She was not going to drool over his shoulders, for goodness sake. He could keep his broad shoulders to himself. Really, the man was incredibly annoying. Why wouldn’t he simply explain what Lord Bennington had been doing in Lord Easthaven’s garden? He obviously knew. He could satisfy her curiosity with just a few simple words. He was certainly nimble enough with his tongue when the occasion warranted.
Very nimble. Mmm. None of the other gentlemen who had escorted her into the shrubbery had used their tongues in such a commanding fashion. She had felt…filled. In an odd way, complete. And very, very…um…odd.
If anyone had described the action before she’d experienced it, she would have thought the notion completely revolting. To have another person’s tongue in one’s mouth? Disgusting! But it had not been revolting at all. Even now, standing on the lawn in the daylight at an event attended by most of the ton, she felt the thrilling heat of him—the strength of his arms, the hardness of his chest, the soft yet firm touch of his lips, the wet thrusting of his tongue…
She shivered, wrapping her arms around her waist. Lud! She was damp and throbbing down there again. What did it mean?
Parks could probably provide the answer to that question as well.
“Miss Peterson?”
“Eep!” She whirled about. A giant female was standing not three feet from her.
“Pardon me. Did I startle you?”
No, I always scream and jump when approached. Meg swallowed that retort.
“No, of course not.”
The woman raised an eyebrow.
All right, so she was lying. So what? People who ask stupid questions should expect stupid answers. Why was the woman bothering her, anyway? Couldn’t she discern Meg preferred to be alone? One did not go off to a secluded corner at a social gathering if one wanted company.
Her conscience—why was it her conscience always had Emma’s voice?—urged her to make polite conversation. She told her conscience to take a damper. She didn’t feel at all polite. In fact, she felt aggressively impolite.
She crossed her arms and stared at the woman.
The woman glared back at her. Wonderful.
Who was she? She was close to Parks’s height and extremely…well, buxom. She had lovely porcelain skin, copper-colored hair, full lips, a blunt nose, and green eyes. Not classically beautiful, but definitely striking. They had not been introduced—Meg would remember if they had. There were just not that many females so large, for one thing. But she had seen her before….
At the Palmerson ball—that was it. She’d been with a very tall man. Meg hadn’t given her much thought—she’d been too focused on luring Lord Bennington into the shrubbery. Had she seen her at the Easthaven ball also? That evening was a blur of embarrassment, but now that she considered the question…yes, she had seen the woman coming in from the garden, again with the tall man. He must be her husband. At least no one had started gossiping about her excursion into the greenery.
Why was she seeking Meg out?
The woman was in no hurry to state her business. Really, the silence was growing ridiculous. They were like two dogs fighting over a bone—but over what bone were they fighting?
“Did you approach me for some particular reason, Miss…?”
“Lady Dawson.” The woman said each word separately, as if her name should be significant. She raised both her eyebrows.
Meg raised hers right back. Did Lady Dawson think she’d swoon with delight, a mere “miss” meeting so august a personage? Probably. Since coming to London, she’d had the misfortune to meet many people who thought their titles granted them godhood.
She wasn’t an American like the Duchess of Alvord. She did not think the only title a man should have was “mister,” but she did believe nobility of character outweighed nobility of rank.
“Surely you’ve heard of me?” Lady Dawson said.
“I’m afraid I haven’t.” Meg tried to emulate Lady Easthaven who’d been the picture of condescension when she’d greeted Meg at her ball. She permitted herself a small smile and shrug. “We must travel in different circles. My sister is the Marchioness of Knightsdale, you know, and my good friend is the Countess of Westbrooke.” There. She could be disdainful, too.
Lady Dawson’s eyebrows snapped down in a deep frown. So, she didn’t care for a dose of her own medicine, did she?
“I know your connections. Your father is a vicar, is he not?”
“He is.” She would not stoop so low as to point out Papa was the son of an earl. Granted, the fourth son of an earl, but still connected to the peerage. But perhaps Lady Dawson already knew Papa’s pedigree. Had the woman been researching her background? Not that it would take much effort to uncover the information, but still it was extremely odd. Why would she be interested?
Lady Dawson was nodding. “And this is only your second Season, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Yet you are well past the age when a girl usually enters society.”
Was the woman saying she was old? Lud! That was the outside of enough.
“Lady Dawson, I don’t mean to be rude”—at least no ruder than you—“but do you have a point?”
“I do, in fact.” The woman straightened to her full height.
Meg straightened too, raising her chin and looking Lady Dawson in the eye. She would not be intimidated.
“Miss Peterson, you are obviously not aware of my friendship with Mr. Parker-Roth.”
A hollowness opened in the pit of Meg’s stomach.
“Why should I be aware of it?” She cleared her throat, willing her voice to remain steady. “Mr. Parker-Roth is merely a passing acquaintance.”
There went Lady Dawson’s eyebrows again.
“Really? That is not what the tittle-tattle says.”
“Lady Dawson, certainly you don’t listen to gossip?”
“I would say this is more than gossip, miss. How can you be surprised? You’ve been luring men into the shrubbery all Season.” Lady Dawson shook her head. “It’s a wonder you are still accepted by polite society. If your brother-in-law were not the Marquis of Knightsdale, I sincerely doubt that you would be.”
Meg doubted it, too, and after the disparaging looks she’d been receiving at this gathering, she’d dispute how accepted she really was. She cleared her throat again and hoped her face wasn’t as red as it felt. “I do have an avid interest in horticulture and botany, you know.”
Lady Dawson snorted. “Botany?” She said the word as if it tasted of vinegar. “I’ll wager you were studying biology, not botany, in the bushes.”
Meg knew she was red now. The woman was incredibly insulting. Who gave her the right to castigate her?
“Lady Dawson—”
“Miss Peterson, listen to me. I cannot sit idly by while you toy with Mr. Parker-Roth’s affections.”
Meg did laugh then. “Put your mind at rest. Mr. Parker-Roth’s affections are not engaged. He has much the same sentiments toward me as you apparently do.”
Lady Dawson paused with her mouth open.
“He does?”
“Yes.”
She tapped her finger against her lips. “No, I think you are mistaken.”
Was the woman a fugitive from Bedlam? “I am not mistaken.”
“I grant you, it is hard to discern his feelings. That is my fault, I’m afraid.”
“Your fault? What do you mean?”
“You really have not heard the story?”
“No.” Meg was not at all certain she wanted to hear it.
“I would have thought someone would have told you, as you are virtually betrothed to John.”
“What?!” Virtually betrothed to Parks? What was the woman thinking? And…John? Lady Dawson called Parks by his Christian name? Just how closely associated were they?
Did she really want to know?
“I am not now nor do I anticipate ever being betrothed to Mr. Parker-Roth. Listen carefully as I am growing very tired of saying this: the gentleman
has absolutely no interest in wedding me.”
“I think you are wrong.”
Meg experienced a strong urge to grab her hair—hers or Lady Dawson’s—by its roots and pull. “What do you mean, you think I am wrong?”
“I’ve been watching John. He watches you.”
“Ridiculous.” The woman was a refugee from Bedlam.
“No, it’s true. I noticed it at the Easthaven ball. The moment John entered the ballroom, he looked for you.”
“You are mistaken.” If Parks had looked for her it was only to make note of where she was so he could avoid her.
“I am not mistaken. You don’t understand. I feel…guilty about John. I worry about him. Are you certain you’ve never heard the story?”
Meg considered screaming. “Yes, I am certain I have not heard the story. Why don’t you tell me it?”
“You’re quite sure John has never mentioned me?”
“Lady Dawson, I have been trying to explain. Mr. Parker-Roth and I do not converse.” The man is too busy doing other things with his tongue to have a conversation.
Meg pressed her lips together. She hadn’t said that last bit aloud, had she? Apparently not. Lady Dawson had not run screaming with her hands over her ears or collapsed into a massive fit of the vapors. Instead the woman sighed.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. The memory may still be too painful for him.”
Meg lost her patience. “What memory, Lady Dawson?”
The other woman looked away. “I…that is…well…” She bit her lip. “It is rather difficult to discuss.”
On second thought, perhaps it would be better if she did not hear this story. Something painful involving Lady Dawson and “John” was probably best left unmentioned. “Don’t feel you need to—”
“No, I do. I owe it to John.” Lady Dawson took a deep breath and looked directly at Meg. “You see, I left him at the altar.”
Meg felt as if someone had kicked her in the stomach. “You what?”
“I left John at the altar four years ago.” Lady Dawson glanced away. “It was not well done of me.”
Meg’s breath hadn’t come back and now her heart was pounding as if she had just run a mile.
Parks had been engaged to Lady Dawson. He had almost married her.
He had loved her.
Did he love her still? Was that why he had sworn off marriage?
She forced herself to breathe.
She had to think. Unfortunately her brain was not functioning.
Lady Dawson was standing right next to her, noting her reaction. She clasped her hands tightly. She could not let the woman know she was upset.
She was not upset. Why should she be upset? The world had not ended. She was still standing under an oak tree on the Duke of Hartford’s estate. Ladies were still strolling along the lawn; gentlemen still playing bowls; children still running, babies crying. Life had not changed one iota simply because she now knew…because Lady Dawson had just told her…
Because it was clear Mr. Parker-Roth did not love her.
Of course he did not love her. Why would he? Or perhaps more to the point, why would she think he would? He had not made the slightest effort to contact her after he’d left Lord Tynweith’s estate last year. He had not sought her out when he returned to London this Season. Their only connection was due to his misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He had offered for her, yes, but his offer had been compelled by circumstances. Well, perhaps it had also been compelled by Emma and Charles, but the point was the same. Love had nothing—nothing—to say to the matter.
Why was she even considering the issue? She had already refused him. And in any event, she did not love him.
Right.
She was a terrible liar.
To be fair, she hadn’t realized the extent of her feelings—her folly—until just now.
She cleared her throat. Conversation. She had to speak of something before Lady Dawson discerned the depth of her foolishness.
“So you left Mr. Parker-Roth at the altar? You walked away—”
“No.” Lady Dawson looked down at her hands. “I never came.”
This was worse than she thought. “You never came to the church at all?”
Lady Dawson nodded.
“But surely you told him beforehand? You didn’t let him face his family, his friends, all the guests thinking you were coming?” Had the man literally been left standing at the front of the church, and then, when it became painfully apparent his bride was indeed not going to appear, forced to face all the questions, the pity, the whispering?
And now she was subjecting him to more tittle-tattle. No wonder he was short-tempered. He must hate her. Certainly he would not wish to face another wedding no matter how much Emma and Charles pushed him.
“It was despicable of me, I know, but I misunderstood…” Lady Dawson was saying. “I thought my father—” She shook her head, then leaned forward and jabbed her finger at Meg. “The point is, Miss Peterson, I will not let John be hurt again, so if you have any intentions of playing fast and loose with his affections, I suggest you reconsider.”
Meg did not care for Lady Dawson’s tone. Why was the woman taking her to task? She had not left Mr. Parker-Roth standing in the church without a bride.
“Lady Dawson, believe me, I do not have Mr. Parker-Roth’s affections in my control.”
“As I’ve said, I am not so certain I believe that is true.”
“Well, believe it.”
They were back to snarling over the same bone—not that either could lay claim to it.
Lady Dawson blinked first. She stepped back.
“I will be watching you, Miss Peterson. You may have lofty connections, but I, too, can bring influence to bear. My husband is a baron and my father is the Earl of Standen. More importantly, I have been out in society more years than you. I know which ears to whisper in to speed a story through the ton. I can ruin you, Miss Peterson, and I will if you injure John in any way. Do not doubt it.”
Lady Dawson turned on her heel and strode back to the rest of the party. Meg didn’t even watch her go. She was too angry.
The woman was insufferable. To assume she would toy with Parks’s affections…to assume she had any hope of influencing those affections…
Damn and blast! She needed an entirely new vocabulary to express her feelings on the subject.
“Miss Peterson, how delightful to see you again.” Miss Witherspoon was dressed in a puce sari today with two yellow plumes in her hair. She smiled as she piled her plate high with lobster patties. As she grabbed the last one, she glanced at Meg. She paused, the food suspended in air, and then sighed and released her prize. “Do try the lobster patties before they are all gone.”
“Do you recommend them?” Meg glanced around. Except for Miss Witherspoon and herself, the refreshment room was deserted.
“Yes, indeed. They are among the best I have sampled, and believe me, I am quite the connoisseur.”
“I see.” Meg looked back at the table. She stared at the lone lump of lobster. Normally she liked the dish, but she was still too upset from her encounter with Lady Dawson to contemplate putting anything in her stomach. “Unfortunately, I find I am not hungry.”
“What a shame.” Miss Witherspoon scooped the remaining patty back up almost before Meg stopped talking. “Perhaps you would prefer some stewed eels?”
“No.” Stewed eels did not tempt her even in the best of circumstances.
Miss Witherspoon added a helping of eels to her plate. “I cannot imagine why you sought out the refreshments if you were not hungry, Miss Peterson.”
“Um.” There was no plausible explanation. She’d just needed to get as far from Lady Dawson and the bowling green as she could. And as far from Parks as possible. Lud! In trying to elude Lady Dawson, she’d almost stumbled onto him talking with Charles by an ornamental pool.
Perhaps a glass of lemonade would help calm her nerves.
�
��These social gatherings are a trifle flat, don’t you agree?” Miss Witherspoon completed her selections with a spoonful of marrow pudding. “The level of conversation is severely lacking.”
“Um.” The lemonade wasn’t helping. A woman started to enter the room, looked at Miss Witherspoon, and turned, managing to retreat without getting more than half of her body over the threshold.
“Please, sit with me.” Miss Witherspoon grabbed Meg’s elbow and directed her to a table by a window. “I’ve been meaning to talk with you.”
“You have?” Parks couldn’t be hungry, could he? She looked out the window. She had a good view of the lawn. She should be able to see him coming and flee in time.
“Yes, indeed. I just received a letter from my friend Prudence. We are leaving for South America in two weeks’ time. We will sail up the Amazon and explore the jungle. I thought of you immediately. You must join us.”
Meg stopped staring out the window to stare at Miss Witherspoon. The woman popped a forkful of stewed eels in her mouth and smiled.
“Oh, I…” The Amazon! It was botanical heaven. She’d never dared dream she could visit the Amazon. The wealth, the variety of vegetation…She was sure to discover new species of any number of plants.
So why did she not feel more excited? Worse, why did a certain gentleman’s face keep intruding on her thoughts? She most definitely did not want to think about Parks.
“I don’t know if—”
“Nonsense.” Miss Witherspoon speared some more stewed eels. “Be decisive, Miss Peterson. You are twenty-one years old, are you not?”
“Yes, but Emma—”
“Bah! Your sister must cut the leading strings sometime. You are a grown woman. You need to make your own way in the world.” Miss Witherspoon leaned closer, stewed eels dangling on the fork between them. “Mark my words, Miss Peterson. If you don’t choose your own course, your sister and my friend Cecilia will chart it for you—straight into Pinky’s bed.”
Meg swallowed. The thought of making her way to Mr. Parker-Roth’s bed caused a number of disturbing changes in her physiology, changes that were becoming all too commonplace. She told her traitorous body to stop humming in anticipation. The man was either pining for Lady Dawson or determined never to wed—or both.
The Naked Gentleman Page 19
