The Naked Gentleman

by Sally MacKenzie

  Meg stopped at the top of the stairs. “Isabelle, I was not completely honest just now. I do know why Lord Westbrooke thought I was getting married. Something happened last night at the Palmerson ball. Some people feel I’ve been compromised, but I do not agree.”

  “What happened?”

  There was honesty—and then there was honesty.

  “It’s rather complicated. I made the mistake of going into the garden with a man.”

  “Aunt Emma said you’d gone into the garden with lots of men.”

  Meg felt herself flush, partly in anger. “It was not lots, Isabelle. I’m surprised Emma said such a thing to you.”

  “Oh, she didn’t tell me. She was talking to your step-mother. She didn’t know I was listening.”

  “Oh.” Meg could believe that. Isabelle had perfected the skill of listening unobtrusively in the last year. “Well, I do agree that I made a definite mistake last night.” She put a hand on Isabelle’s shoulder and looked directly into her eyes. “Emma will give you many lectures on proper deportment—”

  Isabelle smiled. “She already has.”

  “I’m sure.” Sometimes, growing up, Meg had felt Emma spoke only in lectures. “Well, much as her…advice can be annoying, you should listen to it. Especially the part about not being alone with a man. You cannot always tell by looking at him whether a man is a blackguard or not.”

  Isabelle nodded. “I know.”

  Unfortunately, she probably did know—her father had been a prime example of a handsome blackguard.

  They started up the next flight of stairs to the nursery.

  “Who is the blackguard you have to marry, Aunt Meg?”

  Meg stumbled, catching herself on the banister. “I do not have to marry the blackguard! I mean, the blackguard is not the man people think I have to marry—not that I need to marry anyone, of course.”

  Isabelle stared at Meg. “I don’t understand.”

  Meg examined the banister rather than meet Isabelle’s eyes. “I went into the garden with one gentleman. When he became too…amorous, another gentleman rescued me. Unfortunately, someone saw me with the second gentleman and assumed…” Meg cleared her throat. “This person took it upon herself to spread the story, telling everyone the second man had behaved inappropriately, which he had not.”

  At least not in the garden.

  Meg repressed that thought.

  Isabelle frowned. “That isn’t fair.” She sounded suitably incensed.

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Who spread the story? Perhaps the woman did not tell that many people.”

  Meg continued up the stairs. “It was Lady Dunlee.”

  “Oh.” Isabelle hesitated a moment before following her. “Then you are ruined.”

  “I am not!”

  “Aunt Meg, even I know Lady Dunlee’s the ton’s biggest gossip.”

  They reached the nursery level just in time to hear a large crash. A baby started wailing.

  “That sounds like Henry,” Isabelle said. “He’s probably pulled something over on himself again.”

  “Again?”

  “Yes. He keeps trying to stand. He pulls up on things and they inevitably fall over. It is driving us all mad.”

  Sure enough, when they entered the room, Emma was holding Henry and a small chair was on its side.

  “I swear I am going to bolt everything to the floor until he can walk,” Emma said to the Duchess of Alvord.

  Her Grace smiled. “David started walking just last month, so I know exactly how you feel.”

  “Thank God we left Prinny at home. A dog running around the nursery is the last thing we need.”

  “It would make things more difficult, to be sure.” Her Grace smiled at Meg. “Miss Peterson. How are you?”

  “Very well, Your Grace.”

  Emma spun around. “Meg! I’ve been waiting for you.” She looked at Henry in her arms. “Oh, hush, you silly baby. I can’t hear myself think.” She followed this with a loud, wet kiss on Henry’s cheek, turning his cries to belly laughs. Then he was squirming to be let down.

  “Isabelle, can you watch Henry for me? Try to keep him from tipping over something else, will you?”

  Isabelle smiled and followed Henry as he crawled across the nursery floor to where Claire was watching the duchess’s second son, one-year-old Lord David, drop lead soldiers into a pot. The duke’s heir, the Marquis of Walthingham, and Emma’s oldest son, Charlie, Lord Lexington, were at the far end of the nursery, building a tower with blocks.

  “Don’t let Henry eat the soldiers, Isabelle.”

  “I won’t.”

  Emma turned her attention back to Meg. “Meg, Mrs. Parker-Roth sent word round this morning. She asked if we might call on her this afternoon. Of course I said yes.”

  Meg felt her stomach knot. She did not want to see Parks’s mother.

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  “Of course it is. You want to get to know your future mother-in-law, don’t you?”

  “She is not my future mother-in-law. I am not marrying Mr. Parker-Roth.”

  “Don’t be a goosecap, Meg. Of course you are. You don’t have a choice.”

  “Emma…”

  “Perhaps it would be wise to lower your voices, ladies,” the duchess said. She tilted her head toward where Isabelle and Claire were playing with Henry and David—and obviously eavesdropping.

  Emma frowned, but said more softly, “Sarah, can you persuade Meg?”

  “I doubt it. I refused to marry James just to suit your British notions of propriety, remember.”

  “I assure you that even in the United States Meg would have to marry Mr. Parker-Roth.”

  “Really?” The duchess looked at Meg. “So there’s a chance of an interesting event in nine months’ time?”

  “No!”

  Lord David dropped the infantryman he was about to put in his mouth. All the children turned to stare at Meg.

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, speaking in little more than a whisper this time. “No, there is no chance of that whatsoever, Your Grace. It is completely impossible.”

  “Well, if nothing of that nature occurred…?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Then I don’t see why you must marry Mr. Parker-Roth if you don’t wish to.”

  Emma made an annoyed sound. “Sarah, you don’t comprehend the gravity of the situation. Meg was found in an extremely disheveled state by Lady Dunlee. There’s no hope of containing the scandal. You might as well try to collect dandelion seeds after a strong wind.”

  “It can’t be that bad. You and Charles will stand by her, Emma, as will Robbie and Lizzie and James and I. I’ve been among your society long enough to know the ton will not risk offending a duke, a marquis, and an earl.”

  “But, Sarah—”

  The duchess put her hand on Emma’s arm. “You are understandably concerned. There may be—will be—a little talk this Season, but after a few months, when it is obvious there’s nothing”—the duchess nodded at Meg’s waist—“developing, people will move on to other scandals. It is certainly not worth Meg chaining herself for life to a reprobate.”

  Meg opened her mouth to protest the duchess calling Parks a reprobate, but Emma spoke first.

  “There will be far more than a little talk!”

  Sarah shrugged. “So Meg goes home for the rest of the Season. That’s not a tragedy.”

  Emma was visibly struggling to contain her temper. “If she goes home now, everyone will assume the worst.”

  “Emma!”

  The children looked at Meg again. She dropped her voice with effort. “Emma—”

  “Meg, that is exactly what they will think. You would not be the first young lady to retreat from London because she is breeding.”

  “I am not breeding.”

  Emma put her hands on her hips. “And you won’t ever be if you don’t wed soon. You are twenty-one. You are not getting any younger.”
<
br />   The duchess laughed. “Emma, both you and I were well over twenty-one when we married.”

  “That was different. Neither of us had had the opportunity to meet an eligible party. And neither of us was darting into the shrubbery with any passing gentleman.”

  “I was not darting into the shrubbery with any passing gentleman.”

  Emma glared at Meg. “Your reputation is hanging by a thread, miss. Sarah has been giving me an earful.”

  “Your Grace.” Meg had not expected the duchess to bear tales.

  “It’s true, Meg. I don’t think you should wed Mr. Parker-Roth if you cannot care for him, but you are in danger of putting yourself beyond the pale.”

  “I suppose you could go home and marry Mr. Cuttles,” Emma said. “He’s recently widowed. I believe he’s in the market for a new wife.”

  Emma couldn’t be serious. “I am not marrying Mr. Cuttles. He’s at least fifty years old!”

  “Oh, I don’t believe he’s much past forty-five. And he’s in fine shape for a man his age.”

  “He could be in spectacular shape—I am not marrying him.” Meg turned to the duchess. “And though I’m not marrying Mr. Parker-Roth either, he is not a reprobate.”

  “He’s not?” The duchess frowned. “But he attacked you in the shrubbery, didn’t he?”

  “No, that was Lord Bennington. Mr. Parker-Roth rescued me.”

  “And attacked you in Lady Palmerson’s parlor,” Emma said.

  Meg flushed. “He didn’t precisely attack me—and, in any event, Lady Dunlee did not see that.”

  “Mrs. Parker-Roth did, though.” Emma smiled for once. “She said it was completely out of character, that her son was usually a fusty old stick. I think she was rather pleased.”

  “I’m certain you are mistaken.” Meg was certain if she got any redder, she’d burst into flame.

  “Ah.” The duchess looked like she was trying not to laugh. “And I assume you were struggling to escape Mr. Parker-Roth’s attentions, Meg?”

  “Um…” Meg looked away, down to where Lord Walthingham and Charlie were still building their tower. Lord David was just about to—

  “Watch out!”

  Too late. David laughed and grabbed for a block, sending the tower crashing to the ground.

  The earl and the marquis wailed. David fell down and started crying. Henry, not to be left out, opened his mouth and howled.

  Meg wished she could scream along with the children.

  “Pinky, I’ve invited Miss Peterson and Lady Knightsdale to call this afternoon.”

  Parks put down his coffee and glared at his mother. “Do not call me ‘Pinky.’”

  Mother smiled briefly. “Sorry. I forgot.”

  “You did not forget. You did it on purpose to annoy me.”

  Mother looked at him reproachfully. Damn. Now he’d hurt her feelings.

  “Your pardon. I’m a little peevish this morning. I did not sleep well.”

  Mother reached over and patted his hand.

  “Of course you’re a bit out of sorts. A lot has occurred in the last few hours. You’ll feel better once you settle into your new role.”

  “My new role?”

  “Of married man, of course.”

  “There is no ‘of course’ about it, Mother. I told you, Miss Peterson declined my offer. I am not getting married. In fact, I think it was extremely ill-advised of you to invite the ladies here.”

  “Oh, pish.” Mother dipped her toast calmly into her tea. “Of course I invited them. I wish to become acquainted with your future wife.” She took a bite of soggy toast. “Don’t feel you need to be here, though.”

  “Mother.” He took a deep breath. He would not bellow at her. He would speak slowly and distinctly. With authority. “Miss Peterson…has…declined…my…offer. She will not be my wife.”

  Mother snorted. “Miss Peterson cannot decline your offer.”

  “Well, she has done so.”

  “Her family will persuade her to see reason. She’ll meet you at the altar.”

  No one had persuaded Grace to see reason. She’d left him quite alone at the front of the church.

  Damn, where had that thought come from?

  “Mother, this is England. Women cannot be forced to marry. If Miss Peterson does not wish to wed me, there is no more to be said.”

  “Johnny, you are being purposely obtuse. I know what I saw in Lady Palmerson’s parlor. No one was forcing Miss Peterson to hold your head while you—”

  “Yes, well, um, enough said about that.” He pulled at his cravat. It was damn hot in here. “That was a momentary aberration.”

  “Well, stage a few more aberrations. I’m sure you can get the girl so overcome with lust, she’ll say yes to anything. Why, your father—”

  Parks leapt up, spilling his coffee. He mopped at it with his napkin before it could cascade onto the floor. He most assuredly did not want to hear any sentence that began “your father” and followed a sentence containing the word “lust.”

  “Forgive me. I have just remembered an urgent appointment with my…banker. Yes, my banker.” He checked his watch. “By Jove, I’m late already. I really must run. So sorry to have to interrupt our chat.”

  Mother snorted into her tea. He chose to ignore the sound.

  “Mac will escort you and Agatha wherever you need to go. I will be out all day.”

  “Just be certain you are back in time to escort me to the Easthaven ball.”

  “Yes, yes. Don’t worry. I’ll be back in time.”

  He almost ran from the room.

  “Hiding?”

  Parks grunted. He’d thought he was safe in this remote corner of White’s, half hidden by an undernourished ficus tree. He should have known better. Although Westbrooke was normally very easy-going, he could be as tenacious as a terrier if he thought the occasion warranted it.

  This, apparently, was such an occasion.

  The earl sprawled into the chair next to his, putting a bottle of brandy on the table between them.

  “You did pick the perfect place to go to ground, though. White’s won’t let even the most determined woman through its portals.” Westbrooke poured two glasses and handed one to Parks.

  It was useless to protest the company—and he needed a drink. He took the amber liquid after only a moment’s hesitation.

  “Miss Peterson is not determined to find me, I assure you.”

  “I’m not so sure of that, but I wasn’t talking about Meg. Emma is the one who will not let you escape.” Westbrooke grinned. “If she chooses to go after you—when she chooses to go after you—you have no hope. If she can’t locate you, she’ll send Charles to find you, wherever you try to hide.”

  “Surely neither the marchioness nor the marquis want Miss Peterson cursed with an unwilling groom.”

  Westbrooke paused with his glass at his lips. “Eh? Are you unwilling?”

  “Of course. You know I do not want to wed. I have no need to. Unlike you, I have no title to pass on.”

  “Hmm.” Westbrooke gave him a long look.

  Parks dropped his gaze to study his brandy. Surely the man would let sleeping dogs lie.

  A vain hope.

  “There are other reasons for marriage, Parks, than primogeniture.”

  He forced a laugh. “What? Having a female handy for bed play? A mistress can do that as well—better—than some frightened, frigid virgin.”

  The words came out more harshly than he’d intended. He glanced at Westbrooke. The earl was frowning at him.

  “Well, there is that, though I wouldn’t have put it quite so crudely.”

  He wouldn’t have either, normally. Damn, his nerves were shot, and his head was pounding as if a blacksmith had set up shop inside it.

  “My apologies. Headache, don’t you know. I didn’t mean any insult. Obviously, marriage is a fine institution. It is just not for me.”

  “Parks, just because Grace—”

  Zeus! He could not go there. “Wes
tbrooke, please. I’m certain you mean well. I just…I really do not wish to discuss the topic.”

  There was a long pause, and then the earl sighed. “Very well. I will change the subject.”

  “Thank God.”

  “After I have said just one more word.”

  Parks groaned. “Must you?”

  Westbrooke grinned. “Hear me out and then I promise to leave off teasing you about it—at least for today.”

  Parks grunted. His teeth were clenched so tightly, he feared his jaw might shatter.

  “I hate to see your life ruined because of an event that happened three years ago.”

  Four, but Parks wasn’t counting. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “A little matter of being left at the altar on your wedding day.”

  “Oh, that.” Parks tried to laugh, but the sound got caught in his throat. He turned it into a cough. “Please, Westbrooke, that’s ancient history. I hardly give it a thought any more.” If “hardly” meant less than ten times a day. “I’m on completely cordial terms with Lady Dawson and her husband.”

  “Have you spoken to her about it?”

  Parks closed his eyes so they didn’t start from his head. Talk to Grace about that mortifying morning? Was Westbrooke mad? He’d rather have all his finger and toenails pulled out slowly than talk to Grace about their failed wedding.

  “I don’t believe the subject has come up. I’m not in London often, you know, and Lady Dawson rarely visits her father.”

  “That’s no surprise. The man’s a petty tyrant. I’m certain you can lay the blame for your matrimonial disaster squarely on his doorstep. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d starved the girl to accept your suit. Certainly he must have threatened her in some fashion.”

  Splendid. That made him feel even better—he was such a sorry connubial candidate a woman had to be forced to wed him. And even coercion hadn’t worked. Grace had still managed to flee.

  “Why do you think Miss Peterson’s family would urge her to accept my suit if another woman so loathed me she had to elope in the dead of night?”

  “Lady Dawson didn’t loathe you, Parks.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  Westbrooke gave him an exasperated look. “All right, for the sake of argument, we’ll assume she did loathe you. She is still only one woman.”