At this particular moment, he felt like the most qualified man to do so.
She was going to be sick. Her heart was lodged in her throat. She couldn’t breathe.
Meg stared at Mr. Parker-Roth’s hand encircling her wrist. It was so much larger than hers. So much stronger. There was no possible way she could break his hold.
If she wanted to.
She clenched her teeth. Of course she wanted to. She wanted him to go away, to permit her to die of embarrassment in peace—alone.
“We are leaving now. Do you understand?”
She nodded, and he finally released her. His fingers paused, hovering over her leg.
She closed her eyes. He must be looking at her thigh.
She really would die of embarrassment. If only the palm tree were larger. If only she were already in the jungles of the Amazon. If only the ground would open up and swallow her.
She wished to be anywhere but here, sitting next to Mr. Parker-Roth, having him stare in shock at her scandalously pantaloon-clad thigh.
If he’d ever had an ounce of respect for her, the slightest glimmer of positive regard, it must be gone now. No respectable man could think kindly of a hoyden who dressed in men’s clothing and attended a male gathering, Miss Witherspoon’s friend notwithstanding. Well, Miss Witherspoon’s friend had not had the ignominy of being caught.
Mr. Parker-Roth was saying something. She swallowed to clear the roaring from her ears.
“What?”
“I said, you leave first. Wait outside the chamber door. I’ll come along shortly. If anyone notices us, they’ll think you are unwell and I’ve gone to assist you.”
She certainly felt unwell. “I’ll have to push past you.”
He grinned at her. He bore a marked resemblance to a wolf anticipating his dinner. Not that she’d ever seen a wolf, of course, but there was something distinctly feral in Mr. Parker-Roth’s expression. His eyes were…hot.
“That’s quite all right.” He looked around the room, and then back at her. “Now go.”
She stood. There really was very little room to get by. Couldn’t the man move to let her out? She looked at him. He flashed that particularly unsettling grin back at her and gestured with his head for her to continue.
Well, the sooner she was out of here the better. She started to squeeze past him, stumbled on his foot, and bumped her discarded punch glass.
“Ulp!” She reached for the glass in a vain attempt to save it. Instead, she knocked it over as she felt a hand run up her leg under her coattails. A large male hand.
Heat flooded her belly. She felt branded, though there was no pain—unless one counted the throbbing ache in a very embarrassing location. She watched a trail of punch flow from her spilled glass across the table top toward Mr. Wicklow’s elbow.
She hoped she wasn’t panting.
The hand continued across her derriere. If her poor brain weren’t so overheated, she’d muster the intelligence to scream.
No, men didn’t scream, did they? She should hit him.
She bit her lip to keep from moaning. He was tracing the outline of the kerseymere now, coming perilously close to the throbbing, aching…
She wanted him to touch her there. She dropped her head, overcome by mortification and need.
Mortification won. The trail of punch must have finally reached Mr. Wicklow’s elbow. His arm jerked off the table and he leapt out of his seat.
“What the—” He glared at her. “This is my best coat, you bloody bastard.”
The hands on her derriere were pushing her now. She didn’t need any encouragement. Mr. Wicklow looked ready to darken her daylights.
“So sorry.” She clapped her hand over her mouth. She did feel ill. Everyone was staring at her.
Mr. Wicklow stepped back quickly. “Good God, man, don’t shoot the cat here. Go on.” He flapped his hands at her as if she were a stray dog. “Go.”
She needed no more urging. She turned and fled.
Chapter 17
There was no point in waiting to leave now. Miss Peterson had caused such a scene, he might as well complete it by departing immediately.
He nodded at Wicklow, shrugged as if to say Young cubs, can’t hold their alcohol, can they? and headed for the door.
To be fair, the scene had not been solely Miss Peterson’s fault. No, to be honest, it had hardly been her fault at all. If he’d kept his hands to himself, she would have slipped out quietly. But zounds, how could he have helped himself? Her sweet arse was right there in front of him, begging to be touched.
Mmm. He paused with his hand on the doorknob. If only it hadn’t been covered in kerseymere. If only he’d had his hands on her soft, naked flesh. He could imagine exactly…
Bloody hell. It wouldn’t take anyone’s imagination to discern where his thoughts had traveled. One look at the bulge in his pantaloons would reveal all. And since all the men in the room thought Miss Peterson was a boy, he’d find himself a social outcast in short order.
Damn. At least the woman must realize now the danger she courted by parading about in men’s clothing. Not that he should be entertaining salacious thoughts about a gently bred young woman of course, but, damn it, a man had his limits. He was only male—more obviously male than usual at the moment, devil take it.
Apparently—very apparently—he had more pressing needs than he knew. He shook his head. His odd state must be due to the Sodom and Gomorrah atmosphere of London. He didn’t usually have trouble controlling his urges. Hell, he didn’t usually have any urges to control. His weekly visits to Cat dealt with that issue quite adequately.
He flushed. The last time he’d been in her bed, he’d caught himself contemplating a new fertilizer mix almost before the deed was done.
He blew out a short breath. He just needed to get back to the Priory and his gardens. Tomorrow morning he’d shake London’s dust from his boots and life would return to normal.
She took a deep breath the moment she closed the door behind her. She had to think.
She couldn’t wait for Parks to take his time exiting the room. She had to leave immediately. What if Mr. Wicklow came after her to demand satisfaction for ruining his coat? Or, or what if some lord felt the need of a chamber pot—there was a cupboard just to her right that might contain such a receptacle.
Or what if Mr. Parker-Roth wanted to touch her again?
Lud!
She covered her face with her hands as a wave of mortification crashed over her. He knew who she was. He had seen her in pantaloons and he knew. He’d had his hands on—
Ohh.
She felt ill. Heat burned her face and…other places.
What had he meant by it? He’d obviously been angry. She’d expected him to read her a scold at his first opportunity. She had most definitely not expected him to…she could never have imagined he would…
She had to get away. She glanced over her shoulder. The door was still closed, but it was unlikely to stay closed long.
Where were the stairs? She’d not come in this way. The room was very large, with red curtains and big gilt frames holding dark pictures of men in helmets and togas. Somewhere there must be a—
“Eep!” There was movement on the other side of the room. Who was it? She couldn’t see—the light was too dim. Someone was trying to save a few pence by limiting the number of candles. It was definitely a gentleman, though. One would have thought he’d have made his presence known when she’d entered, but he seemed as taken aback as she.
“Good evening, sir. Could you point me toward the stairs?” She cleared her throat. The man didn’t say a word. “It is rather urgent. I must leave immediately.” Lud! She heard the door hinge squeak. “Please, I beg of you—”
A male hand closed around her arm. She screamed.
“Good God, woman, do you want to bring the entire Horticultural Society running in here? Keep your voice down.”
She pulled back. Why wasn’t the other man coming to her aid? Was he afraid
of Mr. Parker-Roth? Surely after her scream, he could not think she welcomed this contact?
“Unhand me, sir.” She gestured toward the other man. “You can see we are not alone.”
“What?” Parks looked across the room. “What are you talking about?”
“The other gentleman.” She called to her potential rescuer. “Sir, please, I am in need of your assistance.”
Mr. Parker-Roth snorted. “There’s no one else here.”
“What? But I distinctly saw—”
“You distinctly saw your own reflection. Come on.”
“What? How can you say—oh.” He was right. She looked at her “savior.” He was standing next to Mr. Parker-Roth, with Parks’s hand wrapped around his arm. “I didn’t realize. It is so dark in here.”
He grunted. “It’s not going to be dark enough to hide the fact you’re a female when Rathbone stops yammering and all those men spill out into this room.”
Truthfully, she wasn’t eager for that to happen either, but Parks was not giving her sufficient credit. “I did make it here without being discovered, you know.”
His fingers tightened on her arm. “That’s a miracle. What did you do, come in with a blind man?”
She bit her lip. “Lord Smithson introduced me. He thought I was one of the Devonshire Beldons.”
“Good God.”
Mr. Parker-Roth escorted her out of the room and down a very short hall. When they reached the stairs, he released her.
“We’re going to collect our hats and leave. Don’t say a word to anyone.”
“But—”
“Not a word. Trust me, you sound nothing like a man.”
She shrugged. She had no desire to waste time arguing. The sooner she left this place, the happier she would be.
Mr. Parker-Roth proved extremely efficient. They stepped onto the street in moments without eliciting any noticeable reactions from the servants.
“Shall I call for your carriage, sir?” one of the footmen asked.
“No, thank you. We shall walk.” Parks strode up the street in the direction of Knightsdale House. Meg hurried after him.
“Why aren’t we taking your carriage?” She lowered her voice, stepping closer to Parks as a trio of drunken lords stumbled by.
“Ned went home. I told him not to come back till midnight.”
She heard a retching noise and then a splash behind them.
“Then what about a hackney? It’s rather a long walk, isn’t it?”
There was enough light to see his glare clearly. “I find I need the exercise. I am slightly agitated by the night’s events.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, indeed.” He kept walking.
She tried to match his steps. It was easier walking in pantaloons than skirts—she could definitely get used to that—but the shoes she’d borrowed didn’t fit well enough for an extended perambulation. She’d have blisters in the morning. And her legs weren’t long enough to keep up without almost running. She was getting breathless.
Why was he so upset anyway? He wasn’t her father. He had no responsibility for her. What she did had absolutely nothing to do with him.
“I don’t know why you are so peevish. I’m not the first woman to attend the Horticultural Society meetings in male attire, you know.”
That got him to pause. “What are you talking about?”
His tone was not encouraging. It was somewhere between incredulous and vicious.
She stiffened her spine. She would not let herself be intimidated. The man was much too overbearing for his own good. “Miss Witherspoon told me her friend came for an entire year and no one was the wiser.”
He snorted. “You don’t mean Prudence Doddington-Prinz, do you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Good God.” He resumed walking. She had to skip to keep up. They were now passing a long line of carriages waiting for Lord Fonsby’s ball to end. The baron’s townhouse, still a few houses ahead of them, glowed with the light of hundreds of candles. The sounds of music and voices drifted out the open windows. A few of the coachmen, loitering by the carriages, glanced at Meg—at least she felt they were looking at her. Were they suspicious? She tried to use Parks as a shield.
“What do you mean? What is the matter with Miss Doddington-Prinz?”
“Have you ever seen her?”
“Well, no. But what does that have to say to the matter?”
He glared at her again. “Miss Peterson, believe me—”
“Shh!” Meg looked significantly at the coachmen. Had they heard him call her “Miss”?
Mr. Parker-Roth seemed not to notice.
“It is no surprise at all that Prudence Doddington-Prinz passed as a man for a year. The woman is tall and square with no curves to speak of. She has more hair on her upper lip than I do.”
“Oh.” Were more of the coachmen stopping their own conversations to listen to theirs? “Please lower your voice, sir.”
Mr. Parker-Roth might have been deaf for all the attention he paid her. He stopped. She looked around. Lud! Was he blind also? Not only did a host of coachmen have their ears cocked in their direction, but they were now standing directly in front of Lord Fonsby’s townhouse, illuminated for all the world to see. She took his arm and tried to pull him a few steps farther along into the shadows. She felt as if she were trying to tow the Tower of London up the Thames.
“Do you want to know the real reason I did not call a hackney?”
Why was he so agitated? Perhaps if she agreed with him, he would calm down.
“Yes, certainly. I’d love to know exactly that. Please tell me, but first let us step along to a more private location. In case you haven’t noticed, we are being observed.” She tugged on him again. If they could just get past Lord Fonsby’s house. It was not far.
It was too far. He shook her off. “A more private location? Ha!”
There was no denying it—every coachman on the street had found a reason to congregate just ten feet from them. Perhaps she should simply remove Mr. Parker-Roth’s cravat and gag him with it.
“Sir, I’m certain you will regret this.”
“Yes, I’ll regret this. I do regret this, but I can’t help myself. You torture me; you defy every convention. You go out into the shrubbery with other men; you plan to sail off to the jungles of the Amazon with no more thought than you might give a trip to Hyde Park.” He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Do you know how I felt when I saw you at the meeting tonight? When you waved your kerseymere-clad arse in my face?”
She felt her jaw fall open at his vulgarity. She was shocked…but the odd warmth that was becoming all too familiar coiled low in her stomach, too.
She looked away—and saw that she was not the only one shocked by Mr. Parker-Roth’s words. The coachmen were gaping, too. If they leaned any closer to glean every detail of this spectacle, they’d fall over. But there was no need for them to strain. Mr. Parker-Roth was speaking loudly enough for the entire neighborhood to hear.
“And now you suggest a more private location?” He gave her another shake. “Be careful what you wish for.” He squeezed her shoulders and bit out each word. “I did not call a hackney because I did not trust myself in a darkened carriage with you.”
The coachman directly behind Mr. Parker-Roth gasped. Surely that was not Lord Dunlee’s livery the man was wearing?
“Sir, are you foxed?” Meg hissed. “Lower your voice.”
“No, damn it, I am not foxed. I am mad. Completely and utterly insane. A candidate for Bedlam.” He finally lowered his voice—and his head. His lips brushed hers. “I have lost my mind.” She felt the words as much as heard them. “You have stolen it. Like an invasive vine, you have choked all the sense out of me.”
She wasn’t certain she cared for that simile, but she was given no opportunity to argue. His mouth covered hers.
The man was insane, and she had caught his insanity. At the warm—no, the hot—touch of his lips on hers, she forgot where she w
as. She forgot half the coachmen in London were staring at them. She forgot she was in pantaloons, coat, and cravat on a London street in front of a townhouse that would at any moment disgorge scores of the haut ton. She forgot everything, lost as she was in the hot, wet wonder of his mouth.
She welcomed the sweep of his tongue over hers. She delighted in how it filled her, possessed her. She clung to him and opened her mouth wider, letting him take what he wanted. What she wanted.
She traced his tongue with hers and he growled deep in his throat. His hands slid down her back. She frowned. Her breasts ached for his touch, but they were flattened under layers of cloth. He could not reach them. She whimpered and pressed closer.
Ah. There were some advantages to male attire. She rubbed against the interesting bulge she’d discovered. His hands reached her bottom—
“Good God!”
That sounded like Lord Dunlee’s voice.
John’s mouth left hers. One arm came up around her waist to pull her tightly against him; one hand flew up to press her face against his shoulder. She felt shielded. Protected.
She did not fight him. If Lord Dunlee was here, Lady Dunlee could not be far behind.
“Good evening, Lord Dunlee,” John said. He cleared his throat. “Lady Dunlee.”
Meg tried to bury into his shoulder.
“Why, Mr. Parker-Roth.” Lady Dunlee’s strident voice carried to the farthest reaches of the ton. “I never imagined you favored…I would never have guessed your preferences turned to…” She coughed. “I suppose this explains why you aren’t married.”
“You have to marry him now, Meg.” Charles rubbed his forehead. They were seated in Charles’s study—well, Meg was seated. Charles and Emma stood, looming over her. “Sodomy is…well, the man’s reputation is completely ruined.”
“But he wasn’t…I mean, I’m a woman.”
“But no one who witnessed the event knows that,” Charles said. “Parker-Roth protected your identity at considerable cost to himself.”
The Naked Gentleman Page 23
