Sally MacKenzie Bundle (43 page)

And now the girl had asked him to kiss her.

She was mad—and maddening. A proper young lady would be sitting demurely on that settee, sobbing quietly into her handkerchief, overset by the scene in the garden. Hopeful that she would get an engagement ring on her finger immediately. But when he’d stated the obvious, Miss Peterson had flown into the boughs. She’d put her hands on her hips—until she realized what a delightful view it afforded him—and had poked him in the chest. And now she’d asked him to kiss her.

He was a gentleman, first and foremost. He could never turn down a lady’s request.

He smiled slightly. She was gaping up at him as if she had even shocked herself. How nice that her mouth was already ajar. He would perhaps discover just how much she’d learned from those other men.

He kept her hand cradled against his chest, but pulled her slightly closer. She came without protest. He bent slowly, giving her time to flee, but she stood still, like a startled deer.

His mouth touched hers. He half expected her to bolt then, just as a deer would when one approached too close, but she didn’t. Her lips were soft and motionless under his.

He cupped her jaw with his free hand, stroking her cheek with his thumb. It was soft, like a rose petal. She smelled of roses, too—light, sweet.

She made a small inarticulate noise. Her other hand released its grip on the shawl to come up to rest on his waistcoat. Still her mouth was quiescent under his.

He smiled slightly, putting his arms around her, gently pulling her close. These were not the reactions of an experienced woman. Whatever Miss Peterson had been doing in the shrubbery with the men of the
ton,
she had not lost her air of innocence. It was proving incredibly seductive.

He ran a hand through her hair, lifting a heavy length away from her neck. He trailed kisses along her jaw line to a spot just below her ear. She tilted her head, giving him more room. Her breath came in little pants. Her hands slid up to his shoulders, and her shawl slipped to reveal more of her creamy skin.

Beautiful.

The line of her throat, her collar bone, the sweet curve of her breast. He gathered one breast into his hand. It was warm and heavy, filling his palm. He glanced at her face for any sign of alarm at his boldness, but her eyes were closed. Her small white teeth caught her lower lip.

He kissed each eyelid lightly while he stroked the treasure in his palm. Her body sagged into his.

When his thumb found her hard, stiff nipple, she inhaled—and he let his tongue follow into her moist heat.

His last coherent thought was a wish.

If only the door were locked and the settee bigger.

Embarrassment was definitely not fatal—she had proven that too many times to count tonight. Had she actually asked Parks to
kiss
her? Surely not. But then why had his eyes widened in just that fashion? And then they’d narrowed and assumed a very alert, intent gaze.

She should step back. He had her hand against his chest, but he would let her go if she wanted. He would not force her. There was no coercion in his hold.

She felt a slight pressure urging her closer, and she went. He was going to grant her request. She knew it.

She should move her head away from his descending lips.

She couldn’t move. Like a field mouse faced with an adder, she stood perfectly still, but unlike the field mouse, she wanted to be caught.

She watched his mouth come closer. She closed her eyes.

His lips were cool and firm on hers. Gentle. Asking, not demanding. Inviting, promising, teasing.

His fingers cradled her jaw, his thumb brushed her cheek. His skin was slightly rough against hers, but his touch was light.

Her heart beat like the wings of a caged bird. Heat pooled low in her stomach. An odd throbbing started even lower, in the space between her legs. She felt dampness there.

What did it mean?

Her legs felt weak, as if they could no longer support her. She braced herself against his chest with both hands. She needed to feel his arms around her before her knees turned to water.

He must have read her mind. Thank God.

He brought her carefully against him. His strength surrounded her. She felt his heart beating under her palms. She breathed in his scent—a clean mix of soap and fresh linen and wine.

She felt his fingers tangle in her hair, felt him lift it, felt the cool air touch her skin.

She felt his mouth along her jaw.

Where Bennington’s lips had oozed slug-like, disgusting and wet across her skin, Parks’s mouth was like butterfly wings, brushing, teasing. Like sunlight, warm and warming. She tilted her head, stretching, hoping he would find the suddenly sensitive spot beneath her ear.

He did.

She felt a wave of weakness again. She needed to hold onto him. She moved her hands to his shoulders.

Her shawl slipped down. No matter. She was not chilled—she was warm. More than warm. Hot. So hot she was panting, and the low throbbing had turned to an ache.

She’d thought she’d learned a few things about kissing this Season, but she’d been wrong. She’d never experienced anything like this before. The other men had been rough and awkward and hurried. Or practiced and oily. This? This was perfect.

It suddenly got more perfect.

His hand touched her naked breast.

Her conscience whispered she should be shocked. Appalled. Mortified. She should scream for help.

She bit her lip to keep from screaming for pleasure. The warmth of his skin on hers was beyond anything she’d felt before.

And then his fingers moved.

She sagged into his body. She felt his lips brush her eyelids. He touched the hard little point of her nipple.

Heat shot through her. She inhaled—and his mouth covered hers. His tongue glided in.

She clung to him while he filled her, his tongue sweeping through her mouth. It should have been revolting, but it was wonderful.

She pressed herself against him, sliding her hands down to his waist, under his coat, around to his back. He had too much clothing on.
She
had too much clothing on. Her gloves, for example, were very much in the way.

His tongue was withdrawing. No! She wasn’t ready for this to be over. She pressed closer and tried to copy his actions, thrusting her tongue into his much larger mouth. She was certain her efforts were extremely clumsy, but he seemed pleased. Enthusiastic even. His tongue encouraged hers. His hands cupped her head.

He grunted and pulled back.

“I think we’d do better sitting down.”

“Huh?” She blinked up at him, then reached for his mouth again.

He laughed and picked her up. He sat in the ugly red chair and deposited her on his lap.

“Mmm, perhaps this
is
better.” She loosened his cravat.

“Much better.” He kissed her first on her mouth, then on her throat, then down to…

“Oh. Oh my.”

Both of her breasts had escaped her corset. He wasn’t going to…? Surely that was highly improper…?

“Mr. Parker-Roth…”

“John.”

“What?” His mouth was hovering over her naked breasts. She put her hands on his head to pull him back from disaster. He looked at her—at her face.

“John. My name is John.”

“Oh.”

“Say it.” He kissed the side of one breast.

“Eek.” She tried to move his head away. He wouldn’t budge.

“Say it.” He kissed the other side.

“John. I’m sure you really shouldn’t be…”

He swirled his tongue around her nipple, close but not quite touching the aching center.

“Oh. Oh, John. Ohh.”

He flicked his tongue over the point, then latched on and sucked.

“John!”

Had she screamed? She was sure she’d wanted to, but had she actually done so? She—

“Good God.” Parks abruptly pulled her up against him, but not before she’d caught a glimpse of the shocked-looking woman standing in the open doorway.

“Good evening, Mother.”

Chapter 3

“Pardon me if I don’t stand.” Parks closed his eyes briefly. He was going to die. How had he gotten into this position? Stephen, now, he wouldn’t be surprised if Stephen turned up at a society ball with a half-naked woman on his lap. His brother was very…adventurous. But he? He’d never done a scandalous thing in his life.

“Yes, I can see you have your…hands full.” His mother pressed her lips together and stared at Miss Peterson’s back—Miss Peterson’s shockingly naked back with his bare hand plastered across it. He dropped his hold to her very rigid, perfectly proper, though improperly exposed, corset.

“Please tell me this is a nightmare,” Miss Peterson whispered into his cravat, “and I’ll wake up in a moment.”

“I only wish,” he muttered. He needed something to cover her with. “Are you sitting on Lady Palmerson’s shawl, do you know?”

She shifted slightly. “No. I think maybe I dropped it when you, ah, when we, um…Maybe it fell on the floor when you picked me up.”

He glanced over his shoulder. The shawl was indeed in a puddle on the floor. Unfortunately, it was well out of reach.

“Cecilia, what is going—oh.” Lady Beatrice’s substantial form joined his mother’s in the doorway. Thankfully, Mother was in a blue and gray phase at the moment, because Lady Beatrice would have clashed with any other color scheme. Her green dress with its knots of purple and red ribbon and the array of yellow plumes swaying among her gray ringlets made her look like an overgrown mulberry bush with a canary nesting in its boughs.

“Meg, what are you doing sitting on Mr. Parker-Roth’s lap?”

Miss Peterson moaned softly and pressed her face into his shoulder.

Lady Beatrice chuckled. “Ah, I see. Young love…or young lust, hmm? Well, it’s spring. The birds and the bees and what have you. I believe there’s a wedding to plan, don’t you agree, Cecilia?”

Mother smiled slowly. “I believe you are correct, Bea. Let—”

“What is going on?”

Mother and Lady Beatrice turned to see who had spoken. In a moment, a short, plump woman with spectacles and wildly curly brown hair came into view. She scowled at Lady Beatrice.

“Lady Palmerson said Meg—” She glanced into the room. Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened in obvious shock.

“Oh, no.” Miss Peterson twisted her head around to look at the new arrival. “What’s Emma doing in London?”

“Emma as in your sister Emma, the Marchioness of Knightsdale?”

“Yes.” She buried her face back in his shirt. “This has
got
to be a nightmare.”

He had to agree. The woman pushing past Lady Beatrice looked like she wanted to carve off his balls with her hairpin.

“Get your hands off my sister, you blackguard!”

He put his hands on the chair arms, until Miss Peterson tried to turn to confront her sister. He grabbed her before she could move more than an inch.

“You are not exactly dressed for company,” he whispered. He kept his eye on the marchioness. She wouldn’t really come after him with her hairpin, would she? She
did
look like she might vault the settee at any moment to reach him.

“Didn’t you hear me?” The marchioness stepped toward him.

“Just a minute!”

His mother had perfected that tone with six children. Miss Peterson’s sister stopped immediately.

“That’s my son you’re calling a blackguard.” Mother stepped up close to the marchioness. She was an inch or two taller than Miss Peterson’s sister, but Lady Knightsdale was probably a stone heavier and twenty years younger. Still, Mother was not one to back down easily, especially if one of her children was threatened. If they went foot to foot, it would be a close call who’d come out the victor.

“And that’s my sister your bounder of a son has his hands on.”

“I have got to get that shawl,” Miss Peterson muttered.

“Yes, I quite agree. Do you suppose you could ask your sister to fetch it for you?”

Miss Peterson glanced over her shoulder.

“She looks rather occupied at the moment. She won’t hurt your mother, will she?”

“She’s
your
sister. How would I know?” He frowned. “Should I be worried?”

Miss Peterson bit her lip. “Emma has gotten more, um, outspoken since Charlie and Henry were born.”

“Wonderful.” Now what was he to do? Dump Miss Peterson on the floor and leap the settee himself to separate the women?

Fortunately, the issue was not put to the test.

“Aunt Beatrice, what—” The Marquis of Knightsdale, a powerfully built man with a military bearing, stopped on the threshold. “Emma, what is the matter? Who is the woman you are glaring at?”

“I don’t know her name. She is
that
man’s mother.” She pointed at Parks. The venom in her voice left everyone in the room with little doubt as to her sentiments.

The marquis looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that your sister Meg sitting on his lap?”

“
Yes
!”

“This is ridiculous,” Miss Peterson muttered. “If I get up carefully I should be able to reach that shawl.”

“Wait, there are more people arriving.” Parks wished someone would close the door. “Ah, perhaps help has come. Westbrooke and his countess are here.”

“Good. See if you can get Lizzie to come over.”

“Shall I shout across the room to her, Miss Peterson?”

She made an odd little sound. “Please call me Meg. I do feel our acquaintance has gone beyond the formal.”

He smiled slightly. That was an understatement.

“Charles,” Westbrooke said as Lady Westbrooke hurried over to Meg, “don’t you think this room is getting somewhat crowded? I’ll shut the door, shall I?”

“Please do, Robbie.”

Westbrooke pushed on the door. Something was impeding its progress. He looked to see what the problem was.

“So sorry, Lady Dunlee. If you could just step back a little? Need to give the family some privacy, you know.”

“Oh, but I don’t think—”

The rest of Lady Dunlee’s words were lost when Westbrooke shut the heavy wooden door in her face.

“Hallo, Parks. What are you doing here?” Robbie grinned. “Is there a particular reason you’re entertaining a partially clad lady in this rather inappropriate location?”