Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  Meg opened her mouth to protest the duchess calling Parks a reprobate, but Emma spoke first.

  “There will be far more than a little talk!”

  Sarah shrugged. “So Meg goes home for the rest of the Season. That’s not a tragedy.”

  Emma was visibly struggling to contain her temper. “If she goes home now, everyone will assume the worst.”

  “Emma!”

  The children looked at Meg again. She dropped her voice with effort. “Emma—”

  “Meg, that is exactly what they will think. You would not be the first young lady to retreat from London because she is breeding.”

  “I am not breeding.”

  Emma put her hands on her hips. “And you won’t ever be if you don’t wed soon. You are twenty-one. You are not getting any younger.”

  The duchess laughed. “Emma, both you and I were well over twenty-one when we married.”

  “That was different. Neither of us had had the opportunity to meet an eligible party. And neither of us was darting into the shrubbery with any passing gentleman.”

  “I was not darting into the shrubbery with any passing gentleman.”

  Emma glared at Meg. “Your reputation is hanging by a thread, miss. Sarah has been giving me an earful.”

  “Your Grace.” Meg had not expected the duchess to bear tales.

  “It’s true, Meg. I don’t think you should wed Mr. Parker-Roth if you cannot care for him, but you are in danger of putting yourself beyond the pale.”

  “I suppose you could go home and marry Mr. Cuttles,” Emma said. “He’s recently widowed. I believe he’s in the market for a new wife.”

  Emma couldn’t be serious. “I am not marrying Mr. Cuttles. He’s at least fifty years old!”

  “Oh, I don’t believe he’s much past forty-five. And he’s in fine shape for a man his age.”

  “He could be in spectacular shape—I am not marrying him.” Meg turned to the duchess. “And though I’m not marrying Mr. Parker-Roth either, he is not a reprobate.”

  “He’s not?” The duchess frowned. “But he attacked you in the shrubbery, didn’t he?”

  “No, that was Lord Bennington. Mr. Parker-Roth rescued me.”

  “And attacked you in Lady Palmerson’s parlor,” Emma said.

  Meg flushed. “He didn’t precisely attack me—and, in any event, Lady Dunlee did not see that.”

  “Mrs. Parker-Roth did, though.” Emma smiled for once. “She said it was completely out of character, that her son was usually a fusty old stick. I think she was rather pleased.”

  “I’m certain you are mistaken.” Meg was certain if she got any redder, she’d burst into flame.

  “Ah.” The duchess looked like she was trying not to laugh. “And I assume you were struggling to escape Mr. Parker-Roth’s attentions, Meg?”

  “Um…” Meg looked away, down to where Lord Walthingham and Charlie were still building their tower. Lord David was just about to—

  “Watch out!”

  Too late. David laughed and grabbed for a block, sending the tower crashing to the ground.

  The earl and the marquis wailed. David fell down and started crying. Henry, not to be left out, opened his mouth and howled.

  Meg wished she could scream along with the children.

  “Pinky, I’ve invited Miss Peterson and Lady Knightsdale to call this afternoon.”

  Parks put down his coffee and glared at his mother. “Do not call me ‘Pinky.’”

  Mother smiled briefly. “Sorry. I forgot.”

  “You did not forget. You did it on purpose to annoy me.”

  Mother looked at him reproachfully. Damn. Now he’d hurt her feelings.

  “Your pardon. I’m a little peevish this morning. I did not sleep well.”

  Mother reached over and patted his hand.

  “Of course you’re a bit out of sorts. A lot has occurred in the last few hours. You’ll feel better once you settle into your new role.”

  “My new role?”

  “Of married man, of course.”

  “There is no ‘of course’ about it, Mother. I told you, Miss Peterson declined my offer. I am not getting married. In fact, I think it was extremely ill-advised of you to invite the ladies here.”

  “Oh, pish.” Mother dipped her toast calmly into her tea. “Of course I invited them. I wish to become acquainted with your future wife.” She took a bite of soggy toast. “Don’t feel you need to be here, though.”

  “Mother.” He took a deep breath. He would not bellow at her. He would speak slowly and distinctly. With authority. “Miss Peterson…has…declined…my…offer. She will not be my wife.”

  Mother snorted. “Miss Peterson cannot decline your offer.”

  “Well, she has done so.”

  “Her family will persuade her to see reason. She’ll meet you at the altar.”

  No one had persuaded Grace to see reason. She’d left him quite alone at the front of the church.

  Damn, where had that thought come from?

  “Mother, this is England. Women cannot be forced to marry. If Miss Peterson does not wish to wed me, there is no more to be said.”

  “Johnny, you are being purposely obtuse. I know what I saw in Lady Palmerson’s parlor. No one was forcing Miss Peterson to hold your head while you—”

  “Yes, well, um, enough said about that.” He pulled at his cravat. It was damn hot in here. “That was a momentary aberration.”

  “Well, stage a few more aberrations. I’m sure you can get the girl so overcome with lust, she’ll say yes to anything. Why, your father—”

  Parks leapt up, spilling his coffee. He mopped at it with his napkin before it could cascade onto the floor. He most assuredly did not want to hear any sentence that began “your father” and followed a sentence containing the word “lust.”

  “Forgive me. I have just remembered an urgent appointment with my…banker. Yes, my banker.” He checked his watch. “By Jove, I’m late already. I really must run. So sorry to have to interrupt our chat.”

  Mother snorted into her tea. He chose to ignore the sound.

  “Mac will escort you and Agatha wherever you need to go. I will be out all day.”

  “Just be certain you are back in time to escort me to the Easthaven ball.”

  “Yes, yes. Don’t worry. I’ll be back in time.”

  He almost ran from the room.

  “Hiding?”

  Parks grunted. He’d thought he was safe in this remote corner of White’s, half hidden by an undernourished ficus tree. He should have known better. Although Westbrooke was normally very easy-going, he could be as tenacious as a terrier if he thought the occasion warranted it.

  This, apparently, was such an occasion.

  The earl sprawled into the chair next to his, putting a bottle of brandy on the table between them.

  “You did pick the perfect place to go to ground, though. White’s won’t let even the most determined woman through its portals.” Westbrooke poured two glasses and handed one to Parks.

  It was useless to protest the company—and he needed a drink. He took the amber liquid after only a moment’s hesitation.

  “Miss Peterson is not determined to find me, I assure you.”

  “I’m not so sure of that, but I wasn’t talking about Meg. Emma is the one who will not let you escape.” Westbrooke grinned. “If she chooses to go after you—when she chooses to go after you—you have no hope. If she can’t locate you, she’ll send Charles to find you, wherever you try to hide.”

  “Surely neither the marchioness nor the marquis want Miss Peterson cursed with an unwilling groom.”

  Westbrooke paused with his glass at his lips. “Eh? Are you unwilling?”

  “Of course. You know I do not want to wed. I have no need to. Unlike you, I have no title to pass on.”

  “Hmm.” Westbrooke gave him a long look.

  Parks dropped his gaze to study his brandy. Surely the man would let sleeping dogs lie.

  A
vain hope.

  “There are other reasons for marriage, Parks, than primogeniture.”

  He forced a laugh. “What? Having a female handy for bed play? A mistress can do that as well—better—than some frightened, frigid virgin.”

  The words came out more harshly than he’d intended. He glanced at Westbrooke. The earl was frowning at him.

  “Well, there is that, though I wouldn’t have put it quite so crudely.”

  He wouldn’t have either, normally. Damn, his nerves were shot, and his head was pounding as if a blacksmith had set up shop inside it.

  “My apologies. Headache, don’t you know. I didn’t mean any insult. Obviously, marriage is a fine institution. It is just not for me.”

  “Parks, just because Grace—”

  Zeus! He could not go there. “Westbrooke, please. I’m certain you mean well. I just…I really do not wish to discuss the topic.”

  There was a long pause, and then the earl sighed. “Very well. I will change the subject.”

  “Thank God.”

  “After I have said just one more word.”

  Parks groaned. “Must you?”

  Westbrooke grinned. “Hear me out and then I promise to leave off teasing you about it—at least for today.”

  Parks grunted. His teeth were clenched so tightly, he feared his jaw might shatter.

  “I hate to see your life ruined because of an event that happened three years ago.”

  Four, but Parks wasn’t counting. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “A little matter of being left at the altar on your wedding day.”

  “Oh, that.” Parks tried to laugh, but the sound got caught in his throat. He turned it into a cough. “Please, Westbrooke, that’s ancient history. I hardly give it a thought any more.” If “hardly” meant less than ten times a day. “I’m on completely cordial terms with Lady Dawson and her husband.”

  “Have you spoken to her about it?”

  Parks closed his eyes so they didn’t start from his head. Talk to Grace about that mortifying morning? Was Westbrooke mad? He’d rather have all his finger and toenails pulled out slowly than talk to Grace about their failed wedding.

  “I don’t believe the subject has come up. I’m not in London often, you know, and Lady Dawson rarely visits her father.”

  “That’s no surprise. The man’s a petty tyrant. I’m certain you can lay the blame for your matrimonial disaster squarely on his doorstep. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d starved the girl to accept your suit. Certainly he must have threatened her in some fashion.”

  Splendid. That made him feel even better—he was such a sorry connubial candidate a woman had to be forced to wed him. And even coercion hadn’t worked. Grace had still managed to flee.

  “Why do you think Miss Peterson’s family would urge her to accept my suit if another woman so loathed me she had to elope in the dead of night?”

  “Lady Dawson didn’t loathe you, Parks.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  Westbrooke gave him an exasperated look. “All right, for the sake of argument, we’ll assume she did loathe you. She is still only one woman.”

  “Miss Peterson is not clamoring to wed me, either, as you may have noticed.”

  “No?” Westbrooke smirked. “I didn’t see her struggling to get off your lap in Lady Palmerson’s parlor. And one does wonder how she happened to disarrange her dress so noticeably.”

  “You know she’d been attacked by that bounder, Bennington.”

  “Bennington wasn’t the only one attacking that evening.”

  Certainly it was too dark in this corner of White’s for Westbrooke to see him flush? And he wasn’t blushing in any case. He was merely overly warm.

  “The fact remains—Miss Peterson rejected my offer. There is nothing more to be said on the matter.”

  “Oh, I give up. You are impossible.” Westbrooke stood abruptly. “Stay here and stew if you like. I will leave you the brandy so you can be well marinated. Just think on this—I almost let my past rule my future. If events hadn’t fallen out as they did—if I hadn’t been forced by scandal to wed Lizzie—I would never have known happiness. I’d hate to see you miss such pleasure because you also lack the courage to face your past.”

  “Now wait a minute—”

  Westbrooke was already gone.

  Bloody, bloody hell. Parks took a large swallow of brandy. It went down the wrong way, sending him into a coughing fit. A few denizens of White’s peered around the sad ficus to see who was choking. He muffled his paroxysms with his handkerchief.

  He couldn’t muffle the galling thought—was Westbrooke right? Was he a coward?

  Ridiculous. The earl had no idea what he felt. He had not been left standing before a church filled with friends, family, and the gossip-hungry ton. Westbrooke had not had to see pity in his parents’ eyes or listen to the whispering.

  Westbrooke had no bloody idea how much Grace’s betrayal had hurt.

  Damn. He pounded his fist on his knee. The pain felt good. Westbrooke was right about one thing. The disaster with Grace was in the past. It should stay there. It would stay there. As soon as Mother finished buying her blasted paints, they would go home to the Priory and he would see if MacGill had taken proper care of the latest shipment of exotic plants.

  He would be delighted to leave London. Bloody delighted. He poured himself another large glass of brandy. God, how he hated Town. Once he’d shaken its dust from his feet, he’d feel much better. Everything would be back to normal.

  He had a sudden image of Miss Peterson in Lady Palmerson’s hideous red parlor, her hair spread over her shoulders. Her long, lovely hair, her white skin, her soft, white breasts. The lovely taste of—

  Bloody hell.

  He couldn’t help it if his male instincts were inflamed by the sight of a half-naked female, could he? He frowned at the specific organ that was currently so inflamed it was almost painful. He shifted in his seat. He was a man, after all. Men were made with certain…needs. It was a purely physical, animal reaction.

  He took another swallow of brandy.

  The worst of it was he couldn’t get a decent night’s sleep. The damn woman had invaded his dreams. He’d woken twice—no, three times—last night in an extremely uncomfortable state.

  He shifted position again. He needed to visit Cat as soon as he got home. A quick session in her bed would cure him of this malady, he was sure of it. It had to or he would go stark, raving mad.

  Chapter 7

  “Emma, this is most definitely a bad idea.”

  “Nonsense, Meg. You need to become acquainted with your future mother-in-law.”

  Meg was sorely tempted to drum her heels against the carriage floor. “Mrs. Parker-Roth is not my future mother-in-law. Do I need to take out an announcement in The Morning Post for you to understand that?”

  “Hmm. Excellent point. Mr. Parker-Roth should place an announcement in the Post as soon as possible. I will hint about it to his mother, though I imagine she has already mentioned it to him. She struck me as a very capable woman.”

  “Emma!” Meg took a deep breath. Shouting never worked with Emma. The woman existed in her own little world, merrily planning away other people’s lives. A mature, measured tone would be better.

  “Emma.” Yes, that sounded more the thing. Calm. Mature. “There. Is. No. Announcement.” Excellent. Taking a breath after each word worked wonders. Relaxing her hands would also be a good idea. She was not going to engage in fisticuffs with her sister. “Do. You. Comprehend?”

  Emma frowned at her. “What is the matter with you? You sound as queer as Dick’s hatband. You didn’t hit your head getting into the coach, did you?”

  Fisticuffs sounded like an excellent notion. Or strangulation.

  “I am not marrying Mr. Parker-Roth.”

  “Meg, please, lower your voice. Whatever would Mr. Parker-Roth’s mother think of you?”

  Meg tried another deep breath, but
it wasn’t working. Mature and measured had deserted her. Once Emma got the bit between her teeth, there was no stopping her. She was just like a runaway horse.

  She only hoped Mrs. Parker-Roth was more rational.

  The coach slowed. Emma looked out the window and nodded. Meg’s stomach dropped to her slippers.

  “Here we are. Come along, Meg. We don’t want to keep our hostess waiting.”

  Emma was out of the carriage the moment the footman let down the steps. Meg paused and looked up at the impressive façade of the Pulteney, one of London’s most fashionable hotels.

  It looked like the gates of Hell.

  Lud! What if Parks was with his mother? She hadn’t considered that, but obviously he was staying here as well.

  “Miss Peterson?” The footman extended his hand again to assist her down the steps.

  She stared at his gloved fingers. They looked smaller than Parks’s. Were they as unfashionably tanned as well? Not that she objected to sun-darkened skin…or strong fingers, slightly roughened, sliding over her, cupping her breast, touching her aching nipples—

  She took a deep, shuddery breath.

  She definitely did not want to see Mr. Parker-Roth, especially in the company of his mother and Emma.

  “Are you all right, Miss Peterson?” The footman’s voice held a note of worry.

  Emma came back to the carriage. “Meg, what is the matter with you?” She glanced at the men and women walking by and leaned closer to hiss, “You are making a spectacle of yourself.”

  “I—” People were beginning to stop and gape at her. “I, um…”

  “Come on!” Emma turned to nod at Mrs. Windham who’d chosen to examine them through her lorgnette. The old bat raised her eyebrow; Emma raised her nose and looked down it as if she were a…a…marchioness. Meg blinked. Emma was a marchioness, of course, and had been for almost four years, but she’d been simple Miss Peterson, the vicar’s daughter, for twenty-six years before that. She’d always been somewhat bossy—at least toward Meg—but hardly imperious. Apparently now she’d mastered the trick of putting nasty old tabbies in their place.