The Naked Gentleman

by Sally MacKenzie

  With that, he retreated to the safety of the ballroom.

  “Well.” Grace blinked and watched John Parker-Roth walk away. The man had never spoken to her like that before. Not that she wouldn’t have deserved it—her treatment of him had been unconscionable. She cringed at the memory. She hadn’t meant…she hadn’t realized…She blew out a short breath. Her intentions were immaterial. She had hurt John.

  She wanted desperately to make amends.

  “I’d say you’ve been put in your place, my dear.”

  “Yes.” She pushed a length of hair off her face. “Maybe that’s good. John has always been unfailingly polite to me in the past—when he can’t avoid me—but I knew he must be angry. How could he not? I jilted him at the altar.”

  “You could not have avoided it.”

  “I should have avoided it.” If only she could go back and do things differently. “I never actually agreed to marry him, you know. Father arranged everything.”

  “I know.” David kissed her. “Parker-Roth is an idiot.”

  She laughed. “You are the idiot, David.” She stretched to wrap her arms around his neck. “I did not exactly have a crowd of suitors clamoring for my hand. I am far too much of a Long Meg for most men of the ton.”

  “And most men of the ton are pygmies.”

  She smiled. “No, they aren’t. It’s you who are a giant.”

  “And you love every inch of my muscled body.”

  Her smile broadened. “You know that I do.” She ran her hands down to the front of his pantaloons. “Every inch.”

  David captured her mouth and resumed the delightful activities he’d been engaged in when John had interrupted them.

  God, she loved him. Whenever she thought of how she had ruined John’s life, she thought of how her own life would have been ruined if she had not wed the man who was now kissing her so thoroughly. She burned for him, even after four years of marriage and two children.

  If she had gone to the church as her father had insisted and had said her vows to John, she’d be trapped now in a polite, tepid, boring marriage. It would be hell.

  David’s mouth had moved to a very sensitive spot on her neck.

  “Let’s go home, Grace.” The words tickled her ears and sent shivers down her spine. “I have a sudden need to go to bed.”

  “What, are you sleepy, David?”

  “Hardly.” He pressed his hips against hers. “I am very much awake.”

  She laughed. “I see that—or rather, I feel that.”

  “I would like to make you feel it even more.”

  “Later. We can’t be dashing off like newlyweds.”

  “Why not?”

  “Society would be scandalized.”

  “Good.”

  David put his hand on her breast. It felt wonderful. Perhaps they could slip out the back gate…

  No. She wanted to observe Miss Peterson. True, John’s matrimonial plans—or lack of plans—were really none of her concern, but she couldn’t help herself. She needed to find out what type of woman Miss Peterson was. If the girl were a harpy, she would find some way to put a spoke in her wheel. John might not thank her, but she couldn’t stand by and watch him suffer more. Too often men thought only with the organ concealed in their pantaloons.

  David cupped her bottom and pulled her against that very organ—that very hard organ.

  “Stop it.”

  “Must I?”

  If she didn’t speak firmly, they would be out here all night—not an unattractive prospect, but quite impossible.

  “You must. I wish to see what Miss Peterson is up to.”

  “Parker-Roth told you to stay out of his business.”

  “Yes, I know. Unfortunately, I choose to ignore his request.”

  “Request? It sounded like an order to me.”

  “I don’t take orders.”

  David chuckled. “How well I know that!”

  “Oh, stop it. You are being absurd. Help me tidy up my appearance, will you? I’m sure I must look like I was dragged through a bush backward.”

  “Well, you do look very interestingly mussed, but I doubt anyone will blame the vegetation.”

  “Of course they won’t—everyone must know what you are about. You drag me into the garden at every social event.”

  “I believe you dragged me out here this evening.”

  Grace shrugged. “Did you bring extra hairpins?”

  “Of course.”

  After four years of marriage—and countless garden excursions—Lord Dawson had become quite an accomplished lady’s maid.

  Meg watched Parks slip into the ballroom from the garden. What had he been up to? Not that it was any business of hers, of course, but he looked guilty. His face was so expressionless, he must be hiding something. What?

  Had he been trysting with someone in the bushes?

  She ducked behind a pillar when he looked her way.

  He’d been lurking in Lord Palmerson’s garden, too, now that she considered the matter. She’d been so happy to be rescued from the disgusting Lord Bennington she hadn’t wondered about it at the time, but now she did. Had Parks simply been admiring the foliage—or had he been admiring something else? Someone else?

  That was why men toured gardens during social events, wasn’t it? To steal a kiss…or more?

  She glared at a sickly-looking potted palm that shared her secluded location. To think she had been feeling guilty that she had, completely inadvertently, trapped poor Mr. Parker-Roth into offering for her. She’d thought him an innocent passer-by, a selfless Good Samaritan.

  How naïve could she be? Yes, he had been perfectly blameless in her situation, but had he been equally blameless in another section of the garden?

  He’d said he never wished to marry. Why would he be so against matrimony? Because a wife would curtail his amorous exploits, that’s why.

  He must have a mistress and any number of other accommodating females at his beck and call. He certainly knew all there was to know about dalliance. If his actions in Lady Palmerson’s parlor were any indication, he was a master of seduction. Only a hardened rake would know to put his lips on…his tongue in…

  She flushed. It would never have occurred to her to…

  She would not think of their activities in Lady Palmerson’s parlor.

  The man was a confirmed rogue. A scoundrel. How had he had the gall to take her to task for her behavior? It was very much the pot calling the kettle black.

  She wished she had a pot handy. She would use it to knock some manners into Mr. Holier-Than-Thou Parker-Roth. She peered around the pillar again. The bounder was talking to Lady Easthaven right now.

  No one was treating him as if he had the social equivalent of the bubonic plague. Why were they treating her that way? It was not fair.

  Well, she was not going to hide away like this pitiful palm. She examined the plant more closely. Someone should move it to a more congenial location. She touched its limp fronds. It might well be past saving.

  But she was not. She was going to do exactly as Lady Felicity recommended and ignore the ton’s opinion. She would emulate Miss Witherspoon and Lady Bea. She’d be herself. The ton could either accept her or reject her, but they would not change her.

  She would do as she pleased, and right now it pleased her to interview possible husbands in the garden. After all, one could not spend one’s life waiting for a knight in shining armor to magically appear and carry one off into a fairy tale existence.

  Mr. Parker-Roth’s image intruded, but she pushed it firmly from her thoughts. She was not going to pine away her life, waiting for love. Emma had done that. Emma had loved Charles since childhood, but had done nothing to secure his affections. It was just luck—well, bad luck for Charles’s brother but good luck for Emma—that Charles had inherited the title, come home, and married her. If Charles’s brother hadn’t been murdered, Emma would still be a spinster, keeping house for Papa and driving them all mad.

  She gla
nced around the ballroom again. Emma was talking to Mrs. Parker-Roth on the far side of the room, and Parks was now talking to Lord Featherstone. How appropriate. He was probably trying to get some advice from the old roué. Disgusting.

  She stepped out from behind the pillar and surveyed her prospects, being careful to stay turned away from Emma. It would not do to let her sister catch her eye.

  So, which man should she take into the bushes? Lord Locklear? Too young. Mr. Cashman? Too old. The Earl of Tattingdon? Too fat.

  Lady Felicity had cornered Lord Bennington and was herding him toward the garden door. He was smiling slightly, his enormous nose overshadowing his slug-like lips. Ugh. Felicity was more than welcome to Lord Proboscis.

  A tall woman and a taller man stepped through the door right after Felicity and Bennington exited. They looked slightly disheveled, as if they had been doing something more appropriate for a bedchamber. The man whispered in the woman’s ear as he plucked a leaf from her hair. The woman laughed.

  They must be married—their actions did not precipitate a storm of whispering.

  It would be nice to have a marriage like that. Emma and Charles, Lizzie and Robbie, the Duchess and Duke of Alvord all had such marriages, but they were the exception rather than the rule. She could not set her sights so high.

  Lord Frampton was standing alone. Hmm. She’d barely glanced at him since she’d come to Town, but now that she looked at him…

  He might do. He was not so ugly, really. He still had a large Adam’s apple that bobbed rather distractingly whenever he swallowed, and his muddy brown hair was already thinning, but at least the pimples that had earned him the nickname “Spots” had faded. Now that he’d inherited the title, gossip said, he’d given up youthful folly. He no longer tried to introduce piglets into noblemen’s drawing rooms.

  He needed an heir, so he must be in the market for a wife, and it was unlikely women would be lining up to vie for the position. He was only a baron and not the richest or most attractive specimen. It would be an even trade—a home for her, her body for him.

  Her stomach twisted. Put that way, the notion was rather unpalatable. Best not to think about it too closely. She could not be so nice in her requirements. She was only a vicar’s daughter, even though she was the sister-in-law of a marquis. She would not be bringing much besides her body to the altar.

  She watched Lord Frampton’s Adam’s apple jump as he took a swallow of champagne.

  If only the man had an extensive garden like Lord Bennington, but, sadly, Frampton was interested in hunting, not horticulture. Foxes, not foxglove. Still, she must remain hopeful. Surely he had a plot of earth, no matter how small, that she could cultivate.

  And surely Lord Frampton’s lips would not be as slug-like as Bennington’s. They were far too thin. She should be spared that unpleasantness, at least.

  She made her way along the perimeter of the room. Being a pariah had its advantages. People moved briskly out of her path. It was almost pleasant, if she ignored the sneers and affronted looks.

  She stepped past a cringing clump of debutantes. They erupted into a frenzy of whispers and giggling as soon as the back hem of her dress had passed them.

  “Good evening, Lord Frampton.”

  The poor man almost jumped out of his skin.

  “Miss Peterson. How, ah, good to see you.” His Adam’s apple bobbed furiously, as if it were trying to leap from his throat and flee her presence. He glanced at her; then looked away. Was he searching for someone to rescue him from her evil clutches? She’d never before provoked such obvious panic in a male breast.

  “I believe the last time we spoke was at Knightsdale before my sister married the marquis. You attended a house party with your parents and sister.”

  “Uh, yes. I remember.” The Adam’s apple was still bouncing at an alarming rate.

  “I have yet to extend my condolences on the death of your father last year. I am so sorry for his passing. Was he sick long?”

  “No, not sick at all. Hunting accident, don’t you know. Horse refused a fence. Pater went flying. Landed on his head. Broke his neck. Nothing to be done about it.”

  “What a tragedy. Hunting is such a dangerous sport.”

  “What?” Lord Frampton examined her as if she had suddenly sprouted a second head. “Not dangerous. Bad luck. He’d have been up on his horse in a trice if he hadn’t been dead.”

  “Ah. Of course.” She would never understand the attraction of hunting if she lived to be a hundred years old. Riding across the fields, ruining the plants—well, it was clear there was no benefit in arguing the point. If she married this lunatic—that is, this lord—she’d best keep her tongue between her teeth on that subject. She fanned her face. “It’s rather stuffy in here. Would you like to stroll in the garden?”

  She might as well have suggested a stroll through Sodom and Gomorrah.

  “Garden?” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “I don’t believe…I think…that is, I—”

  “I understand Lord Easthaven has some extraordinary plantings.” Extraordinarily dull, not that Lord Frampton would notice.

  “I’m, um, not much interested in vegetation. Could all be weeds for all I know. Leave that sort of thing to the gardeners. Pay them enough.”

  She almost took pity on him, but there were no other gentlemen at hand.

  “Still, it is a beautiful evening.”

  “A bit chill.” He eyed her shoulders. “You’d catch your death. Best stay inside.”

  She tried to smile. Perhaps Lord Frampton was too much trouble. If she looked—

  Lud! Parks was heading her way. He wasn’t going to approach her in such a public location, was he?

  He was. She could tell from the intent look on his face and his determined stride.

  So could the ton. She could almost hear their collective inhalation of anticipation as they caught the scent of scandal in their supercilious nostrils. They were no different from Lord Frampton’s hounds.

  And she was the fox. She had to flee. She grabbed the baron’s arm and pulled him toward the garden door. “My lord, I’m in need of air.”

  She must have looked as desperate as she felt, because the man followed her into the night without further protest.

  This was by far the worst evening he had ever endured. First he’d made that hideous error in the garden. Then, when he’d come back inside, he’d been pounced on by Lady Easthaven. He’d no sooner shaken her and her pointed references to Miss Peterson than he’d been cornered by Lord Featherstone. Parks struggled to keep his hands at his sides while his fingers twitched to wrap themselves around the old reprobate’s scrawny neck. He’d thought—no, he’d hoped—the man had been put to bed with a shovel years ago, but unfortunately the dirty dish was still above ground.

  “So, the chit was a disappointment, heh?” Featherstone leaned close, his stale breath spoiling the air.

  Parks stepped back. “I have no idea what you mean.”

  “Miss Peterson. Everyone knows you sampled her charms at the Palmerson ball. I take it they were not delicious enough to entice you into parson’s mousetrap?” The old man wheezed with laughter and punched Parks in the shoulder. “Or perhaps you decided there’s no need to pay for what you can get free, hmm?”

  He was going to strangle the cur here in the middle of Easthaven’s ballroom. “Lord Featherstone, you completely misconstrue the situation.”

  The man smirked and gestured with his head. “Perhaps you’d best tell Frampton. Looks like she’s trying to lure him into the garden now.”

  “What?” Damn, Miss Peterson was indeed standing by the garden door, talking to the baron.

  “Not that it’s any of my concern, of course,” Featherstone said, “but it does seem a shame. I’ve been watching Lady Caroline hunt Frampton the last few Seasons, even before he inherited. Thought she was finally close to bringing him to bay. Doubt she’ll care for Miss Peterson getting her claws into him.”

  Parks grunted. Lad
y Caroline need not worry. He’d see to it that Miss Peterson did not drag any more men into the shrubbery.

  “Excuse me, my lord. I have a matter to attend to.”

  The old man chuckled. “Thought you might.”

  Parks did not bother to reply. He was saving his words for Miss Peterson.

  Chapter 10

  She felt like the hounds of hell were after her.

  “Miss Peterson.”

  She needed to get away, get out of sight. She couldn’t bear to have Mr. Parker-Roth confront her. Yes, her flight was cowardly. She was a coward. She readily admitted it. She would try being brave and standing up to the ton another day, when this particular member of the ton was not present.

  “Miss Peterson.”

  She scrambled down the terrace steps. Lord Easthaven had a few lanterns hung on poles, but there were still plenty of shadows. Another ten yards and she’d be in blessed darkness.

  “Miss Peterson!”

  Someone tugged on her arm. She tugged back. She could not stop here. Parks must be right behind her.

  “Miss Peterson, stop. The air is just as good on the terrace as elsewhere in the garden.”

  She looked over her shoulder. Parks had not yet appeared, but she knew it was too much to hope he would not do so very soon. She still had time to hide, if she could only get Lord Frampton to cooperate. She glanced up at him. He did not look at all cooperative.

  “It is partly an agitation of the mind, Lord Frampton. Light exacerbates the condition. Complete darkness is what I need.”

  Lord Frampton crossed his arms. “Came on rather suddenly, didn’t it?”

  “Yes.” She glanced back at the ballroom again. She must have only seconds before Parks appeared in the doorway. “I am certain a short turn about the darker portion of the garden will have me feeling much better.”

  Lord Frampton snorted.

  “Excuse me?” She had not expected this reaction.

  “No. Sorry for your indisposition, but I won’t go any farther. Can’t.”

  “Why can’t you?”