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