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?”
“Robbie,” Lady Knightsdale said, “that partially clad lady is Meg!”
“It is? Well, well.” Westbrooke leaned against the door. There were still muffled noises coming from the other side. “It’s about time.”
About time? Parks was definitely not going to add anything to the conversation—he had a strong sense of self preservation—but what the hell did Westbrooke mean? Fortunately Meg was whispering to Lady Westbrooke and appeared to have missed the comment.
Lady Knightsdale had not. “About time? Did you know this was going on, Robbie?”
“Since I’m not certain what ‘this’ is, no I did not. But I’m not surprised to see Parks and Meg together.” He coughed. “Well, perhaps I am a trifle startled so see them so, um, together in this particular venue.”
“So you know the miscreant, Robbie? You would not counsel me to kill him?” Knightsdale smiled at his wife. “Much as Emma might like me to.”
“Well, no, Parks—John Parker-Roth, that is—is actually a good fellow. I’ve known him since Eton.” Westbrooke nodded at Mrs. Parker-Roth. “And I do suppose his mother might object to your dispatching her son to the hereafter.”
“Indeed yes.” Mrs. Parker-Roth glared at the marquis.
“My apologies, ma’am. No insult intended.”
Lady
