She would know all too well what was involved by this time tomorrow.
Panic closed her throat. She swallowed.
“Well, if you are quite sure you have no questions.” Emma sounded relieved. She turned to go. “I’ll see you downstairs. I just have to put Henry in the nursery.”
Meg found her voice. “Does it, um, well…does it hurt?”
Her sister paused, her hand on the doorknob. She flushed again, but she answered. “Perhaps a little the first time, but even then, most of it is quite…pleasant. I hope…I mean…I’m certain Mr. Parker-Roth will be an attentive husband. He is very good to his mother, after all.”
Somehow that thought was not reassuring.
Emma turned to look directly at Meg. “And you did not appear to be complaining in Lady Palmerson’s parlor or in front of Lord Fonsby’s townhouse.” She smiled. “I would guess you have nothing to worry about.”
Someone knocked on the door. “My lady, my lord asks you and Miss Peterson to come down to the blue drawing room. Mr. Parker-Roth and his mother have arrived.”
“Thank you, Albert. We’ll be right there.” Emma looked back at Meg. “You go along. Tell Charles I’m putting Henry in the nursery, will you?”
“All right.”
“Don’t sound so nervous. Everything will be fine.”
Easy for Emma to say—she wasn’t minutes from wedding a virtual stranger. It would help if her head wasn’t pounding so much. She rubbed her forehead. Her stomach was still clenched into a tight knot as well. She felt ill.
She took a few deep breaths. She needed to get her nerves under control. She’d managed to create enough of a scandal without throwing up on her bridegroom.
Meg made her way slowly down the stairs, holding tightly to the banister. This was not how she’d imagined her wedding—not that she’d spent much time imagining it. She’d assumed it would be just like Emma’s—in the parish church she’d known all her life with Papa officiating. Instead she was marrying in London, in her brother-in-law’s drawing room, in haste, in scandal.
“Meg!” Lizzie stood at the bottom of the stairs, smiling up at her. “You look beautiful.”
Lizzie was being kind. She knew what she looked like—she’d seen herself in the mirror. Her skin was colorless; she had dark circles under her eyes. She looked dreadful.
“I wish Papa were here.”
Lizzie hugged her. “Charles sent his fastest carriage. Your father might still arrive in time.”
She sniffed. Tears were pooling in her eyes again. She wasn’t usually such a watering pot. “I wish we could w-wait.”
Lizzie hugged her again. “You have to be on the road within the hour so you can get to the inn before sunset.”
Meg nodded. She knew that. They had all decided, given the nature of the scandal, that it would be best for her and Parks to leave London immediately. She’d agreed. The thought of being newly married and having to face Lady Dunlee and the other gossips made her stomach churn even more.
Adjusting to married life would be difficult enough—she didn’t need the ton observing her every breath.
Emma clattered down the stairs behind her.
“How’s Henry?”
“Sleeping.” Emma smiled. “Good morning, Lizzie. I’m sorry I’m late. Charlie and Henry have been sick.”
Lizzie frowned. “Nothing serious, I hope?”
“No. Charlie is already on the mend, but Henry just got sick this morning.” Emma pushed a stray lock of hair off her forehead and turned to Meg. “Are you ready?”
She tried to speak, but her voice had deserted her. She nodded. She was as ready as she would ever be.
She followed Lizzie and Emma into the blue drawing room. Charles was there with Robbie as were the Duke and Duchess of Alvord, Mrs. Parker-Roth, Miss Witherspoon, and Isabelle and Claire.
Mr. Parker-Roth was glaring at the minister. She walked toward him, and his attention dropped to her attire. She’d had no time to get a suitable wedding dress, so she was wearing the ball gown she’d worn at Easthaven’s party. Obviously it was not one of his favorites for his scowl, already quite pronounced, grew darker.
Lovely, she thought as she greeted the minister. What else can go wrong?
Parks was not usually given to fits of temper, but today was an exception. He would dearly love to hit something.
The minister, standing next to him, cleared his throat. Perhaps he would be a good target. The man had been trying to make conversation with him since he’d arrived—the sanctimonious little twiddlepoop. Couldn’t he see Parks was not in the mood for bibble-babble?
At least no one was blaming him for this disaster, though perhaps anger and condemnation would be better than the embarrassment and pity he was currently being met with. Lord Knightsdale and Westbrooke were far too understanding. Yes, Miss Peterson should not have been traipsing around London in men’s clothing, but he should not have kissed her, especially in such a shockingly public location. And it had not been a little buss upon the cheek. He’d had his tongue halfway down her throat and his hands all over her arse. Really, he had earned a little condemnation.
He closed his eyes, remembering all too clearly the feel of her—both the wet warmth of her mouth and the soft curves of her bottom. Heat flooded him, causing a particular appendage to swell to an all-too-obvious size. Damn. Anger was definitely the safest emotion to get him through this day.
“Here is your bride.” Reverend Twiddlepoop touched him on the arm…and then ran his palm down his sleeve.
What the hell? He jerked his arm away.
“When you are back in London, come see me.” The damn minister kept his voice low so no one could overhear. “I know many discreet men with similar interests.”
He was definitely going to hit something. Someone. Now.
“You mistake the matter, sirrah!” The words came out in a hiss.
Reverend Bugger stepped back. “My pardon. I assumed…”
His jaw was clenched too tightly to reply, but the minister appeared to get his message nonetheless. He would love to see Reverend Abomination’s damn body on the floor of the drawing room; unfortunately, a dead clergyman would be unable to perform the ceremony. And the ladies would not care to witness his temper applied to this miserable—
He forced himself to turn away. Miss Peterson was approaching. Unless he missed his guess, she was wearing the same gown she’d worn at Easthaven’s ball. Easthaven who had tried to lure him into his bloody overgrown bushes. London was crawling with sodomites.
But he was not one of them. He let his gaze travel slowly over Miss Peterson’s hips and waist, her lovely breasts and shoulders and neck. The jolt of lust he felt was reassuring. The world had not really gone mad. He was a man, with proper male thoughts. Well, not proper, precisely…natural. He had a very natural, male reaction to an attractive female body. His malest organ was quite healthy, strong and thick and ready to be about its business—
Anger. That was the emotion he needed today.
He focused on Miss Peterson’s face. Here she was not looking well. She was too pale, and she had dark circles under her eyes. She looked tired and tense.
This could not have been the wedding she’d hoped for.
Well, it was her own fault. If she hadn’t behaved like such a hoyden, she wouldn’t be facing a hurried wedding. He wouldn’t be facing it. His name wouldn’t be whispered about in every London drawing room, gossiped about over every tea cup—even every brandy glass. He wouldn’t be blackballed from White’s, barred from the Horticultural Society.
He wouldn’t have Reverend Atrocity brushing up against his breeches. He glared at the man again while the minister mumbled some pious platitudes to Miss Peterson. Talk about whited sepulchers! This perverted parson took the prize.
The worst part of this social disaster, though, was its effect on his mother. Many of the ton had given her the cut direct, though she’d said that was better than the snide comments others had felt compelled to
share with her.
Rage boiled up in him with the memory. He glanced over to where his mother stood talking to Lady Knightsdale. She caught him looking at her and beamed back at him.
Perhaps she saw her social standing as a minor loss if it brought her a bigger prize—his marriage.
Knightsdale came over then. “Shall we begin?”
Miss Peterson’s head came up. “Couldn’t we wait a moment or two more? I’m so hoping Papa might arrive.”
Her voice was strained. Instinctively, Parks took her hand in his, and she smiled fleetingly up at him. He squeezed her fingers. “I don’t mind waiting,” he said.
Knightsdale sighed. “We agreed you should leave London today. If you don’t—”
“Are we in time?”
Miss Peterson whirled around. “Papa!”
She ran to the door and threw her arms around a thin, scholarly-looking man standing next to a short, gray-haired woman. The man hugged her back.
Parks looked at Reverend Sodom and bared his teeth in an expression that might resemble a smile but most certainly wasn’t. “I guess we won’t be needing your services—any of your services—after all.”
“I’m glad—”
“—to leave.” His voice must have risen in volume, because he felt Knightsdale’s hand on his shoulder. Thank God, he didn’t try to stroke him.
“But—”
“Thank you, Reverend Phillips,” Knightsdale said, “but I do believe you can safely leave now. As you can see, Miss Peterson would much rather her father officiate.” He smiled. “Of course you will be compensated for your time.”
“Well.” The man cleared his throat. “If you are quite certain—”
“Quite.” Parks must have sounded rather menacing since both Knightsdale and the minister gave him a startled look.
“That’s decided then.” The marquis took the minister’s arm. “If you’ll just come this way, Reverend Phillips, we’ll get everything settled in a trice and you can be on your way.”
“What was that about?” Westbrooke came up to stand beside Parks. They watched Knightsdale usher Reverend Phillips out of the room.
“You don’t want to know.”
“All right. I hope you don’t have an aversion to all men of the cloth, though.”
“Why?”
“Because of your soon-to-be father-in-law, of course.” Westbrooke nodded to someone behind Parks. “Reverend Peterson, so good to see you again.”
Good God. Parks turned slowly to face Miss Peterson’s father. His mouth felt dry as dust. The man must hate him. He didn’t look angry, though. Perhaps Miss Peterson had explained—but how could she explain anything so bizarre?
“Papa, this is Mr. Parker-Roth, my…my…” Miss Peterson smiled slightly and shrugged.
“Good morning, sir.” Parks extended his hand. Reverend Peterson took it. That was a relief—at least he wasn’t going to cut him. Surely he knew he was not…he did not…that he was a normal male. “I’m sorry about the unusual circumstances. Has your daughter explained…?” If Miss Peterson hadn’t clarified matters, Parks was certain he could not.
“Not completely. Let me introduce my wife.”
Mrs. Peterson smiled and offered Parks her hand. He didn’t see any anger in her warm, brown eyes either. Caution, yes, but no condemnation.
“My pleasure, Mrs. Peterson.”
“I am happy to finally meet you, Mr. Parker-Roth.”
Finally? What did she mean by that?
“I am sorry…” Parks tried again, but stopped. What could he say?
Reverend Peterson shook his head. “Do not apologize. Meg is a grown woman. She is quite capable of making her own decisions.” He smiled. “You have the support of the duke, the marquis, and the earl—and, more importantly, their wives. I am not too worried about Meg’s future.” He opened his prayer book and adjusted his spectacles. “Now, I understand there’s need for haste.” He smiled again. “Though not, I’m happy to say, for the usual reason.”
Parks felt a damned blush heat his ears. He glanced at Miss Peterson. Her color, too, was heightened.
“Shall we begin?” her father said.
She was married. Her head throbbed; her stomach twisted. She was married, permanently bound to this unsmiling man at her side. Had she just made the biggest mistake of her life?
Her father kissed her. “You know you can always come home if you need to.”
“Uh, yes, Papa.”
He turned to Parks. “And you know I will kill you if you make her unhappy.”
Parks nodded. Meg gaped. Scholarly Papa threatening violence? He must have been reading the Iliad before he left home.
“Don’t worry.” Lizzie hugged her while Robbie shook Parks’s hand. “Everything will be fine.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because I know you. You are very sensible—and Robbie says Parks is a good man. You just have some rocky ground to get over first, just as I did.”
“But that was different.”
“Only because it was me and not you.” Lizzie hugged her again. “Don’t worry. I know you’ll be happy.”
She wished she shared Lizzie’s optimism, but she’d already found one error in Lizzie’s thinking—she felt anything but sensible.
Emma grabbed her next. “Oh, Meg,” she sobbed. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll only be in Devon.” Emma’s hold was almost strangling her. “I’m not going to the Amazon, remember.”
“Thank God for that.” Emma smiled. “I hope we’ll be coming to the christening of your first child next year this time.”
“Uh.” Babies? They did often follow after marriage. She slanted a glance at Parks. He was talking to Miss Witherspoon. Well, to be more precise, Miss Witherspoon was talking to him. He looked as stiff and unyielding as a fireplace poker. He did not look as if he ever wanted to have babies.
“Welcome to our family, dear.” Mrs. Parker-Roth smiled widely and hugged her. “I’m so happy you wed Johnny.” She sighed and shook her head. “I’ve been worried about him, you know. He’s too serious—I’m afraid he’s forgotten how to laugh.” She leaned closer. “And I don’t believe he’s ever gotten over Grace jilting him. It is past time for him to get on with his life.”
Meg smiled as brightly as she could. Splendid. She really hadn’t needed to be reminded that her new husband was pining for another woman.
Charles’s butler appeared at the door. “The wedding breakfast is ready, my lord.”
“Thank you, Blake.” Charles addressed the room. “We would be delighted if you would all join us for a brief celebration before the newlyweds depart.”
Lud! Meg’s stomach clenched again. She was leaving within the hour, traveling all the way to Devon with this solemn man at her side. The Amazon might be considerably farther, but it suddenly seemed much less frightening.
“If you are not happy, Meg”—Charles had come to stand beside her—“you know you have only to send word and we will have you back home in an instant.”
Her head was throbbing again. She looked up at Emma’s husband. Poor man, to have married into the uncomfortable role of being her brother-in-law. “I’m sorry to be such a bother—”
“You are not a bother, Meg. Emma and I and the children care for you deeply. We want only what is best for you.”
She sniffed. “I know.”
Charles turned to glare at Parks. “Be certain you make my sister-in-law happy, sir.” He was not smiling, and his voice had a distinct edge. “Or I shall happily kill you myself if my father-in-law does not.”
Parks did not smile either. “I will do my best, Knightsdale.”
“See that you do. You owe Meg some degree of gratitude, you know. She could have refused to marry you, leaving you in a very uncomfortable position.”
“I am completely aware of my debt to Miss—to my wife.”
They looked like two dogs, snarling at each other. Thankfully, everyone else had left the room.
&
nbsp; “Please, Charles, don’t be ridiculous. Of course I married Mr. Parker-Roth. The situation was all my fault—”
“It was not all your fault.” Now Parks was glaring at her! What was the matter with the man? She knew her responsibility all too clearly.
“I don’t believe you came to my bedchamber and forced me to don men’s clothing, did you?”
“No.” The man sounded as if he were speaking through clenched teeth. “And I don’t believe you forced me to kiss you in front of Lord Fonsby’s townhouse just as the evening’s entertainment was ending.”
Her temperature, which had been fluctuating wildly all morning, shot up again. “No, but…”
Parks nodded. “No. The answer is no, you did not. As Knightsdale says, the fault is mine. I am completely in your debt.”
“I really don’t think…” This was all too confusing. She knew she was to blame—he was just being chivalrous. Yet he genuinely seemed to believe he was culpable. She didn’t want a husband who resented her for ruining his life, but neither did she want one whose main emotion was grudging gratitude.
It made no difference what she wanted—she now had a husband, resentful, grateful, or furious.
She rubbed her forehead. It would be much easier to think if her head didn’t hurt so much.
“Come.” He took her arm. Charles had left at the beginning of their argument—if it was an argument. “We’ll have something to eat and be on our way.”
Her stomach tightened further into a hard knot.
Eating did not sound like an inspired notion.
He was married. The deed was done. He was committed.
He sat by Miss Peterson—he couldn’t keep calling her that—at the wedding breakfast.
At least Knightsdale hadn’t flattened him. Actually, it had been a relief to see some anger. He would be furious if any man treated his sisters the way he had treated Miss—Meg. He had been furious on Jane’s behalf last year, but that had all turned out well. Perhaps. He smiled slightly. Lord Motton had better get home before his heir was born or Jane might sell the baby to the highest bidder—or just the first bidder. Hell, she might give the child away.
The Naked Gentleman Page 25
