged bird. Heat pooled low in her stomach. An odd throbbing started even lower, in the space between her legs. She felt dampness there.
What did it mean?
Her legs felt weak, as if they could no longer support her. She braced herself against his chest with both hands. She needed to feel his arms around her before her knees turned to water.
He must have read her mind. Thank God.
He brought her carefully against him. His strength surrounded her. She felt his heart beating under her palms. She breathed in his scent—a clean mix of soap and fresh linen and wine.
She felt his fingers tangle in her hair, felt him lift it, felt the cool air touch her skin.
She felt his mouth along her jaw.
Where Bennington’s lips had oozed slug-like, disgusting and wet across her skin, Parks’s mouth was like butterfly wings, brushing, teasing. Like sunlight, warm and warming. She tilted her head, stretching, hoping he would find the suddenly sensitive spot beneath her ear.
He did.
She felt a wave of weakness again. She needed to hold onto him. She moved her hands to his shoulders.
Her shawl slipped down. No matter. She was not chilled—she was warm. More than warm. Hot. So hot she was panting, and the low throbbing had turned to an ache.
She’d thought she’d learned a few things about kissing this Season, but she’d been wrong. She’d never experienced anything like this before. The other men had been rough and awkward and hurried. Or practiced and oily. This? This was perfect.
It suddenly got more perfect.
His hand touched her naked breast.
Her conscience whispered she should be shocke
d. Appalled. Mortified. She should scream for help.
She bit her lip to keep from screaming for pleasure. The warmth of his skin on hers was beyond anything she’d felt before.
And then his fingers moved.
She sagged into his body. She felt his lips brush her eyelids. He touched the hard little point of her nipple.
Heat shot through her. She inhaled—and his mouth covered hers. His tongue glided in.
She clung to him while he filled her, his tongue sweeping through her mouth. It should have been revolting, but it was wonderful.
She pressed herself against him, sliding her hands down to his waist, under his coat, around to his back. He had too much clothing on. She had too much clothing on. Her gloves, for example, were very much in the way.
His tongue was withdrawing. No! She wasn’t ready for this to be over. She pressed closer and tried to copy his actions, thrusting her tongue into his much larger mouth. She was certain her efforts were extremely clumsy, but he seemed pleased. Enthusiastic even. His tongue encouraged hers. His hands cupped her head.
He grunted and pulled back.
“I think we’d do better sitting down.”
“Huh?” She blinked up at him, then reached for his mouth again.
He laughed and picked her up. He sat in the ugly red chair and deposited her on his lap.
“Mmm, perhaps this is better.” She loosened his cravat.
“Much better.” He kissed her first on her mouth, then on her throat, then down to…
“Oh. Oh my.”
Both of her breasts had escaped her corset. He wasn’t going to…? Surely that was highly improper…?
“Mr. Parker-Roth…”
“John.”
“What?” His mouth was hovering over her naked breasts. She put her hands on his head to pull him back from disaster. He looked at her—at her face.
“John. My name is John.”
“Oh.”
“Say it.” He kissed the side of one breast.
“Eek.” She tried to move his head away. He wouldn’t budge.
“Say it.” He kissed the other side.
“John. I’m sure you really shouldn’t be…”
The Naked Gentleman Page 3
