The Naked Gentleman. Sally MacKenzieЧитать онлайн книгу.
had an upsetting experience.” He cleared his throat. “You do know you shouldn’t be alone with a man in the darkened shrubbery, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course.” She stepped a little away from him. “None of the others so forgot themselves.”
“Others? There have been others?”
Meg flushed. Parks looked so shocked.
“I’m not a debutante.”
“No, but you are young and unmarried.”
“Not so young. I’m twenty-one.”
Parks lifted an eyebrow. Meg felt a spurt of annoyance. Was the man criticizing her?
“Lady Beatrice has not commented on my behavior.”
He lifted the eyebrow higher. Suddenly she wanted to grab his spectacles and grind them under her slipper. She was so tired of people looking at her in just that way.
“Ohh, you are as bad as the rest of the priggish, nasty beasts in that ballroom.”
She spun on her heel, took a step—and caught her foot on a root.
“Aaa!” She was falling face first toward the holly bush Bennington had recently vacated.
Strong hands grabbed her and hauled her up against a rock hard chest. She shivered. The cool night air raised goose bumps on her arms and…
She looked down. Her breasts had fallen completely out of her dress.
“Ack!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Close your eyes!”
“What?”
Oh, lud, was that the crunch of shoes on gravel? Someone was coming this way! She had to hide.
There was no place to hide. She twisted around and plastered herself up against Parks. Perhaps God would work a miracle and make her invisible.
The Almighty was not interested in assisting her this evening.
“Halooo! Mr. Parker-Roth…is that you? I didn’t know you were in Town.”
“Ooo.” Meg muffled her moan in Parks’s cravat. It couldn’t be…Please, not Lady Dunlee, London’s biggest gossip!
She felt Parks’s arms tighten around her. His response rumbled under her cheek.
“I’ve recently arrived, Lady Dunlee. Good evening, my lord.”
“Good evening, Parker-Roth. We were just taking a turn in the garden, but, um…” Lord Dunlee cleared his throat. “I, um, believe it’s time we returned to the ballroom.”
“Just a minute.” Lady Dunlee’s voice was sharp. “Who’s that with you in the shrubbery, sir? I can’t see.”
“My dear, I think we interrupt the gentleman.”
Lady Dunlee snorted. “Obviously. The question is, what exactly are we interrupting?”
Meg closed her eyes. She was going to die of embarrassment.
“That’s Miss Peterson, isn’t it? My word, I had no idea you two were quite so…friendly.”
Chapter 2
It looked as if his mother was going to get her wish.
Parks crossed his arms and stood in a corner of the small parlor where Lady Palmerson had deposited them. She’d given Miss Peterson a shawl and him a contemptuous look before leaving to find Lady Beatrice. She must have assumed Miss Peterson’s reputation was as shredded as her gown—or that he had exhausted his animal instincts—since she closed the door behind her when she left.
Damn, damn, damn. He looked up and met the accusatory scowl of some long dead Palmerson ancestor.
I’m innocent, God damn it. I’m the hero of this tale, not the villain.
The painted peer was not impressed.
What the hell was he going to do? He felt society’s noose tightening around his neck as surely as if he were off to dance the Tyburn jig.
Miss Peterson sat on the settee, staring down at her slippers, worrying the fringe on her borrowed shawl.
He should have left her to Bennington. If the man was to be believed, it was the girl’s own fault she found herself in the bushes with an over-amorous male.
No. He wouldn’t wish Bennington on any woman. And Miss Peterson had looked completely terrified when he’d come upon them. She must not have known what the man was capable of.
Why had she asked Bennington to stroll in the shrubbery?
Well, it really didn’t matter now. There was no way in hell they were going to keep their interesting little garden scene a secret. He’d wager his latest plant shipment that Lady Dunlee was already spreading the shocking news as fast as her short little legs would carry her around the ballroom.
Only an act of God would save him now, and it appeared the Almighty was in league with Mother. Would she approve of Miss Peterson?
He watched the woman twist the shawl’s fringe. “If you aren’t careful, you will ruin that.”
“What?” She finally looked up at him.
“The fringe. You are in danger of pulling it out.”
“Oh.” She smoothed the colored silk and sighed. “I am very sorry to have gotten you into this mess.”
He grunted. He didn’t trust himself to say more.
“I’ll explain everything, of course. You don’t have to worry that there will be any repercussions.”
He snorted. “Miss Peterson, if you think I’ll escape unscathed from this evening’s little contretemps, you have windmills in your head.”
She frowned up at him. “What do you mean?”
Good God, she could not be that dense, could she? If she were, it didn’t bode well for the intelligence of his future offspring.
Future offspring. His traitorous body leapt at the thought.
Damn. He had most definitely been too long without a woman.
But that was going to change, wasn’t it? He studied Miss Peterson. If he had to marry, he could do far worse. Her hair was lovely, spread out over her borrowed shawl, the candlelight picking out golden strands among the warm brown mass. It was straight, smooth. Silky. His fingers twitched at the memory. And her skin was creamy, tinged pink at the moment. Her mouth…her full lower lip begged to be kissed. The tip of her tongue peeked out to moisten it…
He had a sudden vision of her stretched naked on his bed.
He turned away abruptly.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” He adjusted the fall of his pantaloons. Think about soil composition. Watering schedules. The new plant shipment.
“Why were you looking at me like that?”
He cleared his throat. “Like what?”
“You were staring at my hair.”
Anger was a good antidote to desire, wasn’t it? And he certainly had plenty to be angry about. He turned back to face Miss Peterson.
Bloody hell! She had let the shawl slip. He could see her lovely rose-colored nipple blooming from the snow white of her breast.
She followed his gaze.
“Eek!”
The beautiful skin disappeared under the fabric.
Anger. He was supposed to feel anger, not this maddening desire—maddeningly obvious desire. He