Meg did laugh then. “Put your mind at rest. Mr. Parker-Roth’s affections are not engaged. He has much the same sentiments toward me as you apparently do.”
Lady Dawson paused with her mouth open.
“He does?”
“Yes.”
She tapped her finger against her lips. “No, I think you are mistaken.”
Was the woman a fugitive from Bedlam? “I am not mistaken.”
“I grant you, it is hard to discern his feelings. That is my fault, I’m afraid.”
“Your fault? What do you mean?”
“You really have not heard the story?”
“No.” Meg was not at all certain she wanted to hear it.
“I would have thought someone would have told you, as you are virtually betrothed to John.”
“What?!” Virtually betrothed to Parks? What was the woman thinking? And…John? Lady Dawson called Parks by his Christian name? Just how closely associated were they?
Did she really want to know?
“I am not now nor do I anticipate ever being betrothed to Mr. Parker-Roth. Listen carefully as I am growing very tired of saying this: the gentleman has absolutely no interest in wedding me.”
“I think you are wrong.”
Meg experienced a strong urge to grab her hair—hers or Lady Dawson’s—by its roots and pull. “What do you mean, you think I am wrong?”
“I’ve been watching John. He watches you.”
“Ridiculous.” The woman was a refugee from Bedlam.
“No, it’s true. I noticed it at the Easthaven ball. The moment John entered the ballroom, he looked for you.”
“You are mistaken.” If Parks had looked for her it was only to make note of where she was so he could avoid her.
“I am not mistaken. You don’t understand. I feel…guilty about John. I worry about him. Are you certain you’ve never heard the story?”
Meg considered screaming. “Yes, I am certain I have not heard the story. Why don’t you tell me it?”
“You’re quite sure John has never mentioned me?”
“Lady Dawson, I have been trying to explain. Mr. Parker-Roth and I do not converse.” The man is too busy doing other things with his tongue to have a conversation.
Meg pressed her lips together. She hadn’t said that last bit aloud, had she? Apparently not. Lady Dawson had not run screaming with her hands over her ears or collapsed into a massive fit of the vapors. Instead the woman sighed.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. The memory may still be too painful for him.”
Meg lost her patience. “What memory, Lady Dawson?”
The other woman looked away. “I…that is…well…” She bit her lip. “It is rather difficult to discuss.”
On second thought, perhaps it would be better if she did not hear this story. Something painful involving Lady Dawson and “John” was probably best left unmentioned. “Don’t feel you need to—”
“No, I do. I owe it to John.” Lady Dawson took a deep breath and looked directly at Meg. “You see, I left him at the altar.”
Meg felt as if someone had kicked her in the stomach. “You what?”
“I left John at the altar four years ago.” Lady Dawson glanced away. “It was not well done of me.”
Meg’s breath hadn’t come back and now her heart was pounding as if she had just run a mile.
Parks had been engaged to Lady Dawson. He had almost married her.
He had loved her.
Did he love her still? Was that why he had sworn off marriage?
She forced herself to breathe.
She had to think. Unfortunately her brain was not functioning.
Lady Dawson was standing right next to her, noting her reaction. She clasped her hands tightly. She could not let the woman know she was upset.
She was not upset. Why should she be upset? The world had not ended. She was still standing under an oak tree on the Duke of Hartford’s estate. Ladies were still strolling along the lawn; gentlemen still playing bowls; children still running, babies crying. Life had not changed one iota simply because she now knew…because Lady Dawson had just told her…
Because it was clear Mr. Parker-Roth did not love her.
Of course he did not love her. Why would he? Or perhaps more to the point, why would she think he would? He had not made the slightest effort to contact her after he’d left Lord Tynweith’s estate last year. He had not sought her out when he returned to London this Season. Their only connection was due to his misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He had offered for her, yes, but his offer had been compelled by circumstances. Well, perhaps it had also been compelled by Emma and Charles, but the point was the same. Love had nothing—nothing—to say to the matter.
Why was she even considering the issue? She had already refused him. And in any event, she did not love him.
Right.
She was a terrible liar.
To be fair, she hadn’t realized the extent of her feelings—her folly—until just now.
She cleared her throat. Conversation. She had to speak of something before Lady Dawson discerned the depth of her foolishness.
“So you left Mr. Parker-Roth at the altar? You walked away—”
“No.” Lady Dawson looked down at her hands. “I never came.”
This was worse than she thought. “You never came to the church at all?”
Lady Dawson nodded.
“But surely you told him beforehand? You didn’t let him face his family, his friends, all the guests thinking you were coming?” Had the man literally been left standing at the front of the church, and then, when it became painfully apparent his bride was indeed not going to appear, forced to face all the questions, the pity, the whispering?
And now she was subjecting him to more tittle-tattle. No wonder he was short-tempered. He must hate her. Certainly he would not wish to face another wedding no matter how much Emma and Charles pushed him.
“It was despicable of me, I know, but I misunderstood…” Lady Dawson was saying. “I thought my father—” She shook her head, then leaned forward and jabbed her finger at Meg. “The point is, Miss Peterson, I will not let John be hurt again, so if you have any intentions of playing fast and loose with his affections, I suggest you reconsider.”
Meg did not care for Lady Dawson’s tone. Why was the woman taking her to task? She had not left Mr. Parker-Roth standing in the church without a bride.
“Lady Dawson, believe me, I do not have Mr. Parker-Roth’s affections in my control.”
“As I’ve said, I am not so certain I believe that is true.”
“Well, believe it.”
They were back to snarling over the same bone—not that either could lay claim to it.
Lady Dawson blinked first. She stepped back.
“I will be watching you, Miss Peterson. You may have lofty connections, but I, too, can bring influence to bear. My husband is a baron and my father is the Earl of Standen. More importantly, I have been out in society more years than you. I know which ears to whisper in to speed a story through the ton. I can ruin you, Miss Peterson, and I will if you injure John in any way. Do not doubt it.”
Lady Dawson turned on her heel and strode back to the rest of the party. Meg didn’t even watch her go. She was too angry.
The woman was insufferable. To assume she would toy with Parks’s affections…to assume she had any hope of influencing those affections…
Damn and blast! She needed an entirely new vocabulary to express her feelings on the subject.
“Miss Peterson, how delightful to see you again.” Miss Witherspoon was dressed in a puce sari today with two yellow plumes in her hair. She smiled as she piled her plate high with lobster patties. As she grabbed the last one, she glanced at Meg. She paused, the food suspended in air, and then sighed and released her prize. “Do try the lobster patties before they are all gone.”
“Do you recommend them?” Meg glanced around. Except for Miss Wit
herspoon and herself, the refreshment room was deserted.
“Yes, indeed. They are among the best I have sampled, and believe me, I am quite the connoisseur.”
“I see.” Meg looked back at the table. She stared at the lone lump of lobster. Normally she liked the dish, but she was still too upset from her encounter with Lady Dawson to contemplate putting anything in her stomach. “Unfortunately, I find I am not hungry.”
“What a shame.” Miss Witherspoon scooped the remaining patty back up almost before Meg stopped talking. “Perhaps you would prefer some stewed eels?”
“No.” Stewed eels did not tempt her even in the best of circumstances.
Miss Witherspoon added a helping of eels to her plate. “I cannot imagine why you sought out the refreshments if you were not hungry, Miss Peterson.”
“Um.” There was no plausible explanation. She’d just needed to get as far from Lady Dawson and the bowling green as she could. And as far from Parks as possible. Lud! In trying to elude Lady Dawson, she’d almost stumbled onto him talking with Charles by an ornamental pool.
Perhaps a glass of lemonade would help calm her nerves.
“These social gatherings are a trifle flat, don’t you agree?” Miss Witherspoon completed her selections with a spoonful of marrow pudding. “The level of conversation is severely lacking.”
“Um.” The lemonade wasn’t helping. A woman started to enter the room, looked at Miss Witherspoon, and turned, managing to retreat without getting more than half of her body over the threshold.
“Please, sit with me.” Miss Witherspoon grabbed Meg’s elbow and directed her to a table by a window. “I’ve been meaning to talk with you.”
“You have?” Parks couldn’t be hungry, could he? She looked out the window. She had a good view of the lawn. She should be able to see him coming and flee in time.
“Yes, indeed. I just received a letter from my friend Prudence. We are leaving for South America in two weeks’ time. We will sail up the Amazon and explore the jungle. I thought of you immediately. You must join us.”
Meg stopped staring out the window to stare at Miss Witherspoon. The woman popped a forkful of stewed eels in her mouth and smiled.
“Oh, I…” The Amazon! It was botanical heaven. She’d never dared dream she could visit the Amazon. The wealth, the variety of vegetation…She was sure to discover new species of any number of plants.
So why did she not feel more excited? Worse, why did a certain gentleman’s face keep intruding on her thoughts? She most definitely did not want to think about Parks.
“I don’t know if—”
“Nonsense.” Miss Witherspoon speared some more stewed eels. “Be decisive, Miss Peterson. You are twenty-one years old, are you not?”
“Yes, but Emma—”
“Bah! Your sister must cut the leading strings sometime. You are a grown woman. You need to make your own way in the world.” Miss Witherspoon leaned closer, stewed eels dangling on the fork between them. “Mark my words, Miss Peterson. If you don’t choose your own course, your sister and my friend Cecilia will chart it for you—straight into Pinky’s bed.”
Meg swallowed. The thought of making her way to Mr. Parker-Roth’s bed caused a number of disturbing changes in her physiology, changes that were becoming all too commonplace. She told her traitorous body to stop humming in anticipation. The man was either pining for Lady Dawson or determined never to wed—or both.
“What do you say, Miss Peterson? Will you join us? It is time for you to seek some adventure in your life.”
“Yes, yes, you’re right. I just don’t…it is all rather sudden. I will have to think about it.”
“Well, don’t think too long. Opportunity knocks but once and all that. You need to be ready to open the door.”
“Um.” The door that immediately sprung to mind was the door to Mr. Parker-Roth’s bedchamber.
She was in a sorry state indeed when “adventure” made her think more of bodies than botany. “I will definitely give it serious consideration.”
“Felicity, this is not the appropriate place for such activities. Someone might come upon us at any moment.”
“Bennie, you worry too much. Concentrate on the matter at hand.” Felicity stroked the matter in her hand and the viscount drew in a sharp breath.
“Felicity!” His voice was an urgent whisper; his head turned right and left; his eyes scanned the area; but his…well, he did not step back out of reach. “We are in plain sight.”
“Only to someone coming from the house. Anyone approaching from the bowling green or the river needs to walk around this splendid hedge before he or she catches sight of us.” She unbuttoned the fall on his pantaloons. “There are very few people at the house.”
He grabbed her wrist. “There are some people at the house.”
She laughed and employed her other hand. It was such fun teasing him. She had never flirted with anyone so staid.
She had never flirted in quite this way. She had teased before and tempted, but not…played this way. She had never focused much on the person attached to the organ. She had thought one male interchangeable with any other. She grinned at Lord Bennington.
She had been mistaken. Bennie was quite unique.
“I will keep a sharp look-out.” She ran her fingers up his growing length. He was a splendidly robust man. She could hardly wait to enjoy his full…attention.
She frowned. Frankly, she could not wait at all. Father’s financial situation was worsening rapidly. It was possible Bennington would jilt her if he learned the full extent of the earl’s liabilities before parson’s mousetrap snapped shut. It would be a scandal, but most of society would forgive him easily. She was only evil Lord Needham’s daughter, after all.
A silly pain settled around the area of her heart. Would Bennie jilt her if he knew she was on the verge of poverty? Probably. She had no indication that more than lust was involved, at least on his part. But then men were so often driven by lust.
No, she definitely needed a wedding ring on her finger before word of her father’s pecuniary disaster flooded the ton. The problem was Lord Bennington wanted a large wedding to suit his sense of importance, which was very large indeed.
She hoped lust would persuade consequence that a special license and a hurried exchange of vows was the best plan.
She moved her fingers and felt him leap in her hand. He was breathing quite heavily and had shifted his grip to her shoulders. Should she employ her mouth as well?
No. She heard the crunch of shoes on loose stone. Their little interlude was over for now. She patted him as she withdrew her hand. She smiled at his low growl.
“My lord, we have company.”
It took a moment for rationality to return to his eyes. He muttered a curse and jumped back.
Perhaps she wouldn’t have much longer to wait for that wedding ring.
Damn. Parks stopped on the stone walk. For an instant he thought about ducking down a side path, but it was too late. She’d seen him. It would look exceedingly odd now if he changed directions.
“Miss Peterson. Are you enjoying the day?”
She didn’t look as if she were enjoying anything. She looked…well, it was a little difficult to describe how she looked. There had been a flash of what could have been pleasure—he thought her eyes had brightened and her lips turned up—but the expression had vanished so quickly, he wouldn’t swear he’d seen it at all. Now her face was bright red and she was frowning at him.
Knightsdale had said she was mad for him. The marquis was the one who was mad. Miss Peterson looked simply angry.
“What are you doing here?”
He felt his eyebrows shoot up. So angry she’d forgotten her manners or even her wit. She must have realized her tone was less than polite because she looked away, crossing her arms under her breasts.
Her very nice breasts. He remembered in exquisite detail how they felt and tasted.
Could he seduce her?
No, of co
urse not. What was the matter with him? She was a gently bred young lady—who apparently hated him. The sister-in-law of a marquis—a marquis who had tacitly invited him to have his wicked way with her. Were hatred and love so different? Where there was one passion, couldn’t the other follow?
Damn and blast. He was losing his mind. He did not want to marry anyone, let alone Miss Peterson. He wanted to get the bloody hell out of London and back to the Priory where he could think clearly. He’d go to the Horticultural Society meeting this week and then he would drag his mother home. His plants had been without him too long as it was.
“I am aimlessly ambling around this bloody blasted estate until I can persuade my mother and Miss Witherspoon to depart. What are you doing?”
“The same.” She smiled slightly when she said it. “Well, the aimlessly ambling part. I have nothing to say about your mother’s and Miss Witherspoon’s departure.”
It was better for his peace of mind when she was scowling.
“Shall we amble aimlessly together?” He offered her his arm. She smiled again—almost shyly—and took it.
Damn it all to hell. He should not be feeling a thrill at the touch of Miss Peterson’s gloved fingers on his arm. It was Knightsdale’s fault for putting thoughts of seduction in his head. He was only male, after all—and the most male part of him was exceedingly thrilled at Miss Peterson’s proximity.
Vegetation. He would study the vegetation. Concentrate on botany, not biology. Flower beds not…
The ambient vegetation was damn dull.
They strolled in silence down the walkway. The top of Miss Peterson’s head came just to his chin. Was she still smiling? Her bonnet hid her expression completely.
What if he stopped and kissed her? Would she slap him soundly?
One would hope. Perhaps some sense could then find its way through the lust-filled fog of his brain.
“Oh!” Miss Peterson stopped abruptly.
What could be—oh, indeed. Lord Bennington and Lady Felicity stood not twenty yards ahead of them. Even at this distance he could see the man’s fall was unbuttoned, for God’s sake. Was it too much to hope that Miss Peterson hadn’t noticed? They would nod politely and he would steer her to safety.
Sally MacKenzie Bundle Page 50
