Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  Apparently one of those people was Mr. Parker-Roth.

  “No, you did not trick me. However, if you had not been so bold as to disregard society’s rules—if you had not gone out into the garden with Bennington—” He tugged on his waistcoat and pressed his lips together. “Well, the least said about that, the better, I suppose.”

  She did not care for his tone of voice at all.

  “You do not have to marry me, sir.”

  He looked exactly as if he’d eaten a lemon.

  “Come, Miss Peterson, be sensible. You know as well as I do that we have to marry. Your reputation can only be mended by wedding vows.”

  “No.” She wanted to hit something—like Mr. Parker-Roth. She hated being forced to act because of someone else’s rules. “There must be another way to solve this problem.”

  “There is not.”

  Yes, she would definitely like to hit the man. Perhaps a well placed punch in the chest would wipe that supercilious expression from his face.

  “There are always alternatives.”

  “Not this time. Not this problem. Your sister—your brother-in-law, the marquis—will not allow me to leave this room without offering for you.”

  “Then offer. I just will not accept.”

  “Miss Peterson, you—”

  “Just ask me, sir.”

  Parks clenched his teeth so hard his jaw flexed. He glared at her. She glared back.

  “Oh, very well. Miss Peterson, will you do me the honor—the very great honor—of giving me your hand in marriage?”

  Sarcasm did not become him. It was very easy to reply.

  “No.”

  “You can’t say no.”

  “I just have. Is your hearing defective? Do I need to repeat myself? No. There. It is not a difficult word to understand.”

  “Miss Peterson—”

  The door swung open.

  “So,” Emma said, “when is the wedding?”

  Chapter 4

  “I cannot believe you refused Mr. Parker-Roth, Meg.” Emma started in the moment the carriage door shut behind them. “Have you lost your mind? Do you want to put paid to any hopes of marrying?”

  Meg arranged her skirts on the carriage seat. She definitely did not want to be here. If she could have accompanied Lady Beatrice, she would have, but Emma had latched onto her arm and virtually dragged her to the Knightsdale carriage.

  “Mr. Parker-Roth was not to blame for the scene in the garden, Emma. He should not have to pay with his freedom for being a Good Samaritan.”

  “Bah! The garden has nothing to do with it. If what Mrs. Parker-Roth and Lady Beatrice hinted at is even close to the truth, it was not charity the man was practicing in Lady Palmerson’s parlor. Lud, my own eyes told me that. You were sitting on his lap, Meg, in a state of undress.”

  Meg’s cheeks felt as red as the fabric on that hideous chair where she and Parks had—

  No, she could not think on it.

  She looked out the window.

  “I have to agree with your sister, Meg.” Charles’s voice was calm at least. “And I believe Parker-Roth does, too. He seemed perfectly willing to wed you, even without my insistence.”

  Meg shrugged. “Willing, perhaps, but not happy.”

  “Meg, for heaven’s sake!” Emma was almost shouting. “The man hardly knows you. Of course he’s not happy. No one—especially no man—likes to have his hand forced, even when it’s his own actions doing the forcing. He’ll get over it.” She shrugged. “He’ll have to.”

  Wonderful. What an exciting wedded life to look forward to—a husband who barely tolerated her. Not that such a marriage would be unusual, of course. Most males of the ton sought out their wives only to attend to the chore of producing an heir—and Parks didn’t even have that compulsion. Perhaps they would live together like brother and sister.

  She swallowed a sob.

  “Did you say something, Meg?”

  “No.”

  And, yes, she realized she’d been considering just such a marriage ever since she’d made marriage her goal. Certainly when she’d considered Bennington as a husband. But that was different.

  She refused to consider exactly why it was different.

  She rested her head against the window and watched a man stroll down the sidewalk. He was moving faster than their coach. If only she could get out and stretch her legs…if only she could get away from this conversation.

  There was no escaping Emma until they reached Knightsdale House—if she could escape her then. She sighed. Emma would probably follow her to her room to continue her harangue.

  Why was she going to Charles’s townhouse anyway?

  “All my things are at Lady Beatrice’s, Emma. I do think it would be best if I returned there.”

  “No. Definitely not. And your belongings are no longer at Lady Beatrice’s. I had Charles send a footman round to fetch them as soon as I arrived. Now that I am here, I will take over all chaperone duties.”

  Why had Emma come to Town? Her sister hated London, preferring to stay home in Kent even when Charles came up to attend the House of Lords.

  “Why are you here, Emma? I thought you considered the country air much better for the boys.”

  “It is, but I couldn’t very well sit home when I kept hearing such shocking reports of your behavior.” Emma paused, obviously struggling with her temper. “I should have come up with you at the beginning of the Season and not delegated the job to Lady Beatrice. It was obviously asking too much of her.”

  Meg felt as if she’d swallowed a rock. “What do you mean? Has someone been spreading tales?”

  “More than one someone, miss. I’ve gotten coy letters from Lady Oldston and an alarmed missive from Lady Farley who, by the by, did not think you were at all the thing for her son. I take it you’ve made something of a habit of disappearing into the shrubbery with men. How many gentlemen have you entertained in the bushes, Meg?”

  “Um.” Put that way, it did sound somewhat sordid. “It wasn’t exactly…I mean—”

  “I thought you liked Parker-Roth,” Charles said. “Didn’t we hear some mention of the man last year?”

  “What?”

  “Parker-Roth. Wasn’t he at Tynweith’s house party? I’m certain either you or Aunt Bea mentioned him favorably in one of your letters.”

  “I’m sure it was not I who wrote about him.” She was confident she’d been careful not to allude to Parks. Yes, she’d been taken with him, fool that she was. Well, it was not so odd. It wasn’t every day she found a man who could discuss Repton’s Fragments on the Theory and Practice of Landscape Gardening intelligently—or at all.

  Stupidly she had hoped he’d show an interest in her when they’d returned to London. He hadn’t. She pressed her lips together. He had definitely not shown any interest in her. He’d attended Robbie’s and Lizzie’s wedding and then vanished. She’d looked for him at every soiree, every ball, every Venetian breakfast. Finally after weeks of discreetly searching, she’d asked Robbie where he was. He’d told her Parks had gone back to his estate in Devon.

  Clearly he had not been as impressed with her as she had with him.

  “You’re right, Charles. I do think Lady Beatrice mentioned Mr. Parker-Roth. I think she even said you favored him, Meg.”

  “Ack. Um. I mean, well—”

  “After I got over the shock—and you do have to admit the scene in Lady Palmerson’s parlor was shocking”—Emma eyed the shawl still wrapped around Meg’s ruined gown—“I began to see the advantages of this match.”

  “Advantages?”

  “Yes. You’ll be married. Mr. Parker-Roth is relatively young—just a little over thirty, I believe—and can give you plenty of children. He has a number of brothers and sisters, you know.”

  “Oh?” Meg swallowed. Children? With Parks? The notion made her feel very…odd.

  “Yes, indeed. And he likes plants. His mother says he has quite a few of them around the estate.”

  “Oh
.”

  “I think he is perfect for you.” Emma leaned back against the squabs. “His mother and I had a comfortable coze while we waited in the corridor. She’s a lovely woman. You can be sure I apologized profusely for my rude behavior. She could not have been nicer—said she understood completely. I will quite like being connected to her.”

  “Emma, you are not going to be connected to Mrs. Parker-Roth. I am not going to marry her son. How many times must I say it?”

  “As many times as you like—it makes no difference. You must marry the man or be ruined.”

  “I do not.”

  “Meg—”

  “Ladies,” Charles said, “it is time to call a halt to this battle. Neither of you is listening to the other.”

  “What do you mean, Charles? Of course I’m listening to Meg. She just is not being reasonable.”

  Charles draped his arm around Emma’s shoulders and pulled her tight against his side. “I think you would both benefit from a good night’s sleep. Sometimes problems look different in the morning.”

  “I don’t know what’s going to be different.”

  “Emma…”

  “Oh, very well.” Emma sat stiffly for a moment and then relaxed against Charles.

  “That’s better,” he said. “Now tell me about Isabelle and Claire and the boys. What new tricks is Henry up to?”

  Meg turned to look out the window again. Emma’s voice droned on in the background, talking about nine-month old Henry and Charlie, who was almost three, and Isabelle and Claire, Charles’s orphaned nieces; telling Charles all the boring, everyday details of their lives that he missed when he was away in London.

  Meg pressed her forehead against the glass, but that didn’t cure the sudden ache in her heart.

  Would she ever have anyone with whom to share such mundane stories?

  “This is splendid news, Pinky. I wish your father were with us. He’ll be so pleased when we tell him.”

  “Mother, you promised not to use that ridiculous nickname any more.” Parks opened the door to their rooms in the Pulteney Hotel. “And I cannot imagine Father would notice if I were married or not. Which I won’t be. Married, that is. Didn’t you hear Miss Peterson? She refused my offer.”

  Mother brushed by him. “Oh, pish! That is merely a temporary setback. You know as well as I do the girl has no choice. She must wed you.”

  “Who must wed whom?” Miss Agatha Witherspoon, Mother’s friend and sometime companion, looked up as they entered the parlor. She put aside the tome she was reading, dropped her slippered feet from a low table, and sat up. “Never say Pinky’s been getting under some chit’s skirts?”

  “Of course not. Well, not exactly.” Mother sat next to Agatha on the settee.

  Parks counted to ten. Twice. It did not help.

  “Will you please not use that infernal nickname!”

  “Pinky!”

  He glared at his mother.

  “Oh, very well—Johnny. But you must learn to keep your temper under control. It is most inappropriate to raise your voice.”

  Agatha was grinning like a bedlamite. “So, the dry old stick actually has some sap running through his veins?”

  “Agatha, please. You are embarrassing Pinky.”

  “Mother!”

  “I mean Johnny. And he is not old—he’s just past thirty.”

  “Humph. He acts like he’s as old as Methuselah.” Agatha snorted. “Older. If Methuselah was like those other Old Testament fellows, he knew his way around a bed better than Pinky here.”

  “Now, Agatha, Pinky”—Mother looked at him—“um, Johnny has a nice widow in the village—”

  “Mother!”

  “Really, Pin-Johnny, what did I say about raising your voice?”

  He was going to strangle her. He was going to strangle his mother and her elderly friend.

  “I believe I could use some brandy,” he said instead.

  “Splendid. You may pour me a glass as well. Agatha, would you care for some brandy?”

  “Certainly. Now tell me all, Cecilia. What has Pinky been up to?”

  “John!” Parks said. “Or Parks. Or Mr. Parker-Roth. Not Pinky. Do you understand, Miss Witherspoon?”

  Agatha shrugged. “Oh, very well, but I will tell you you have no sense of humor, sir. It is a distinct fault in your character.”

  He handed Agatha her brandy without spilling it down the front of the ridiculous red and gold men’s banyan she was wearing, though he was sorely tempted to. “Thank you. I will certainly make note of your observation.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I do feel for the poor girl you’ve compromised, but perhaps she’s as dour as you are.”

  He contented himself with baring his teeth in a formation that might pass for a smile and taking a seat in the chair farthest from the ladies.

  “What are you doing awake anyway, Agatha?” Mother asked. “I thought you were too tired to come out tonight. I expected to find you sound asleep.”

  Agatha took a healthy swallow of her brandy. “You know I only came up to Town with you to visit Ackermann’s and the Royal Academy and perhaps go to the theater, Cecilia. I want no part of all the social torture. Can you see me standing in some stupid ballroom? I’d die of boredom listening to all those fat-pated frumps prose on and on about the other society nodcocks.” She looked at Parks. “Though tonight might have proved an exception. Tell me, who’s the young lady Pinky—I mean, John—has lured into misbehavior?”

  “I did not lure the young lady into misbehavior.”

  “No? Why am I not surprised? So what did happen? Some argument over the flora turn ugly?”

  “Stop, Agatha. You are as bad as Pin-Johnny. No, I believe the young lady did the luring—and it was not Johnny she lured, but Vis—some other man.”

  Thank God Mother had chosen discretion at the last moment. Agatha was obviously not one of society’s gossips, but she also did not watch her tongue. She would think nothing of linking Miss Peterson’s name with Bennington’s. She probably would delight in it—she knew how much Bennington hated her.

  “So why is John the one stuck making the offer?”

  “He was the one caught in the, um, act.”

  “Mother, there was no ‘act’!”

  “Perhaps not that Lady Dunlee saw; however…” Mother raised a damn expressive eyebrow.

  Agatha grunted. “Sounds like the chit’s no better than she should be. Perhaps a little money judiciously applied will solve the problem. Who did you say she was, Cecilia?”

  “I didn’t, but it’s no secret. Lady Dunlee was spreading the tale through the ballroom as quickly as her lips would move. It’s Miss Margaret Peterson—and no, money is not the answer. The girl is good ton. Her sister is the Marchioness of Knightsdale.”

  “Knightsdale?” Agatha sat up a little straighter. “That’s the Draysmith family. Lady Bea is a friend of mine.”

  “She was there. I believe she was acting as Miss Peterson’s chaperone.”

  Agatha sprayed brandy over her banyan. “Lady Bea, a chaperone? That’s rich. What cod’s-head thought Bea would make a good duenna? She was never one to be overly concerned with propriety. Isn’t Alton still her butler?”

  “Yes, well, I don’t believe anyone thought Lady Beatrice was ideal for the position, but necessity dictated the arrangement.” Mother took a sip of brandy. “Lady Knightsdale intends to take charge now—though that’s a bit like closing the barn door after the horse has bolted.”

  “Mother, no horse bolted. Nothing happened.”

  “Nothing?”

  Damn it. Mother had only to raise her eyebrow just so and he felt like he was ten years old again and had just tracked mud over the entry hall. Not that Mother minded the mud so much, but it always sent Mrs. Charing, their old housekeeper, into a frenzy, and Mother did not like that at all.

  “I’m going to bed.”

  “Very well, Johnny. Sleep well. We can discuss this further in the morning.”

  There w
as nothing to discuss, but he wasn’t about to get into an argument, especially with Agatha Witherspoon sitting there, itching to join in the fray.

  He couldn’t force Miss Peterson to the altar. If she remained adamant, there was nothing he could do but go home to the Priory and get on with his life.

  He was surprised the thought didn’t give him more pleasure.

  His valet was sitting by the fire, reading, when he came into the bedroom.

  “You should have joined Agatha, Mac.”

  “Sure, and when did ye get the daft notion I’m an idiot, man?” The large Scotsman grinned. “Nor do I think the lady would be verra pleased to share a candle with me.”

  “Probably not. What’s that you’re reading?”

  Mac’s grin widened. He held up the pamphlet.

  Parks squinted to read the cover. “A Complete Guide to the Cyprians of Covent Garden Including Prices Charged, Places of Business, and Special Amatory Skills. Good God. ‘Special Amatory Skills’? What does that mean?”

  “Do ye really want to know?”

  “No!” The gleam in Mac’s eyes warned him that he definitely did not want to hear any more.

  “Yer sure? Ye don’t want to hear about Red-haired Peg—it’s not the hair on her head’s that’s red, by the by—who can, with her mouth—”

  “Stop! I do not want to hear another word, I assure you. You have said too much already.”

  “And then there’s Buxom Bess who has the largest—”

  “Mac! Please. I have had a hellish evening. I do not need you adding to my headache.”

  “Ack, ye’ve got the headache again, do ye? I’ll just be brewing ye some of my special tea, shall I?”

  “No.” He just wanted to get into bed, pull up the covers, and pretend the evening had never happened. That he’d wake in the morning a free man again.

  But he was a free man. Miss Peterson had rejected his offer.

  Why didn’t he feel free?

  “Just help me out of this blasted coat will you?”

  “Yer sure ye wouldn’t like to take a stroll over to Covent Garden and see if we can find one of these lassies?”