But she was not. She was going to do exactly as Lady Felicity recommended and ignore the ton’s opinion. She would emulate Miss Witherspoon and Lady Bea. She’d be herself. The ton could either accept her or reject her, but they would not change her.
She would do as she pleased, and right now it pleased her to interview possible husbands in the garden. After all, one could not spend one’s life waiting for a knight in shining armor to magically appear and carry one off into a fairy tale existence.
Mr. Parker-Roth’s image intruded, but she pushed it firmly from her thoughts. She was not going to pine away her life, waiting for love. Emma had done that. Emma had loved Charles since childhood, but had done nothing to secure his affections. It was just luck—well, bad luck for Charles’s brother but good luck for Emma—that Charles had inherited the title, come home, and married her. If Charles’s brother hadn’t been murdered, Emma would still be a spinster, keeping house for Papa and driving them all mad.
She glanced around the ballroom again. Emma was talking to Mrs. Parker-Roth on the far side of the room, and Parks was now talking to Lord Featherstone. How appropriate. He was probably trying to get some advice from the old roué. Disgusting.
She stepped out from behind the pillar and surveyed her prospects, being careful to stay turned away from Emma. It would not do to let her sister catch her eye.
So, which man should she take into the bushes? Lord Locklear? Too young. Mr. Cashman? Too old. The Earl of Tattingdon? Too fat.
Lady Felicity had cornered Lord Bennington and was herding him toward the garden door. He was smiling slightly, his enormous nose overshadowing his slug-like lips. Ugh. Felicity was more than welcome to Lord Proboscis.
A tall woman and a taller man stepped through the door right after Felicity and Bennington exited. They looked slightly disheveled, as if they had been doing something more appropriate for a bedchamber. The man whispered in the woman’s ear as he plucked a leaf from her hair. The woman laughed.
They must be married—their actions did not precipitate a storm of whispering.
It would be nice to have a marriage like that. Emma and Charles, Lizzie and Robbie, the Duchess and Duke of Alvord all had such marriages, but they were the exception rather than the rule. She could not set her sights so high.
Lord Frampton was standing alone. Hmm. She’d barely glanced at him since she’d come to Town, but now that she looked at him…
He might do. He was not so ugly, really. He still had a large Adam’s apple that bobbed rather distractingly whenever he swallowed, and his muddy brown hair was already thinning, but at least the pimples that had earned him the nickname “Spots” had faded. Now that he’d inherited the title, gossip said, he’d given up youthful folly. He no longer tried to introduce piglets into noblemen’s drawing rooms.
He needed an heir, so he must be in the market for a wife, and it was unlikely women would be lining up to vie for the position. He was only a baron and not the richest or most attractive specimen. It would be an even trade—a home for her, her body for him.
Her stomach twisted. Put that way, the notion was rather unpalatable. Best not to think about it too closely. She could not be so nice in her requirements. She was only a vicar’s daughter, even though she was the sister-in-law of a marquis. She would not be bringing much besides her body to the altar.
She watched Lord Frampton’s Adam’s apple jump as he took a swallow of champagne.
If only the man had an extensive garden like Lord Bennington, but, sadly, Frampton was interested in hunting, not horticulture. Foxes, not foxglove. Still, she must remain hopeful. Surely he had a plot of earth, no matter how small, that she could cultivate.
And surely Lord Frampton’s lips would not be as slug-like as Bennington’s. They were far too thin. She should be spared that unpleasantness, at least.
She made her way along the perimeter of the room. Being a pariah had its advantages. People moved briskly out of her path. It was almost pleasant, if she ignored the sneers and affronted looks.
She stepped past a cringing clump of debutantes. They erupted into a frenzy of whispers and giggling as soon as the back hem of her dress had passed them.
“Good evening, Lord Frampton.”
The poor man almost jumped out of his skin.
“Miss Peterson. How, ah, good to see you.” His Adam’s apple bobbed furiously, as if it were trying to leap from his throat and flee her presence. He glanced at her; then looked away. Was he searching for someone to rescue him from her evil clutches? She’d never before provoked such obvious panic in a male breast.
“I believe the last time we spoke was at Knightsdale before my sister married the marquis. You attended a house party with your parents and sister.”
“Uh, yes. I remember.” The Adam’s apple was still bouncing at an alarming rate.
“I have yet to extend my condolences on the death of your father last year. I am so sorry for his passing. Was he sick long?”
“No, not sick at all. Hunting accident, don’t you know. Horse refused a fence. Pater went flying. Landed on his head. Broke his neck. Nothing to be done about it.”
“What a tragedy. Hunting is such a dangerous sport.”
“What?” Lord Frampton examined her as if she had suddenly sprouted a second head. “Not dangerous. Bad luck. He’d have been up on his horse in a trice if he hadn’t been dead.”
“Ah. Of course.” She would never understand the attraction of hunting if she lived to be a hundred years old. Riding across the fields, ruining the plants—well, it was clear there was no benefit in arguing the point. If she married this lunatic—that is, this lord—she’d best keep her tongue between her teeth on that subject. She fanned her face. “It’s rather stuffy in here. Would you like to stroll in the garden?”
She might as well have suggested a stroll through Sodom and Gomorrah.
“Garden?” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “I don’t believe…I think…that is, I—”
“I understand Lord Easthaven has some extraordinary plantings.” Extraordinarily dull, not that Lord Frampton would notice.
“I’m, um, not much interested in vegetation. Could all be weeds for all I know. Leave that sort of thing to the gardeners. Pay them enough.”
She almost took pity on him, but there were no other gentlemen at hand.
“Still, it is a beautiful evening.”
“A bit chill.” He eyed her shoulders. “You’d catch your death. Best stay inside.”
She tried to smile. Perhaps Lord Frampton was too much trouble. If she looked—
Lud! Parks was heading her way. He wasn’t going to approach her in such a public location, was he?
He was. She could tell from the intent look on his face and his determined stride.
So could the ton. She could almost hear their collective inhalation of anticipation as they caught the scent of scandal in their supercilious nostrils. They were no different from Lord Frampton’s hounds.
And she was the fox. She had to flee. She grabbed the baron’s arm and pulled him toward the garden door. “My lord, I’m in need of air.”
She must have looked as desperate as she felt, because the man followed her into the night without further protest.
This was by far the worst evening he had ever endured. First he’d made that hideous error in the garden. Then, when he’d come back inside, he’d been pounced on by Lady Easthaven. He’d no sooner shaken her and her pointed references to Miss Peterson than he’d been cornered by Lord Featherstone. Parks struggled to keep his hands at his sides while his fingers twitched to wrap themselves around the old reprobate’s scrawny neck. He’d thought—no, he’d hoped—the man had been put to bed with a shovel years ago, but unfortunately the dirty dish was still above ground.
“So, the chit was a disappointment, heh?” Featherstone leaned close, his stale breath spoiling the air.
Parks stepped back. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“Miss Peterson. Everyo
ne knows you sampled her charms at the Palmerson ball. I take it they were not delicious enough to entice you into parson’s mousetrap?” The old man wheezed with laughter and punched Parks in the shoulder. “Or perhaps you decided there’s no need to pay for what you can get free, hmm?”
He was going to strangle the cur here in the middle of Easthaven’s ballroom. “Lord Featherstone, you completely misconstrue the situation.”
The man smirked and gestured with his head. “Perhaps you’d best tell Frampton. Looks like she’s trying to lure him into the garden now.”
“What?” Damn, Miss Peterson was indeed standing by the garden door, talking to the baron.
“Not that it’s any of my concern, of course,” Featherstone said, “but it does seem a shame. I’ve been watching Lady Caroline hunt Frampton the last few Seasons, even before he inherited. Thought she was finally close to bringing him to bay. Doubt she’ll care for Miss Peterson getting her claws into him.”
Parks grunted. Lady Caroline need not worry. He’d see to it that Miss Peterson did not drag any more men into the shrubbery.
“Excuse me, my lord. I have a matter to attend to.”
The old man chuckled. “Thought you might.”
Parks did not bother to reply. He was saving his words for Miss Peterson.
Chapter 10
She felt like the hounds of hell were after her.
“Miss Peterson.”
She needed to get away, get out of sight. She couldn’t bear to have Mr. Parker-Roth confront her. Yes, her flight was cowardly. She was a coward. She readily admitted it. She would try being brave and standing up to the ton another day, when this particular member of the ton was not present.
“Miss Peterson.”
She scrambled down the terrace steps. Lord Easthaven had a few lanterns hung on poles, but there were still plenty of shadows. Another ten yards and she’d be in blessed darkness.
“Miss Peterson!”
Someone tugged on her arm. She tugged back. She could not stop here. Parks must be right behind her.
“Miss Peterson, stop. The air is just as good on the terrace as elsewhere in the garden.”
She looked over her shoulder. Parks had not yet appeared, but she knew it was too much to hope he would not do so very soon. She still had time to hide, if she could only get Lord Frampton to cooperate. She glanced up at him. He did not look at all cooperative.
“It is partly an agitation of the mind, Lord Frampton. Light exacerbates the condition. Complete darkness is what I need.”
Lord Frampton crossed his arms. “Came on rather suddenly, didn’t it?”
“Yes.” She glanced back at the ballroom again. She must have only seconds before Parks appeared in the doorway. “I am certain a short turn about the darker portion of the garden will have me feeling much better.”
Lord Frampton snorted.
“Excuse me?” She had not expected this reaction.
“No. Sorry for your indisposition, but I won’t go any farther. Can’t.”
“Why can’t you?”
“Reputation. Yours ain’t great, you know. Don’t want mine to suffer, too.”
When had Lord Frampton turned into such a prude? Was this the man who’d been flinging bachelor’s buttons at his friends just four years ago and who’d tried to introduce a piglet into Charles’s drawing room?
He looked back at the ballroom this time. Relief washed over his features.
“Maybe Parker-Roth will take a turn about the grounds with you.”
“What?” She followed Frampton’s gaze. Parks had finally stepped onto the terrace. He did not look happy.
She picked up her skirts and ran.
“I don’t know what to do about Meg.” Emma pleated the fabric of her gown and then smoothed it flat. She’d asked Mrs. Parker-Roth to step into a deserted sitting room. She definitely did not want to discuss such a sensitive topic in the ballroom. Far too many nasty ears would be cocked to catch every whisper.
Mrs. Parker-Roth’s hand appeared in Emma’s line of sight and patted her knee. Emma looked up. How could the woman remain calm? Her own stomach was knotted so tightly even the sight of a lobster patty made her nauseous. The way the ton had treated Meg in the ballroom—
She sniffed back tears and reached for her handkerchief.
“I have made such a botch of this.”
“No. How can you say so?”
Emma blew her nose. “You are just being kind. I should never have let Meg come up to Town with only Lady Bea to chaperone her.”
“Lady Knightsdale—”
“Please, call me Emma.” Her voice broke.
“Emma, then.” Mrs. Parker-Roth took the hand that did not contain Emma’s crumpled handkerchief. “Lady Beatrice is a rather eccentric character—”
“Rather? She is going to marry her butler.”
“Yes, I know.” Mrs. Parker-Roth smiled. “She does follow her own path, but you must not think she is a complete ninnyhammer. On the contrary, she is awake on every suit. I’m certain she knew exactly what your sister was doing.”
“How could she have?” What sane woman would let her charge entertain men in the bushes? “Did she want Meg to ruin her reputation?”
“Of course not. But you know Lady Bea isn’t especially concerned about reputations. Agatha was right on that score.”
The knot in her stomach tightened, if that were possible. “A woman who cares nothing for reputations should not be a chaperone.”
“I didn’t say Bea cared nothing for reputations.” Mrs. Parker-Roth’s tone was reproachful. “She just cares about other things more. Meg’s happiness, for example.”
“Yes, but—” Emma closed her eyes. Everything was such an awful mess. How could she have told Charles’s aunt that she was an incompetent chaperone? But she was. She’d let Meg run wild.
On the other hand, who could have imagined Meg running wild anywhere but through a field of unusual vegetation? If anyone had asked her before this infernal Season, Emma would have sworn the only reason Meg would drag a man into the shrubbery would be to secure his help in identifying a rare plant.
Who was this girl who was her sister?
“I just don’t understand. Meg’s always been, well, different, but not reckless. She’s not a light-skirt.”
“No one would think for a moment she was.”
“How can you say that? Half or more of the ton in that ballroom think so—they are even saying so.”
Mrs. Parker-Roth dismissed the ball goers with a wave of her hand. “Gossip only. They are enjoying today’s scandal—they will enjoy tomorrow’s scandal tomorrow. Do not worry.”
“Not worry? The gossip will force Meg to come h-home and spend her d-days a s-spinster.” Emma closed her lips firmly to repress the wail that threatened. “It’s not that I don’t want Meg home. I l-love her.” She sniffed. “I want her to be h-happy.”
She took off her spectacles and sobbed.
She felt an arm go around her shoulders, urging her close. She breathed in the scent of roses and linen, and rested her cheek against Mrs. Parker-Roth’s warm, soft chest.
She had not felt a mother’s touch in over twenty years.
She cried harder. Mrs. Parker-Roth just held her.
“You’ve done a splendid job, Emma,” Mrs. Parker-Roth rubbed her shoulder. “You took on so much responsibility at such a young age.”
“No. I’ve made micefeet of everything.”
“Nonsense. You are being foolish beyond permission.”
“I’m not.” Emma sat up and blew her nose. “Meg’s reputation is in shambles and I’ve insulted Charles’s aunt. I’m sure Lady Beatrice will never speak to me again.”
“Of course Lady Bea will speak to you. You’re Charles’s wife and the mother of his sons. You are making him very happy.” Mrs. Parker-Roth grinned. “Actually, Bea is probably thanking you right now.”
“She couldn’t be.”
“Indeed she could. You know she has no patien
ce with the ton. She hates society entertainments. She’s always bored and desperate to escape when she has to attend them. I imagine it’s the reason she drinks so much. It’s imbibe or scream.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Yes, I do. Bea would much rather be home with Mr. Alton. She does love him, you know.”
Emma sighed. “I hope you are right.”
Perhaps she should take Meg home to Knightsdale and come back next Season to start over. Some people would remember Meg’s missteps, but many would have forgotten, their attention taken up with new scandals.
It was a good idea. The boys had more freedom in the country. The air was healthier. Perhaps Charlie would not have gotten an earache if they’d stayed home. And country society was much more congenial. In fact, perhaps it would be best not to come back to London at all. She could host a house party and fill Knightsdale with eligible bachelors, much like Lady Beatrice had done with ladies when Charles inherited the title and was looking for a wife.
“I think we should go home.”
“No, Emma, don’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“It is retreating.” Mrs. Parker-Roth shook her head. “It is admitting defeat.”
“Well, I am defeated!” Despair sat on her chest again like a lead weight. “If only…” If only Mother hadn’t died. If Meg had had a real mother growing up, she probably would be happily married today—not dashing off into the vegetation with any stray man.
It was as if Mrs. Parker-Roth had read her mind. She put her hand on her arm. “Do not blame yourself for your sister’s behavior.”
“But—”
“No buts, Emma. You cannot live Meg’s life for her, no matter how much you try.” Mrs. Parker-Roth smiled slightly. “Believe me. I have six children, and I can assure you, no matter what I do, no matter how much I try to direct them, they all do exactly as they please. It can be exceedingly annoying, but ultimately it is what you want—to raise strong, independent people who know their own mind.”
Sally MacKenzie Bundle Page 44
