The Naked Gentleman

by Sally MacKenzie

  “Oh, very well—Johnny. But you must learn to keep your temper under control. It is most inappropriate to raise your voice.”

  Agatha was grinning like a bedlamite. “So, the dry old stick actually has some sap running through his veins?”

  “Agatha, please. You are embarrassing Pinky.”

  “Mother!”

  “I mean Johnny. And he is not old—he’s just past thirty.”

  “Humph. He acts like he’s as old as Methuselah.” Agatha snorted. “Older. If Methuselah was like those other Old Testament fellows, he knew his way around a bed better than Pinky here.”

  “Now, Agatha, Pinky”—Mother looked at him—“um, Johnny has a nice widow in the village—”

  “Mother!”

  “Really, Pin-Johnny, what did I say about raising your voice?”

  He was going to strangle her. He was going to strangle his mother and her elderly friend.

  “I believe I could use some brandy,” he said instead.

  “Splendid. You may pour me a glass as well. Agatha, would you care for some brandy?”

  “Certainly. Now tell me all, Cecilia. What has Pinky been up to?”

  “John!” Parks said. “Or Parks. Or Mr. Parker-Roth. Not Pinky. Do you understand, Miss Witherspoon?”

  Agatha shrugged. “Oh, very well, but I will tell you you have no sense of humor, sir. It is a distinct fault in your character.”

  He handed Agatha her brandy without spilling it down the front of the ridiculous red and gold men’s banyan she was wearing, though he was sorely tempted to. “Thank you. I will certainly make note of your observation.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I do feel for the poor girl you’ve compromised, but perhaps she’s as dour as you are.”

  He contented himself with baring his teeth in a formation that might pass for a smile and taking a seat in the chair farthest from the ladies.

  “What are you doing awake anyway, Agatha?” Mother asked. “I thought you were too tired to come out tonight. I expected to find you sound asleep.”

  Agatha took a healthy swallow of her brandy. “You know I only came up to Town with you to visit Ackermann’s and the Royal Academy and perhaps go to the theater, Cecilia. I want no part of all the social torture. Can you see me standing in some stupid ballroom? I’d die of boredom listening to all those fat-pated frumps prose on and on about the other society nodcocks.” She looked at Parks. “Though tonight might have proved an exception. Tell me, who’s the young lady Pinky—I mean, John—has lured into misbehavior?”

  “I did not lure the young lady into misbehavior.”

  “No? Why am I not surprised? So what did happen? Some argument over the flora turn ugly?”

  “Stop, Agatha. You are as bad as Pin-Johnny. No, I believe the young lady did the luring—and it was not Johnny she lured, but Vis—some other man.”

  Thank God Mother had chosen discretion at the last moment. Agatha was obviously not one of society’s gossips, but she also did not watch her tongue. She would think nothing of linking Miss Peterson’s name with Bennington’s. She probably would delight in it—she knew how much Bennington hated her.

  “So why is John the one stuck making the offer?”

  “He was the one caught in the, um, act.”

  “Mother, there was no ‘act’!”

  “Perhaps not that Lady Dunlee saw; however…” Mother raised a damn expressive eyebrow.

  Agatha grunted. “Sounds like the chit’s no better than she should be. Perhaps a little money judiciously applied will solve the problem. Who did you say she was, Cecilia?”

  “I didn’t, but it’s no secret. Lady Dunlee was spreading the tale through the ballroom as quickly as her lips would move. It’s Miss Margaret Peterson—and no, money is not the answer. The girl is good ton. Her sister is the Marchioness of Knightsdale.”

  “Knightsdale?” Agatha sat up a little straighter. “That’s the Draysmith family. Lady Bea is a friend of mine.”

  “She was there. I believe she was acting as Miss Peterson’s chaperone.”

  Agatha sprayed brandy over her banyan. “Lady Bea, a chaperone? That’s rich. What cod’s-head thought Bea would make a good duenna? She was never one to be overly concerned with propriety. Isn’t Alton still her butler?”

  “Yes, well, I don’t believe anyone thought Lady Beatrice was ideal for the position, but necessity dictated the arrangement.” Mother took a sip of brandy. “Lady Knightsdale intends to take charge now—though that’s a bit like closing the barn door after the horse has bolted.”

  “Mother, no horse bolted. Nothing happened.”

  “Nothing?”

  Damn it. Mother had only to raise her eyebrow just so and he felt like he was ten years old again and had just tracked mud over the entry hall. Not that Mother minded the mud so much, but it always sent Mrs. Charing, their old housekeeper, into a frenzy, and Mother did not like that at all.

  “I’m going to bed.”

  “Very well, Johnny. Sleep well. We can discuss this further in the morning.”

  There was nothing to discuss, but he wasn’t about to get into an argument, especially with Agatha Witherspoon sitting there, itching to join in the fray.

  He couldn’t force Miss Peterson to the altar. If she remained adamant, there was nothing he could do but go home to the Priory and get on with his life.

  He was surprised the thought didn’t give him more pleasure.

  His valet was sitting by the fire, reading, when he came into the bedroom.

  “You should have joined Agatha, Mac.”

  “Sure, and when did ye get the daft notion I’m an idiot, man?” The large Scotsman grinned. “Nor do I think the lady would be verra pleased to share a candle with me.”

  “Probably not. What’s that you’re reading?”

  Mac’s grin widened. He held up the pamphlet.

  Parks squinted to read the cover. “A Complete Guide to the Cyprians of Covent Garden Including Prices Charged, Places of Business, and Special Amatory Skills. Good God. ‘Special Amatory Skills’? What does that mean?”

  “Do ye really want to know?”

  “No!” The gleam in Mac’s eyes warned him that he definitely did not want to hear any more.

  “Yer sure? Ye don’t want to hear about Red-haired Peg—it’s not the hair on her head’s that’s red, by the by—who can, with her mouth—”

  “Stop! I do not want to hear another word, I assure you. You have said too much already.”

  “And then there’s Buxom Bess who has the largest—”

  “Mac! Please. I have had a hellish evening. I do not need you adding to my headache.”

  “Ack, ye’ve got the headache again, do ye? I’ll just be brewing ye some of my special tea, shall I?”

  “No.” He just wanted to get into bed, pull up the covers, and pretend the evening had never happened. That he’d wake in the morning a free man again.

  But he was a free man. Miss Peterson had rejected his offer.

  Why didn’t he feel free?

  “Just help me out of this blasted coat will you?”

  “Yer sure ye wouldn’t like to take a stroll over to Covent Garden and see if we can find one of these lassies?”

  “Good God, no! What we’d find would be a case of the pox.”

  “I don’t know, Johnny. The man who wrote this guide seems verra enthusiastic—of course, he did include an advertisement for Dr. Ballow’s Special Pills, so I don’t know if we can trust his recommendations completely. Still, it’s not every day we get up to Town, ye know. Need to see the sights, as it were.” Mac got him out of his coat and went to hang it up.

  “Believe me, I don’t want to see any more sights. I’d leave for the Priory tomorrow if I could.”

  Mac’s voice was muffled by the wardrobe. “Ye aren’t usually quite so anxious to go home, Johnny. What happened?”

  “I may have gotten myself a wife.”

  “What?” Mac spun around and banged his head on the wardrobe door
. “Bloody hell, now I’ve got a headache to match yers.”

  “Where’s Miss Peterson, Bea?” Alton, Lady Beatrice’s butler, glanced out into the night. “Surely you didn’t misplace her?”

  Lady Bea sighed and stepped past him into the entrance hall. “Not exactly.”

  “Not exactly? What do you mean?”

  She handed him her cloak. “Let’s go upstairs, Billy, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  He took her arm as they walked up to their bedroom.

  “Lord, it’s good to be home.” Bea collapsed onto the sofa. “I don’t know how many more of these social gatherings I can take.”

  “That bad?” Alton poured them both a glass of brandy.

  “Yes.” She patted the seat beside her. “Come give me a hug.”

  Alton handed her the brandy and settled down next to her. She rested her head on his shoulder.

  “Mrrow!” Queen Bess, Bea’s large orange cat, leapt up and draped herself over Alton’s pantaloons.

  Bea laughed. “Did you miss me, Bess?”

  “Her highness always misses you, Bea.”

  “That’s what you say, but I know better. Bess is completely content to have you for company. See whose lap she prefers?”

  “She’s spent more time with me recently.” He dug his fingers into the thick fur behind Bess’s ears. Her highness closed her eyes and purred.

  “That’s because I’ve had to waste hours trotting from ballroom to drawing room.” Bea rolled her eyes. “Have I told you how idiotic the ton is?”

  “I believe you may have made that observation once or twice before.”

  “Become a dead bore on the subject, have I?”

  Alton kissed the top of her head. “Bea, you could never be boring.”

  Bea snorted. “You must be the only one to think so.”

  Alton eyed her current colorful attire, but wisely held his tongue.

  Bea stroked Queen Bess’s ears. “Well, the good news is, I believe I’ve lost my chaperone duties.”

  “Hmm.” Alton left Bess to Bea’s ministrations and stroked one of Bea’s curls instead. “You do seem to have lost your charge. Have the society tabbies torn Miss Peterson into little pieces and scattered the bits over the ballroom floor?”

  Bea laughed. “No, not quite, though she did manage to create a splendid scandal this evening. Mmm. Keep doing that.”

  “This?” Alton massaged the back of her neck. “Or this?” He leaned over and kissed the sensitive spot behind her ear.

  Bess meowed and moved to Bea’s lap.

  “Both.” Bea tilted her head to give him more room to roam. He did so for an enjoyable few minutes. When he reached her lips, he kissed her and sat back.

  “So, where is Miss Peterson?”

  Bea sighed. “Emma took her to Knightsdale House.”

  “Ah, yes. A footman did come round earlier for her things. But I thought the marchioness was in Kent.”

  “She was until she heard the rumors about Meg and her propensity to disappear into the shrubbery.”

  Alton nodded. “I knew Miss Peterson’s actions would come to no good.”

  Bea sat up and glared at him. “Are you saying you told me so, Mr. Alton?”

  He pulled her back down to him. “Of course I am. I’m a boring old man, remember? Anticipating disaster is one of the requirements of my position.”

  Bea chuckled. “True.”

  “So Emma was angry?”

  “Very. It didn’t help that she arrived just in time to hear Lady Dunlee telling everyone she’d seen Meg half naked with a man in the bushes.”

  “Hmm. I thought the girl was a bit more discreet than that.”

  “She is—or has been. It was one reason I allowed the behavior to continue. She is twenty-one, after all. It’s expected she would be a little curious, much as Emma would like to deny it.” Bea grinned. “Meg hasn’t had the benefit of associating with an especially knowledgeable footman, you know.”

  “Now, Bea, you know you were the one who seduced me. I was a naïve young man when you lured me into your father’s attic.”

  “You were, weren’t you? Not that I knew any more than you did—I just knew what I wanted.” She kissed his cheek. “I’d say we’ve done quite well together.”

  Alton grunted.

  Bess meowed.

  “Shh, your highness.” Bess bumped her head against Bea’s hand. “Yes, yes. I’ll scratch your ears, Bessie.”

  “So who was the man Miss Peterson was entertaining in the vegetation?”

  Bea’s hand paused—and Queen Bess complained. Bea resumed her stroking.

  “Bennington.”

  “Bennington?”

  “Yes. I don’t know what Meg was thinking. The man is about as exciting—and as attractive—as leftover mutton.”

  “He does have an extensive plant collection, however.”

  “Plants!”

  “Mrrow!” Queen Bess protested Bea’s strident reaction.

  “Shh, Bessie.” Bea ran her hand from her highness’s ears to her tail and sighed. “I think you are right, Billy. That must have been what attracted Meg.” She frowned, her hand moving methodically over Bess’s back. “Well, you can be sure if I’d seen her duck out with him, I’d have been after her in a trice.”

  “Of course. So she’s engaged to the viscount?”

  “Oh, no, thank God. Parker-Roth stumbled upon them. Dispatched Bennington before Lady Dunlee came on the scene. Unfortunately for him, the woman assumed he’d been the man rearranging Meg’s clothing and shared her observations with half the ton.”

  “So Mr. Parker-Roth is angry that he needs pay for a good deed with his freedom?” Alton asked. “That’s understandable. The man was innocent of any wrongdoing after all.”

  Bea snorted. Bess hissed, jumped down from Bea’s lap, and retreated to a nearby chair.

  “He may have been innocent in the garden. He was somewhat less than innocent in Lady Palmerson’s parlor. Much less than innocent.”

  “Really? So he’s not adverse to wedding Meg?” Alton began pulling the pins from Bea’s hair.

  “Oh, he’s adverse all right. You know how men hate to be forced into anything.”

  “I have no idea what you mean.”

  Bea rolled her eyes and started untying his cravat. “And idiot Meg has declined his offer. She can also be extremely obstinate.” She pulled his cravat free of his neck and dropped it on the floor. “I would love to see how this battle is waged—but not enough to stay in London.”

  Alton’s hands froze. “You’re planning to leave Town?”

  “As soon as I can.”

  He sat back. “I will miss you.” His face was as impassive as only an excellent butler can manage. “Where do you go?”

  “To the Continent with you, you lobcock. We are finally getting married.”

  “Married?” Alton frowned. “Bea—”

  “Shh.” She put her finger on his lips. “I don’t want to hear all your arguments. You’ve repeated them for years and I am still not impressed. You promised to wed me once Meg was settled. She is as near to settled as can be now. I’m no longer needed here—in fact, I’ve been relieved of my duties. I am, after all these years, free to follow my heart and I intend to do so.”

  “I still don’t think—”

  “Don’t think. I am going to marry you, Mr. William Alton, so just get that through your thick skull.”

  “But—”

  Bea covered his mouth with her own, ending one discussion, but beginning a much more interesting exchange.

  “Charles, I’m worried about Meg.”

  “I know you are, sweetheart. I’ve been watching you pace the bedroom for the last five minutes.”

  Emma stopped by the fire and gazed into the flames. “What could have gotten into her? I never thought she’d do something so hare-brained as go off into the shrubbery with a man. She’s not a debutante. She’s twenty-one. This is her second Season. You’d think she’d have more sens
e.”

  Charles grunted.

  Emma scowled at the hearth. “I should have come to Town earlier. I know I should have. I thought about it when I received Lady Oldston’s letter, but Henry was getting a tooth, and you know how fussy he is when he’s teething. He won’t go to Nanny at all. I must have been up two straight nights with him.”

  Charles grunted again.

  “To be truthful, I assumed Lady Oldston was just being a jealous old cat. But then I got the note from Lady Farley.” She turned toward Charles. “Can you believe Lady Farley said Meg was no better than she should be? I was so furious, I wanted to come to Town just to wrap my hands around her scrawny, wrinkled neck.” She blew out a short breath. “And then Sarah wrote. I knew I—”

  Emma really looked at Charles. He was sitting in bed, propped up against the headboard, covers down to his waist. The candlelight flickered over a vast expanse of skin—strong neck, broad shoulders, muscled arms and chest, the light brown curls sprinkled down to his…

  “Are you naked?”

  He grinned and peered under the bedclothes. “It appears I am. Would you care to see for yourself?”

  Suddenly, she would—very much. It had been almost two months since she’d felt his weight. Her body ached for him.

  She took a deep breath. “You are trying to distract me.”

  “No, I am trying to seduce you—to lure you into my bed so I can kiss every inch of your body and bury myself in your heat.”

  She grabbed the back of a handy chair. Her knees threatened to give out.

  She tried to concentrate on something other than her sensitive breasts and the throbbing between her legs.

  “Why didn’t you write me about Meg, Charles? If Sarah noticed, you must have—or at least, Sarah must have told James and he must have mentioned it to you.”

  “Well, he didn’t.” Charles shrugged. Emma watched his muscles shift.

  Meg. Think about Meg.

  “How could James not have said anything? How could you not have seen what was going on?”

  “Because, Emma, I’ve not made a habit of going to balls and other social events. I don’t want to hear the silly chatter that goes on there, and I certainly don’t need to see the latest crop of young girls.”

  She straightened. “I should hope not.” She did not like to think of Charles looking at other women—or of other women looking at Charles.