Meg flushed. “No. Well, that is, I was looking for my husband.”
Mr. MacGill’s grin widened. “I’m verra happy to hear it. Why don’t ye wait for him? I’m sure he’ll be along shortly. Or I could fetch him—”
“No!” She most certainly didn’t want John dragged away from whatever he was doing. “No, thank you. Please don’t do that. There’s no hurry. I can wait.” She glanced back at her room. She didn’t want to sit here making small talk with John’s valet. “I’ll just go back—”
“Ah, don’t do that. I’m sure Johnny would want ye to wait here. Please, make yerself comfortable. If ye’re tired, ye can stretch out on the bed.” Mr. MacGill looked as if he were hiding a smirk. “I was just going anyway.”
“Well, if you’re sure?”
“Lass, I was never surer of a thing in my life.”
Mr. MacGill bowed and headed, whistling, for the door.
John hid in his study. His mother was trying to get his father to discuss his marital duty with him. Fortunately, Father was resisting.
He poured a glass of brandy, listening to the rain pelt the windows. The storm had come up after dinner. It would be good for the new plantings—the weather had been too dry recently.
The door opened and his father stuck his head in.
John put down his glass. “You aren’t going to talk to me about what I think you are, are you?”
Father looked over his shoulder, nodded to someone in the hall, and slipped inside the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. “Pour me some brandy, Johnny.”
“All right, but I won’t listen to a lecture.”
His father settled into the seat closest to the fire—and farthest from the door.
“I suspect your mother has her ear to the keyhole.”
“I suspect she does, too.” John handed his father his brandy, and then went over and opened the door. His mother fell into the room.
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable sitting in here, Mother?”
“Oh, no. I was just going up to bed.”
John raised an eyebrow. His study was not on Mother’s way to her room—nor was hanging at keyholes a normal pre-bedtime activity. “You’re certain you wouldn’t like to join us?”
“Yes.” She sent Father a very glaring look. “You must have all sorts of male things to discuss. I would be very much in the way.”
Well, he certainly had no desire for her company. His father had the good sense not to carp at him, but his mother did not. “Good night, then.”
Mother smiled at him. “Good night, Johnny. Don’t let your father keep you down here too long. Meg has already gone up to bed, you know.”
He didn’t know. He nodded to his mother and then watched her walk down the corridor to the stairs. He turned back to the study. Father was pouring more brandy.
“That was quick.”
“Nerves.” Father took another gulp. “She’ll ask me what happened when I get upstairs.”
“Tell her you told me to do my duty and I said that I would.”
Father smiled broadly. “I will—and will you?”
“Will I what?”
“Do your duty?”
“Father! That is none of your business.” John eyed the brandy decanter, but resisted its lure for the moment. “You can’t even complain you need me to carry on the line. You don’t have a title and you do have two other sons. The Parker-Roth name is certain to survive another generation.”
Father shrugged. “I know. It’s just, well, the way things are now…it’s not natural. You are wed and not wed. It disturbs your mother, and so it disturbs me.”
“My marriage happened under unusual circumstances.”
“Perhaps, but it did happen. Or, part of it happened. The consummation is still waiting.”
“Father, please!”
“I imagine you know all about the mechanics, Johnny. You do—or did—have a mistress, but if you have questions—”
“I do not have any bloody questions.” So his father—and of course his mother, damn it—knew about Cat. He should move to America. Maybe then he would have some privacy, though he wouldn’t be surprised if Mother had spies in the New World, too.
“Didn’t see how you could have.” His father took another swallow of brandy. “We just want you to be happy, you know.”
John sighed. It wasn’t his father’s fault things were in such a damnable coil. “I know. Rest assured that I am perfectly capable of doing my duty. I promise I shall resolve the issue shortly.”
“Tonight?”
“Father!”
“Sorry. You know how your mother is when she gets the bit between her teeth.”
“This is not her bit, for God’s sake.” He took a deep breath. “You can reassure Mother that I will—in my own time—attend to matters.”
His father grunted. “Just don’t make ‘your own time’ too long. I can stave her off for a day or two, but you know she’ll start to meddle again if she thinks you still haven’t—”
“Yes! Yes, I know.” Mother wouldn’t actually lock him naked in Meg’s room until he displayed the bloodstained sheet—at least, he hoped she wouldn’t—but she’d do just about anything else to see that matters were resolved to her satisfaction.
Father nodded and put down his half-empty brandy glass. “Very well. I’m for bed, then. I can tell your mother with a clear conscience that I did my best.”
“Indeed you can.”
John let out a long pent-up breath as soon as the door closed behind his father. First the MacGill brothers, now his parents. He would have no peace until he settled things with Meg.
He poured himself some more brandy and sprawled into the chair his father had vacated. It was not as if he were being forced to do something against his will. He had decided before dinner that he would seek Meg out tonight. It was, indeed, past time to resolve the issue.
What the hell was he going to say?
He took a large mouthful of brandy, holding it on his tongue, letting the fumes warm his mouth.
In a perfect world, he would have already wooed Meg in small stages. A drive in the park; a waltz; an accidental touch; a stolen kiss. In a perfect world, she would have chosen him, not been forced by scandal to save him from his social suicide.
In a perfect world, he would not have to negotiate his way into his wife’s bed.
He swallowed the brandy in one gulp, almost enjoying the pain as it burned its way down his throat.
In her perfect world, he would have a title.
Did he really want to slide between the sheets of a woman who had been literally beating the bushes for a peer? Who had taken Bennington out into the shrubbery?
The rest of his body assured him he did.
Damn.
Well, there was no doubt he was physically attracted to the girl—he’d mauled her every time he’d gotten a moment alone with her. He closed his eyes briefly. And not so alone, as Lord Fonsby’s many guests could attest.
Still, he couldn’t spend his life in bed with her, could he?
He frowned down at the organ that had answered an enthusiastic ‘yes.’
He dropped his head back against the chair and stared up at the shadows the fire threw on the ceiling.
It wasn’t just her body he craved. She had a sharp mind. He’d noted it last year at Tynweith’s house party. He didn’t usually discuss serious topics like horticulture and gardening with females, so it had been very…stimulating to match wits with her over his favorite hobbies. And she certainly had plenty of integrity and courage. He smiled, remembering how she’d faced down her family—and his mother—in Lady Palmerson’s parlor. Nor had she cowered before all the society gossips.
Of course she had engaged in a number of hare-brained, beef-witted, cabbage-headed activities. Why she’d thought donning male attire and attending the Horticultural Society meeting was a good notion was beyond his comprehension. Displaying her legs for all the world to see…
Mmm. He took an
other sip of brandy and closed his eyes. He wouldn’t mind seeing those lovely legs again. What would they look like naked? How would they feel wrapped around his?
He ached for her—and not just the obvious part of him ached. His mind, his heart ached, too. He wanted a companion, a lover, a friend. He wanted Meg.
He put his glass down and let himself out of his study. He must remember Meg’s behavior was impossible to predict. Who would have thought a gently-bred miss would be dragging men into the shrubbery or parading down London’s streets in pantaloons? She might tell him in no uncertain terms she wanted nothing to do with him.
What would he do then?
Yet she had married him. She was intelligent. She must see she was out of options—the time for compromise had come.
He climbed the stairs. Would she be asleep already? Should he wake her or wait until tomorrow night?
No, Father was right—he had to resolve matters sooner rather than later. Jane and Edmund would be leaving as soon as Jane and the baby could travel. Then Mother would have nothing to distract her from his business. She would be relentless.
He stopped in the corridor outside Meg’s door. He should go to her through his room, but he did not care to encounter MacGill’s knowing smirk. He glanced both ways. There was no one to see him.
He slipped through the door. The sitting room was dark, but the fire gave enough light for him to navigate without tripping or knocking anything over. It was so quiet. She must be asleep.
The door to her bedchamber was open. He paused to listen.
It was too quiet. He should hear something—the rustling of bedclothes, soft breathing…something. It was as still as death.
Good God! Certainly nothing dire had occurred?
He grabbed a candlestick, lit it in the fire, and held it high. Shadows whirled around the room. He stepped close to the bed, pushed aside the curtains.
The bed was empty, the coverlet smooth and undisturbed.
Where the bloody hell was his wife?
The door from her room banged open. Meg jumped, clutching Repton’s Sketches and Hints on Landscape Gardening to her breast.
“What are you doing here?” John sounded extremely annoyed. This was obviously not the time to ask him if he might be willing to provide her with children.
“Er…I couldn’t sleep. I was looking at your books. I hope you don’t mind?”
He frowned and glanced around the room. “Where’s MacGill?”
“He, um, left when I arrived. He didn’t say where he was going.” Hopefully the light was too dim for John to notice her heightened color. MacGill had realized why she’d come in here; why couldn’t John? She put the Repton book carefully back on the shelf. Perhaps he did realize, and just didn’t want her here.
He grunted and clasped his hands behind his back.
She could offer to leave, but if she did, she might never again find the courage to open the connecting door. She had to persevere.
She had to find an excuse to remove her dressing gown.
“Is it hot in here?”
John blinked. “I don’t believe so. Are you warm?”
“Yes.” It was a lie for a good cause. “I am.”
“I see.” He frowned. He appeared to be searching for words. Was he trying to find a polite way to ask her to go back to her room?
She couldn’t leave until she had at least tried to seduce him. But she couldn’t take her dressing gown off with him staring at her like that. It was too embarrassing.
She needed a distraction. If she could get him to turn away, she could do it.
“Do you think I might have a small glass of brandy?”
“Brandy?”
“Yes.” She nodded for emphasis. “I see you have a decanter on the table over there.”
John glanced over his shoulder. “Oh. Yes. Certainly.”
She slipped out of the dressing gown the moment his back was turned—and shivered. John was correct—it was not overly warm in the room, and now she was as good as naked. Her nipples pebbled into hard buds.
Perhaps he wouldn’t notice.
How could he not? They were practically sticking through the gossamer fabric.
Should she put the dressing gown back on?
No. She kicked it off to the side and stepped closer to the fire, resisting the urge to wrap her arms around herself. This was her golden opportunity. She could not squander it for a few minutes of warmth.
John finished pouring the brandy and turned, glass in hand. “Here you—” His eyes found her by the fire.
“Good God.”
His mouth fell open as the glass full of brandy splashed to the floor.
Chapter 22
He had died and gone to heaven.
Meg stood in front of the fire, dressed in…well, almost nothing. Her shoulders and arms were completely bare, and a thin white gown clung to her breasts and hips like spider webs at sunrise. The firelight behind her illuminated all that the pantaloons had only outlined—the delicate line of her calves, the curve of her knees, the sweep of her thighs, the shadowy curls at—
He reminded himself to breathe.
“Oh, dear. Look what you’ve done.”
“Huh?” She was hurrying toward him. Zeus, there was a slit in the gown’s skirt. Her leg from thigh to ankle flashed at him as she walked, teasing, taunting…
He opened his arms. He had to hold her. He had to feel her against him. He had to—
She crouched down to examine the rug.
“Do you have a towel to mop the carpet with?”
“A towel?” He moistened his lips. The back of her neck, the curve of her back, the shadowy cleft between her buttocks—all beautiful.
“Yes. The stain is spreading.”
“The stain?”
She frowned up at him. “From the spilled brandy.”
“Oh.” From this angle, he could see her breasts quite clearly. Well, not as clearly as he’d like. He would like them both naked in front of him, close enough to kiss, to lick…
If she moved her face forward half a foot, her lovely mouth would be just the right height to—
“What is the matter with you? Why are you just standing there?” She looked down again and picked up the empty brandy glass. “Perhaps you should ring for MacGill.”
“No.” She was right, though. He couldn’t just stand there, dumb with lust. He reached for her. “MacGill would be very much in the way.”
She felt his hands on her shoulders—his gloveless, large hands spread over her bare shoulders. His strong, thick fingers, warm and dry, smoothed her skin. The slight friction started a throbbing low in her belly. Her nipples tightened, though not with cold this time.
She shivered.
“Meg.” His voice was deeper than usual.
She was afraid to look up. She stared at the spreading damp stain. The carpet was not the only thing growing damper.
His hands slid over her shoulders to her throat. He cupped her chin, tilting her face so she had to meet his gaze.
“Why did you come to my room tonight?”
“Um.” She tried to look away, but he wouldn’t let her.
“Why did you come to my room?”
She was panting. He was breathing a bit heavily, too. It was time for courage. She stood up; put her hands on his waistcoat.
“To seduce you.” She cleared her throat. “To ask you to give me children.”
“Ah.” He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they held a mix of heat and hesitancy. “And you won’t mind that your children will lack a title?”
She heard the whisper of pain in the words.
“Of course not. Why would I want a title?”
“All women do.”
“Not this woman.” She reached up to touch his jaw, and he turned his head to kiss her palm. She smiled. Mmm. Courage. She would give him the gift of her heart. Perhaps knowing she loved him would salve the wound Grace had inflicted. “I’ve wanted you—I’ve loved you
—since I met you at Lord Tynweith’s house party.”
He shrugged off her touch, turned away. “No.”
“Yes.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and rubbed her cheek against his back. He had far too many clothes on. “No one has ever understood my passion for plants. I’ve always been the vicar’s odd daughter, the poor little girl whose mother died when she was just a baby, the sad romp whose father should have reined her in and taught her the proper way to go on, the blue stocking who drones on and on about vegetation.” Her voice broke. Why was she crying? None of this bothered her. She’d grown used to it.
John turned back and pulled her close, pressing her face against his chest, tangling his hand in her hair, cradling her head. It felt so good.
“You understood. I could talk to you—really talk to you. And then, after Robbie and Lizzie wed, you went away. It was clear you did not feel what I felt.”
He brushed his lips over her temple. “I hate London. And I was afraid. I’d told myself for years I would never marry, and then I met you.” He sighed. “Well, I am not very flexible. Ask Mother. She’ll tell you once I have a notion in my head, it takes nothing less than a miracle to dislodge it.” He raised her face from his chest. “And you, my love, are a miracle.”
His lips touched hers gently. She opened for him, relaxing against his body. His tongue stroked slowly into her. It was not a kiss of passion so much as…connectedness.
Oh, and passion, too. Her nipples peaked, her breasts ached. Need curled low in her belly, and an emptiness only he could fill grew in her.
“Shall we go to bed?” he whispered.
“Yes, please.”
Need such as he had never known surged in him. Meg wanted him. Him.
She loved him.
It was beyond comprehension. His mind couldn’t grasp it, but his heart could. For once, he let that organ guide him. He took her hand and led her to his bed. He stopped her when she started to climb in.
“Wait.” He went down on one knee before her. “I never properly proposed to you, Meg.”
She tugged back a little on her hand, but he didn’t let her go. “It was an odd situation.”
The Naked Gentleman Page 29
