One thing was clear—she would not be wearing a corset. How was she to keep her meager curves in check?
“Did you bring an extra cravat, Annie?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Good.” There was no point in delaying. “Help me off with my clothes, will you?”
She’d told Emma and Charles she wasn’t feeling well—which was true. Her stomach was a leaden knot in her middle. Could she really pass for a man? If she were discovered—
No, she would not consider that possibility.
She shed her dress, corset, and shift, and pulled on the male drawers and pantaloons. It felt very odd having fabric between her legs and hugging her thighs. She took an exploratory step. She liked the freedom of movement male apparel gave her.
She glanced in the mirror. Oh, dear God—her hips and thighs! She had never seen them so exposed. They had never been so exposed, except when she slipped in and out of her bath. And now she was going to walk out onto the streets of London like this?
She really was going to be sick.
She swallowed her nerves and studied her reflection more closely. Her hips did not look like any man’s she’d ever seen. Annie’s brother’s coat had better hide them well. And her small charms bounced quite alarmingly.
“Time for the cravat.”
Annie wrapped the cravat round Meg’s chest three times, pulling the cloth tight after each circuit, but not so tight that it restricted her breathing. She pinned it there and then wound the remaining cloth around Meg’s body to her waist, helping to further muffle her shape.
Meg pulled on the shirt and waistcoat and studied the effect in the mirror. Not bad. She was ready for the other cravat.
“Can you tie a Mathematical, Annie?”
“Yes, miss, I think I can, but…” Annie chewed her lip.
“But what?”
“Your hair, miss.”
“My hair?” It was a mess, spread out over her shoulders. She’d braid it and pin it up under—oh. “I don’t suppose men would be wearing hats at the Horticultural Society meeting, would they?”
“Not likely, miss.”
Meg stared at the long, light brown waves. She liked her hair. It was one of her better features.
It would have to go.
She sniffed. There was no point in crying. It was only hair. Surely it would be vastly more convenient to have it short in the Amazon. And she was definitely sailing with Miss Witherspoon and her friend. Mrs. Parker-Roth had told Emma who had told her that Parks was planning on returning to his estate at the end of the week.
“How are you with a scissors, Annie?”
It took some trial and error—mostly error—but Annie finally managed to craft a hair style that did not look like it had been created by a drunken monkey. The right side was a bit longer than the left, and a few tufts stuck out at odd angles, but it would do. No one would be studying her coiffure, after all.
Annie finished by helping her with her cravat and coat. Finally, Meg took the high-crowned beaver and placed it on her head.
“What do you think, Annie? Will I pass?”
“I dunno.” Annie tilted her head and stared while Meg turned slowly, holding her arms out. “I guess ye will.”
Meg looked in the mirror once more. The pantaloons were a bit tight, but that couldn’t be helped. The coat hid her hips from the back, and the waistcoat and cravat masked her chest. She looked odd, but not particularly feminine. She shrugged.
“People see what they expect to see, Annie, and none of the gentlemen at the meeting this evening will expect to see a woman in men’s clothing. I’ll be fine—but to be safe, I’ll try to stay in the shadows and not call attention to myself.”
“That would be good, miss, but what will ye do if yer discovered?”
She really would throw up.
No, an intrepid world traveler would not let minor dangers keep her from her goals.
“I will not be discovered, Annie. Now see if the corridor is clear, and I’ll make my way down the servants’ stairs.”
“How can you leave London now, Johnny?”
Parks struggled for patience. Mother had been dancing around this topic ever since Hartford’s fete. When he’d announced his plans on the carriage ride home, she’d held her peace, though he’d seen she’d had to bite her tongue to do so. The next day, she’d started to mention the subject, but stopped herself—six times. Then the hinting began. Now she was reduced to a full frontal assault, all finesse discarded.
“I’ve been away from the Priory too long, Mother, much longer than I intended.”
“Oh, pish. You work too hard. You need to take time for some amusement.”
He took a deep breath. He would not shout. “I do not find the ton’s antics amusing.” Another breath. Speak calmly, rationally. “You know I was expecting a large plant shipment from Stephen when we left. I need to get back.”
“But I haven’t had time to purchase my brushes and paints.”
He counted to ten, teeth gritted. “You have had more than enough time to purchase a bloody blasted lifetime supply of brushes and paints.” All right, not so calm or rational.
His mother looked at him, her eyes large and sad, her mouth turned down.
She’d had at least thirty years to perfect that expression. Longer if she’d used it on his father—or on her father.
“Mother, you know I am right.”
She sighed and turned away. “I just want you to be happy, Johnny.”
Was there a catch in her voice? He almost snorted. That was why she’d moved so he couldn’t see her face. She could manage to sound like she was crying, but she’d never mastered the trick of actually producing tears on demand. Well, he was having none of it.
“I’ll be happy when we get back to the Priory.”
She looked over her shoulder at him. As he’d suspected, her eyes were dry. “But what about Miss Peterson?”
“What about her?”
“You compromised her.”
“I also offered for her and was rejected. My duty to Miss Peterson has been discharged.”
Mother frowned. “But don’t you…I mean, I know you…” She waved her hand vaguely in the air. “You know.”
“I don’t know what the hel—” Another deep breath. This was his mother he was speaking to. “I really don’t know what you are talking about.”
Mother faced him directly then, real worry and concern filling her eyes. He closed his own. God, this was the worst.
“Johnny, you love her. You can’t let her go.”
Why did he have to have this conversation? Why couldn’t he be like other men who had mothers who minded their own damn business—or at least had the sense to keep their thoughts to themselves?
“My feelings—or lack thereof—concerning Miss Peterson are immaterial, Mother. She leaves in two weeks for South America. She is joining Miss Witherspoon and her friend on their Amazon expedition.”
“No!”
Mother looked shocked. She looked the way he’d felt when Miss Peterson had so blithely informed him of her plans to put thousands of miles between them. He’d made his decision to go home as soon as the words had left her lips.
God! He was an idiot. Hadn’t he learned after Grace? He was not going to pine after another woman. Not that he had ever pined for Grace, of course. But he was done with thinking about the creatures. He would go home and have some nice, mindless bed play with Cat.
“Yes indeed, Mother. So you see, there is no need for me to remain in London. I suggest you purchase your supplies today as we are leaving after the Horticultural Society meeting.”
“I’m leaving for the Continent tonight.”
“You can’t.” Felicity glared at her father. They were standing in what had once been the library. The shelves were empty; the desk, the chairs, and all the furniture were gone, sold to stave off her father’s creditors. Rectangles of faded wallpaper testified to where paintings had once hung.
The earl shrug
ged. “No choice. Can’t escape the duns any longer. If I don’t get out now, it’ll be debtors’ prison for certain.”
“And what’s to become of me?”
Her father shrugged, evading her eyes.
She wanted to scream, but screaming would serve no purpose. “If you bolt now, Bennington will surely cry off.”
“You’re betrothed. The man can’t cry off.”
“Do you think he’ll marry me when your name is on everyone’s lips? It was bad enough when you were just a brothel keeper, but wealth forgives many sins. To be a penniless brothel keeper…Bennington will drop me like I’m week-old fish and no one will fault him for it.”
She bit her lip. She would not cry.
Her father shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. “It can’t be that bad—”
“It is that bad—or will be if you brush and lope. You can’t leave.”
“I have to. My ship sails at dawn.”
“All right.” She was not going to have all her plans come to naught at this point. “That gives you about ten hours. Figure out a solution. I want to be a viscountess before the ton knows I’m a pauper.”
“I can’t—”
“You can. For once you can damn well do something to take care of your daughter, you bastard.” She would not scream. God damn it, she would not cry. She would not scratch his bloody, lying eyes out.
He straightened. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Charles…” Emma put down Pride and Prejudice. She must have read the same sentence twenty times. She just could not concentrate. She kept hearing Mrs. Parker-Roth’s voice in her head.
She studied her husband. He was sitting across from her in a big upholstered chair. Candlelight played over his curly brown hair, grown a little long now, and the broad planes of his face. She still got a fluttery feeling in her stomach whenever she looked at him, even though they were now an old married couple of four years and two sons.
When they were home at Knightsdale, this was her favorite time of day—well, second favorite. She flushed, thinking of her favorite time. The babies were tucked into bed, the house was quiet. It was just the two of them.
Did Charles love her? He liked her well enough, she knew that. He was comfortable with her—and willing enough to come to her bed. But did he love her?
“Charles.”
“Hmm?” The man didn’t even look up from his book.
“Charles, do you ever wish you’d married someone else, someone more at ease in London?”
“Of course not.” He turned a page.
He was engrossed in his book, at least. She should just let him be. But when would she get another opportunity like this? Meg was usually with them.
Perhaps it was providential that her sister wasn’t feeling well and had retired to her room early.
“Do you ever…well, do you ever get lonely here in London by yourself?”
He finally looked up. “Of course I do, Emma. I miss you and the children, but I know you prefer the country.”
“But do you ever…I mean, most men do, of course, but…” She studied his face. He looked politely puzzled.
Her courage deserted her.
“Never mind.” She waved at the book open on his lap. “I’m sorry I bothered you. Please, go back to your reading.”
He looked at her a moment more and then did go back to his book. Well, she had told him to, hadn’t she? She picked up Pride and Prejudice again.
It could have been written in Greek. She shifted in her chair. She just needed to concentrate. She had enjoyed Miss Austen’s Sense and Sensibility. She’d been meaning to read this book for the longest time.
She sighed, crossing her ankles and adjusting her skirt.
“What is it, Emma?”
She looked up. Charles was frowning, leaning toward her, his book closed, his finger marking his place.
“What is what?”
“You’ve been huffing and sighing and squirming in your chair all evening. What is the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Emma…”
Courage. There was no time like the present. If she let this opportunity go by…
But what if he told her he did visit brothels—or keep a mistress—when she was in Kent?
Better to learn the truth than live in ignorance.
“When I’m at Knightsdale…well, it would be completely understandable if you…if, um…” She took a deep breath and straightened in her chair. “I know men have certain needs and you, especially, have, well…are very…” She blew out her breath. She could not say it.
“Emma, you aren’t suggesting I’m not faithful to my marriage vows, are you?” Charles looked very stern, his brows pulled into a deep furrow. She flushed.
“N-no.” She bit her lip. She should not lie. “Well, perhaps. I mean, not that anyone would fault you. We spend long months apart—”
“So you’ve been taking lovers while I’m in London?”
Pride and Prejudice hit the floor as Emma surged to her feet. “I have not! Of course I haven’t. I love you. I would never—”
Charles had risen, too. He put his finger to her lips. “I would never, either, Emma. I love you—only you. I miss you when we are apart.” A corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile. “God, do I miss you. And yes, I’d love to have you in bed beside me—I’d love to be inside you—but I want you, Emma, not just a woman, not just a female body. How can you think otherwise?”
“I—” She studied his cravat. He put his finger under her chin and turned her face up to his. His eyes searched hers and she felt her face redden.
“Have I ever given you reason to doubt my word, Emma?”
“Of course not. It’s just—” She cleared her throat. “It’s just that I know you only married me to get a mother for the girls and to avoid the Marriage Mart—”
“Emma! If I’ve given you that impression—” He shook his head. “Do you truly believe that?”
“I…I don’t know. When we are home in Kent, I don’t. But when I come to London and see all the worldly, beautiful women and see how the ton behaves, I think I must be a fool to expect you not to take advantage of…of all that.” She swallowed. “Especially since I am such a boring little country mouse.”
He dropped his hands to her shoulders and shook her gently. “You are not a boring little country mouse, Emma. You are a strong, brave woman who has a heart far bigger than most of the lovely London ladies you seem to envy. Do you think I only see the surface of people? I know what matters more than a pretty face and an alluring body is what is inside here”—he touched her lightly on her forehead—“and here”—he placed his hand on her breast, over her heart.
“Oh, Charles.” She buried her face in his chest, hugging him tightly. She felt like crying. She felt as if her heart would burst, it was so full of love.
He bent his head to whisper in her ear. “Of course, I also love your luscious surface. I love your mouth”—he kissed the sensitive point behind her ear—“and your breasts”—he moved down to the base of her throat—“and your lovely, lovely thighs.” He trailed kisses from her jaw to her mouth, hovering just over her lips. “I love tasting you”—he brushed her lips—“and sliding deep into your sweet warmth.”
She was panting. Heat pooled in her womb and she throbbed with need. She wanted him inside her now. She wanted his love and his seed.
“Shall I see if the library’s lock works,” Charles asked, “or shall we just risk scandalizing the servants?”
Chapter 16
“I think I’ve made a mess of things, David.”
Lord Dawson sighed and closed his book. “Grace, if I had a shilling for every time you said that, I’d be a rich man.”
“You are a rich man.”
“I’d be a richer man. So what is the problem now?”
“I spoke to Miss Peterson when we were at the Duke of Hartford’s estate.”
“Ah. And it was not a good conversation?”
“No, it was not.” Grace dropped her head into her hands and moaned. “When will I learn to hold my tongue?”
“I am not holding my breath in anticipation.”
Grace looked up and glared at him. “Very funny.”
“Well, you do have a propensity for putting your lovely foot in your mouth, my dear. What exactly did you do this time?”
“I threatened the woman with social ruin if she hurt John’s feelings.”
David slowly nodded his head. “I am sure she received that well.” He grinned. “I believe I advised you to stay out of Parker-Roth’s business, did I not?”
“Oh, do not say you told me so. Nothing terrible has happened yet—except Miss Peterson seems to have taken a healthy dislike of me.”
“I am not surprised. How would you have felt—how did you feel—when people advised you on your behavior with regard to me?”
Grace bared her teeth. “I should have listened to them. They obviously had my best interests at heart.”
“Liar.”
She stuck out her tongue and then dropped her head back into her hands. “I worry about John. It’s not surprising. We’ve been friends since we were children. I feel responsible for his unmarried state. I—”
“Grace, you give yourself too much credit.”
“What?” Her head snapped up and fire shot from her eyes. It was a good thing he was not easily intimidated. “You know he was terribly wounded when I stood him up on his—our—wedding day.”
David sighed. They had been over this many times before. Would Grace ever forgive herself? Perhaps only once Parks wed.
He fervently hoped the man tied the knot with Miss Peterson.
“Parker-Roth is a grown man, Grace. I’m not saying he wasn’t…upset when you failed to show up at the church. I’m certain he was embarrassed and angry and, yes, hurt.” He permitted himself a slow smile. “And he would have been even more…mmm…upset had he known exactly what you were doing when you were supposed to be saying your vows to him.”
“David!”
“But he is in charge of his own life, completely capable of making his own decisions. I am certain he would not want your pity. In fact, I wager he’d be horrified if he knew you were agonizing over his fate like this.”
The Naked Gentleman Page 21
