Mr. Parker-Roth had seen her br—
She’d fan her cheeks if she didn’t have both hands fully occupied clutching this shawl.
He was obviously appalled by the situation. He was hopping around as if he could barely contain his annoyance. And now he was hiding behind that hideous red chair. Did he think she was going to attack him?
This evening had been a disaster. Who would have thought Lord Bennington would behave in such an outrageous fashion? And then to have Parks come along. Meg closed her eyes and bit her lips on a moan. Of all the men in England, why did it have to be him? Wouldn’t Lord Dunlee have done as well?
Parks had dispatched the viscount decisively—it was unlikely Lord Dunlee was so handy with his fives. And when he’d caught her from falling…Well, she had admired the depth of his botanical understanding during Lord Tynweith’s house party, but she had not fully appreciated all his other attributes.
She flushed. All right, she had dreamt of his dark brown hair, green eyes, and slow smile more than once. Several times. Almost every night. But if she’d known he had rock-hard muscles, she would never have gotten any sleep.
How could she have guessed? He looked like a scholar with his spectacles. He’d sounded like a scholar when he’d discussed Repton’s Fragments on the Theory and Practice of Landscape Gardening with her at the house party. He’d been so intent, so passionate. She’d been captivated by his mind.
It was a very good thing she’d not been aware of exactly how captivating his body was. She examined what wasn’t hidden by the chair. Hmm. What would he look like without all that muffling cloth?
It really was uncomfortably warm in this room. She would benefit from a fan and an unencumbered hand with which to wield it.
“We should talk before Lady Palmerson returns with your chaperone and my mother.”
“Your mother?” Lud! She was sure her eyes were starting from her head.
Parks had a mother? Well, of course he did. Most people had a mother tucked away somewhere. Except her. Her mother had died not long after she was born. But gentlemen’s mothers were supposed to stay conveniently absent in the country, unless they had a daughter to put on the Marriage Mart.
“Your mother is here?” Had she squeaked? She swallowed. She had to get her voice under control. “Is your sister out this year?”
He frowned. “No. Jane is already married, and Juliana and Lucy are too young.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.” She’d met his sister Jane at some society function last year. “I haven’t seen Lady Motton this Season, have I?”
“No, fortunately for you.” He smiled slightly. “Poor Jane is not the most pleasant companion at the moment. She is increasing—well, she has already increased significantly at this point—and is not terribly comfortable. And when Jane is uncomfortable, everyone else is as well.”
Meg understood completely. “Emma was the same way, especially at the end. You must not consider upon it too much. Is the baby due soon?”
“Not for a month or so.” He cleared his throat. “But that is beside the point.”
It certainly was. Meg felt another spurt of panic. Parks’s mother was going to see her with her hair down and her dress torn. She couldn’t do anything about her dress, but could she fix her hair? Impossible. Even if she had any pins, which she didn’t, she couldn’t let go of her shawl long enough to manage the task.
“What am I going to do?”
“I don’t believe you have any choice, Miss Peterson.”
The man was right. The hair would have to stay as it was, unless…? He was looking at it again. Well, not looking precisely. Darting glances, really. What was the matter with him?
“I don’t suppose you know how to braid hair, do you?”
“Braid hair?” Now he was staring at her as if she were completely addled.
“Yes. You do have sisters. I thought perhaps you’d know how.”
“God give me strength! Why are you talking about your hair?”
“Because your mother will be here at any minute and I don’t want to look like a scarecrow.”
Parks grabbed the back of the chair so hard his knuckles showed white. “Believe me, Miss Peterson, my mother will not be concerned about your hair.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain about that. I look a complete hoyden.” She grabbed the shawl with one hand and tried to gather her hair with the other. She felt cool air—and Parks’s gaze—on her chest. She flushed, dropping her arm. Apparently the shawl was not quite large enough.
“I assure you, Miss Peterson, my mother will not remark upon your hair. She will have much more interesting things to occupy her mind.”
“She will?” If she knotted the shawl in front, would it stay in place when she lifted her arms? She would feel much better if her hair was properly restrained. “What else could possibly concern her? This really is not the time to play guessing games, sir.”
Was that his teeth she heard grinding?
“I am not playing guessing games!”
“There is no need to shout. My hearing is perfectly adequate.”
“Your hearing may be, but your understanding is sadly lacking.”
“Mr. Parker-Roth!”
“Miss Peterson! You do understand that we will be compelled to marry?”
Her jaw dropped. The man’s tone was beyond insulting. He might just have said they’d be compelled to crawl naked through a bramble bush. Well, she knew she was not a diamond of the first water but she was not precisely an antidote, either.
She shot to her feet, tugging the shawl securely around her. “I’m so delighted the prospect of wedding me sends you into such raptures.”
Parks frowned. He was eyeing the shawl. “I did not come to this blasted ball with the expectation that I’d leave an engaged man.”
“And you won’t. I told you I would explain everything.”
Did the man roll his eyes? She stepped closer. Her hands went to her hips—until she felt a slight breeze and his gaze on her skin again. Damnation. She knotted one hand securely in the ends of the shawl, sidestepped the chair he was hiding behind, and poked him in the chest with her finger.
“Don’t condescend to me, Mr. Parker-Roth. I will make it very clear to your mother and Lady Beatrice that you are not the villain of this piece.”
He trapped her hand against his body. “And will you also make it very clear to the rest of the ton? Will you hurry off to the ballroom, dressed as you are—or rather, not dressed as you are—and make an announcement?”
“Of course not! Don’t be ridiculous.” She pulled back, but he wouldn’t release her.
“Then how are you going to stop the news from flying through society? Come, Miss Peterson, surely you know Lady Dunlee is flitting through the ballroom right now, like a bee in a flower bed, spreading every detail she noted.”
“No one will care what we were doing.” She was only a vicar’s daughter after all—and a marquis’s sister-in-law. She tried to ignore the dread growing in her stomach.
Parks snorted. “How long have you been in society, Miss Peterson?”
“This is my second Season—”
“Then you know everyone cares what we were doing.”
“Well—”