The Naked Gentleman

by Sally MacKenzie

  “But—”

  “Leave it be, Grace. Let him find happiness with Miss Peterson or let him tell her to go to the devil…but let him do it by himself, without your interference. Trust me, he truly would not welcome it. No man would.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because, my love, I am a man myself, and if that fact has slipped your mind, I would be happy to refresh your memory.”

  Grace opened her mouth as if to argue, but stopped. Her lips slid into a half smile. “Perhaps I do need a reminder.”

  He put his book on the table. “Here or in our room?”

  She looked around the library. “Here.” She grinned. “And in our room.” She got up and wrapped her arms around his neck. “My memory is truly deplorable. It needs frequent…um…prodding.”

  “Then I am just the man to assist you. Indeed, it would be my pleasure.” He brought her hips snugly against the part of him most eager to prod her…memory. “My very great pleasure.”

  Meg let out a long breath as the hackney drove off. The first part of her adventure had been completed successfully. The hackney driver had not suspected she was a female—or if he had, he hadn’t said anything.

  Could he have guessed? Surely not. She’d kept her face down and her hat tilted to block as much light from her countenance as possible. She’d lowered her voice and spoken gruffly and quietly…He wouldn’t have allowed her in his coach if he’d suspected, would he? Or would he have been happy of the fare, no matter how odd or scandalous the passenger?

  It didn’t matter. He was gone now into the mass of London humanity. He did not know her name. She would never see him again…

  Lud! She hadn’t thought. How was she going to get home?

  She straightened and tugged on her waistcoat. She would worry about that later. Now she had many other hurdles to jump, such as how she was going to pass as a man in the much brighter light indoors—or how she was going to get indoors in the first place. Did one just knock or was there some ritual she didn’t know? Her ignorance would betray her before she’d even crossed the threshold.

  Sweat trickled down between her shoulder blades. Perhaps she should give up now. But she still had the problem of how to get home.

  She couldn’t give up. She just needed to make her feet climb two shallow stairs. She would grab the knocker—it was in the shape of a pineapple, quite un-alarming—and give it a hearty rap. The butler or footman would answer and—

  She’d be discovered.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. And another. And another…

  She couldn’t do it.

  She heard a group of gentlemen approaching and stepped quickly into the shadows. Lud! She recognized them—Lord Easthaven, Lord Palmerson, the Earl of Tattingdon. Lord Smithson, leaning heavily on his cane, brought up the rear.

  This was her opportunity. The gentlemen were all old enough and exalted enough that they could not have the slightest inkling such a lowly individual as a Miss Peterson existed. Lord Smithson was more than a little deaf and his vision was very weak. Perfect. She stepped in behind them, entered the foyer, and reluctantly handed her hat to a footman.

  Lord Smithson was having trouble negotiating the stairs to the next floor. Without thinking, she reached out to help him. When they got to the top, he stopped her.

  “My thanks, young—” He squinted at her. “Do I know you?”

  “Y-yes.” This was it. She was going to be discovered in this house full of men. She would be ruined beyond imagination. She drew in a breath to begin begging everyone’s pardon.

  “No, don’t tell me.” Lord Smithson’s voice was almost loud enough to wake the dead—Meg fervently wished she were among that number—but fortunately his companions, apparently assuming he was in good hands with her, had gone on ahead. “Have to test my memory, don’t you know. Exercise it, just like I exercise my legs, so it stays in fine fettle.”

  Lord Smithson peered into her face. How she kept from expiring right there was more than she could fathom.

  “You look familiar.”

  Oh, dear God.

  “Young ’un. Barely shaving.”

  She could only nod. Her heart was pounding so violently she could barely hear his words, loud as they were.

  “I have it!” Lord Smithson pounded his cane on the tile floor.

  Her heart stopped.

  “You’re one of the Devonshire Beldons, ain’t you?”

  “Uh.” What could she say? “I, um—”

  Lord Smithson frowned. “Have a touch of the grippe, Beldon? Your voice sounds mighty odd.”

  She was a coward. She nodded. “A touch,” she whispered. She coughed weakly and, she hoped, pitifully.

  Lord Smithson grunted. “Best get some hot punch for that. Come along.”

  He led her into a large drawing room. The low drone of male voices was untempered by any lighter feminine notes.

  “Here you go, Beldon. This will cure you of anything that ails you.” Lord Smithson sloshed a glass full of punch and handed it to Meg.

  “My thanks.” She took a sip—and almost spat it over Lord Smithson’s shirt front. This tasted like no punch she’d ever had before.

  Lord Smithson took a long swallow from his glass and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Finish it all, my boy, and you’ll feel like a new man.”

  Meg smiled and pretended to take another sip. If she finished all this, she would definitely feel different. It must be more than half alcohol.

  “Palmerson, have you met young Beldon here?”

  Perhaps a fortifying sip would be a good idea. Meg gulped down a mouthful and started coughing.

  “Beldon’s got a touch of the grippe, don’t you know,” Lord Smithson said.

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  Meg nodded and focused on Lord Palmerson’s shoes.

  “I say, Smithson, do you know where they’ve hidden the chamber pot?”

  “It’s usually in this cupboard.”

  “Ah, good. Been at White’s drinking all evening, you know.”

  Lud! Meg glanced up. Lord Palmerson had one hand on a cupboard door and the other on the fall of his pantaloons.

  “Excuse me.” She turned and fled.

  She found a seat on the other side of the room by a healthy potted palm and a large table. Two narrow little chairs, obviously added to accommodate the anticipated crowd, were perfectly situated in a back corner by a closed door that might provide a means of escape if she had need of one. As an added bonus, there were no chamber pot-harboring cupboards in sight.

  “If you could all take a seat, we are ready to begin.”

  She claimed her chair and deposited her glass on the table. Any more of that punch and she’d be in serious trouble. She was feeling a trifle lightheaded as it was.

  Botheration. A pillar obstructed her view of the short, rat-like man who must be Sir Rathbone. Should she change places? The chair next to hers offered a better view and more screening from the palm, but if she moved, someone might take her current seat. She most definitely did not want company.

  She stayed put. One or two gentlemen glanced at the empty chair, but since they would have had to climb over her to reach it and there were still other, more comfortable alternatives, they passed her by.

  Finally everyone was settled. She waited a few more minutes and then moved. Now she could see the speaker and still hide under the screening foliage. She expelled a sigh of relief. So far, so good.

  She had congratulated herself prematurely.

  She heard the creak of a hinge, felt a puff of air, and then saw a strong, pantaloon-encased thigh slide into the seat she had just vacated. She couldn’t help herself. She glanced over quickly to see who it was.

  Mr. Parker-Roth nodded at her. He froze mid-nod and frowned, a puzzled look in his eyes.

  Horror held her motionless for a moment and then she snapped her eyes back to her hands. What was she going to do? He was blocking her exit. She could try upending the palm to esca
pe that way, but it was a very healthy, heavy specimen. Could she—

  A large male hand wrapped itself around her wrist.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Felicity waited in the shadows. Her father had proven useless once again, but at least she’d wrested the traveling carriage and enough money to pay the coachman from him before he’d fled for the Continent. With even a modicum of luck, she’d be free of him for years. He could charm his way into a rich woman’s bed or set up a host of brothels in Paris or Vienna or Constantinople—she didn’t care as long as he stayed far from London.

  There—Bennie had emerged from his townhouse. God, her heart leapt just to see him. How ridiculous—but true. She wanted him. If she knew what love felt like, she might even say she loved him.

  He walked toward his carriage.

  “My lord!” She ran to intercept him.

  He whirled to face her. “Lady Felicity! What are you doing here? Is everything all right?”

  She allowed a few tears to leak from her eyes—not enough to turn them or her nose an unsightly red, but enough to elicit pity. “No.” She managed a sob. “Oh, Lord Bennington, everything is definitely not all right.”

  She pressed her lips tightly together. If she weren’t careful, she would turn into a watering pot.

  Bennington gestured for his footman to hold his carriage. “What’s amiss?”

  “It’s my father.” She grabbed his arm and shook it slightly. “Bennie, he is so upset, he is beside himself.” All true. She had never seen the earl in such a state. He’d never been so certain he’d be hauled off to debtors’ prison. She leaned closer. “I’m afraid…”

  Bennington frowned. “Surely he would not harm you?”

  She shrugged. Hadn’t he already harmed her by gambling away all his money? “I…I…” She let more tears flow. Bennington took her arm and led her a few steps away from his servants.

  “Don’t worry, Felicity, all will be well. I’m off to the Horticultural Society meeting now—”

  He was going to go natter on about plants when she was so distressed? That would never do. What if someone at the meeting had heard about the earl? She wanted him on the road to Gretna Green now before any gossip about her father reached him. She grabbed his arm again.

  “Bennie, please don’t leave me.” She gestured toward her carriage. “I’ve managed to steal away. I was hoping you would take me to Scotland. Once we are wed—once I’m your viscountess—I’ll be safe. My father won’t be able to touch me.” She leaned farther into him and tried to look totally adoring. Fortunately they were by a streetlight and her face was well illuminated. “I’m depending on you, Bennie.”

  Bennington looked torn. “I was looking forward to this meeting, Felicity.”

  Was he as dense as the cliffs of Dover? Surely he wouldn’t rather sit in a roomful of men and talk about vegetation when he could ride in a dark coach with her? She ran her hand over his waistcoat.

  “I know, Bennie, but I’m afraid. If we delay, I don’t know what will happen.”

  “Well…”

  “Please?” She slid her hand lower, stopping at his waist. “I know I’m asking a lot, but I’ll”—She let her fingers stray lower. Did she see a sign of interest outlined in kerseymere?—“make it up to you. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the trip north almost as much as your meeting.” Her fingers ventured lower still. Yes, he was definitely interested—and growing more interested by the moment. As was she. She was having difficulty standing. All she could think of was getting him alone in the coach, finally peeling off his layers of clothing, touching him—all of him…

  “Well…”

  She pressed her body against his. “I need you, Bennie. In every way.”

  “Uh…”

  She wrapped her arms around his waist and whispered in his ear. “I don’t want to be alone. I need you to hold me…all night long.”

  “Ah.” She had his full attention now. “But we aren’t married.”

  She was almost panting. “We will be. What difference does a few days make one way or the other?”

  He stared at her and then nodded. “Yes…um…indeed. Very true. Makes no difference at all.” His hands touched her hips briefly and then dropped back to his sides. “Just let me pack a few things.”

  Each minute they delayed increased the odds that some breath of scandal would reach his ears—but more, each minute meant yet another minute until she could tear off his waistcoat and shirt and pantaloons and…

  “I can’t wait, Bennie. I’ve brought a few necessities for you.” She moved her hands under his coat and down to his buttocks. “You won’t need much. I’ve got the traveling carriage. Let’s just go. Please?”

  He stared at her mouth. She ran her tongue slowly over her lower lip.

  “Milord? What would ye want me to do with yer coach? The horses are gettin’ restless.”

  “Take them back to the stables, William,” Bennington called over his shoulder. He kept his eyes on Felicity. “And tell Ferguson and Mrs. Ferguson I’ll be away for a few days.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  Felicity smiled as she heard Bennington’s coach move off. “Shall we go, my lord?” She touched the hard ridge in the front of his pantaloons. “I really can’t wait to get started.”

  “Mmm. Neither can I, my love. Neither can I.”

  Parks was late. He leapt down from his carriage.

  “Come back at midnight, Ned.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He hurried into the building as Ned pulled the carriage away. Damn and blast. He hated being late. He would have been on time—he would have been early—if he hadn’t wasted precious minutes talking to Mother about Miss Peterson. Now the Horticultural Society meeting was already underway. He’d missed the opportunity to converse before the program began. There’d be no chance for rational conversation until Rathbone finished droning on about the damn Amazon.

  He handed the footman his hat.

  “Upstairs—”

  “Yes, thank you. I know the way.”

  He took the stairs two at a time. It really was not fair. The one thing that made these trips to London bearable was the opportunity to discuss botanical issues with fellow horticultural enthusiasts. Now he’d have to sneak in and grab a chair in the back.

  And why the hell did the topic have to be the Amazon? When he thought about Miss Peterson sailing off to South America, he wanted to hit something. Or strangle someone—preferably Miss Peterson.

  She could not seriously be considering traveling with Miss Witherspoon and Miss Witherspoon’s odd companion, could she? Surely Knightsdale would put his foot down, or if he did not have authority over her, then her father would object. Her sister. Someone must talk sense to the woman.

  The main door was closed, so he slipped through the red drawing room to the other entrance. As he expected, Rathbone had already begun his boring presentation. He scanned the crowd. All the usual attendees were present—Smithson, Palmerson, Easthaven. Perhaps after the meeting he’d have a word with Easthaven concerning the state of his garden. The picturesque was all well and good, but portions of the earl’s plantings were veering out of control.

  The plantings were not the only things veering out of control in that garden. He felt an uncomfortable heat move up his neck to his ears as he remembered how little control he’d exhibited there. He obviously would not be discussing that topic with Easthaven.

  He glanced around the room again. Someone was missing. Who was it? Not Eldridge or Tundrow or—

  Bennington. That’s who it was. Odd. Bennington always came and always, without fail, sat directly in front of the speaker. He’d probably done the same at Eton, trying to be the teacher’s favorite. What could possibly have kept the viscount away? He didn’t have a mother yammering at him to wed. Well, he’d already addressed that issue—the man was engaged.

  He shrugged. Bennington’s vagaries were not his concern.

  There was an empty seat by
a young man with the worst haircut he’d ever seen. It looked like the fellow had cut it himself—with his eyes closed. He slid into the seat and glanced over. Did he know the boy?

  The profile was vaguely familiar. Actually, it was more than vaguely familiar. It was as if he were viewing something he’d seen many times, but some crucial detail was missing. What?

  The boy looked up. How old was he? His face was so smooth, it couldn’t have felt the scrape of a razor yet. And he looked so…stricken. Surely the boy wasn’t afraid of him?

  The eyes. He had seen those eyes before. Warm brown, the color of rich loam with flecks of green. He’d seen them flash with spirit…

  Good God! It couldn’t be—

  It was. It bloody hell was Miss Peterson. She looked down at her hands—now the profile was so clear. Miss Peterson had chopped off her hair, donned pantaloons—

  Pantaloons. The woman was wearing pantaloons. Her thighs were exposed for the world to see. He could see them quite clearly. Well, not quite as clearly as he would like, since they were covered in kerseymere…

  He grabbed her wrist.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Miss Peterson made a little squeaking sound and kept her head down.

  He glanced around quickly. No one was looking at them; everyone was watching Rathbone, listening to him drone on. Thank God they were at the back of the room. He leaned over to whisper in her ear.

  “We are leaving now. Do you understand?”

  She nodded.

  He let go of her wrist—and his fingers brushed kerseymere. He froze. He was touching her leg. If he dropped his hand an inch—less—he’d have his palm on her thigh. He could trace its length all the way to…

  He snatched his hand back, dropping it in his own lap so it covered…anything that needed covering.

  This was ridiculous. He must get his unruly thoughts under control.

  He glanced at her legs again. Control might be out of the question.

  Damn. He fisted his hands so they couldn’t find their way back to her delectable person. She had taken a horrendous risk tonight. Fear—and on its heels, anger—flooded his gut. Someone should teach Miss Peterson a thorough lesson.