Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  “My feelings—or lack thereof—concerning Miss Peterson are immaterial, Mother. She leaves in two weeks for South America. She is joining Miss Witherspoon and her friend on their Amazon expedition.”

  “No!”

  Mother looked shocked. She looked the way he’d felt when Miss Peterson had so blithely informed him of her plans to put thousands of miles between them. He’d made his decision to go home as soon as the words had left her lips.

  God! He was an idiot. Hadn’t he learned after Grace? He was not going to pine after another woman. Not that he had ever pined for Grace, of course. But he was done with thinking about the creatures. He would go home and have some nice, mindless bed play with Cat.

  “Yes indeed, Mother. So you see, there is no need for me to remain in London. I suggest you purchase your supplies today as we are leaving after the Horticultural Society meeting.”

  “I’m leaving for the Continent tonight.”

  “You can’t.” Felicity glared at her father. They were standing in what had once been the library. The shelves were empty; the desk, the chairs, and all the furniture were gone, sold to stave off her father’s creditors. Rectangles of faded wallpaper testified to where paintings had once hung.

  The earl shrugged. “No choice. Can’t escape the duns any longer. If I don’t get out now, it’ll be debtors’ prison for certain.”

  “And what’s to become of me?”

  Her father shrugged, evading her eyes.

  She wanted to scream, but screaming would serve no purpose. “If you bolt now, Bennington will surely cry off.”

  “You’re betrothed. The man can’t cry off.”

  “Do you think he’ll marry me when your name is on everyone’s lips? It was bad enough when you were just a brothel keeper, but wealth forgives many sins. To be a penniless brothel keeper…Bennington will drop me like I’m week-old fish and no one will fault him for it.”

  She bit her lip. She would not cry.

  Her father shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. “It can’t be that bad—”

  “It is that bad—or will be if you brush and lope. You can’t leave.”

  “I have to. My ship sails at dawn.”

  “All right.” She was not going to have all her plans come to naught at this point. “That gives you about ten hours. Figure out a solution. I want to be a viscountess before the ton knows I’m a pauper.”

  “I can’t—”

  “You can. For once you can damn well do something to take care of your daughter, you bastard.” She would not scream. God damn it, she would not cry. She would not scratch his bloody, lying eyes out.

  He straightened. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Charles…” Emma put down Pride and Prejudice. She must have read the same sentence twenty times. She just could not concentrate. She kept hearing Mrs. Parker-Roth’s voice in her head.

  She studied her husband. He was sitting across from her in a big upholstered chair. Candlelight played over his curly brown hair, grown a little long now, and the broad planes of his face. She still got a fluttery feeling in her stomach whenever she looked at him, even though they were now an old married couple of four years and two sons.

  When they were home at Knightsdale, this was her favorite time of day—well, second favorite. She flushed, thinking of her favorite time. The babies were tucked into bed, the house was quiet. It was just the two of them.

  Did Charles love her? He liked her well enough, she knew that. He was comfortable with her—and willing enough to come to her bed. But did he love her?

  “Charles.”

  “Hmm?” The man didn’t even look up from his book.

  “Charles, do you ever wish you’d married someone else, someone more at ease in London?”

  “Of course not.” He turned a page.

  He was engrossed in his book, at least. She should just let him be. But when would she get another opportunity like this? Meg was usually with them.

  Perhaps it was providential that her sister wasn’t feeling well and had retired to her room early.

  “Do you ever…well, do you ever get lonely here in London by yourself?”

  He finally looked up. “Of course I do, Emma. I miss you and the children, but I know you prefer the country.”

  “But do you ever…I mean, most men do, of course, but…” She studied his face. He looked politely puzzled.

  Her courage deserted her.

  “Never mind.” She waved at the book open on his lap. “I’m sorry I bothered you. Please, go back to your reading.”

  He looked at her a moment more and then did go back to his book. Well, she had told him to, hadn’t she? She picked up Pride and Prejudice again.

  It could have been written in Greek. She shifted in her chair. She just needed to concentrate. She had enjoyed Miss Austen’s Sense and Sensibility. She’d been meaning to read this book for the longest time.

  She sighed, crossing her ankles and adjusting her skirt.

  “What is it, Emma?”

  She looked up. Charles was frowning, leaning toward her, his book closed, his finger marking his place.

  “What is what?”

  “You’ve been huffing and sighing and squirming in your chair all evening. What is the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Emma…”

  Courage. There was no time like the present. If she let this opportunity go by…

  But what if he told her he did visit brothels—or keep a mistress—when she was in Kent?

  Better to learn the truth than live in ignorance.

  “When I’m at Knightsdale…well, it would be completely understandable if you…if, um…” She took a deep breath and straightened in her chair. “I know men have certain needs and you, especially, have, well…are very…” She blew out her breath. She could not say it.

  “Emma, you aren’t suggesting I’m not faithful to my marriage vows, are you?” Charles looked very stern, his brows pulled into a deep furrow. She flushed.

  “N-no.” She bit her lip. She should not lie. “Well, perhaps. I mean, not that anyone would fault you. We spend long months apart—”

  “So you’ve been taking lovers while I’m in London?”

  Pride and Prejudice hit the floor as Emma surged to her feet. “I have not! Of course I haven’t. I love you. I would never—”

  Charles had risen, too. He put his finger to her lips. “I would never, either, Emma. I love you—only you. I miss you when we are apart.” A corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile. “God, do I miss you. And yes, I’d love to have you in bed beside me—I’d love to be inside you—but I want you, Emma, not just a woman, not just a female body. How can you think otherwise?”

  “I—” She studied his cravat. He put his finger under her chin and turned her face up to his. His eyes searched hers and she felt her face redden.

  “Have I ever given you reason to doubt my word, Emma?”

  “Of course not. It’s just—” She cleared her throat. “It’s just that I know you only married me to get a mother for the girls and to avoid the Marriage Mart—”

  “Emma! If I’ve given you that impression—” He shook his head. “Do you truly believe that?”

  “I…I don’t know. When we are home in Kent, I don’t. But when I come to London and see all the worldly, beautiful women and see how the ton behaves, I think I must be a fool to expect you not to take advantage of…of all that.” She swallowed. “Especially since I am such a boring little country mouse.”

  He dropped his hands to her shoulders and shook her gently. “You are not a boring little country mouse, Emma. You are a strong, brave woman who has a heart far bigger than most of the lovely London ladies you seem to envy. Do you think I only see the surface of people? I know what matters more than a pretty face and an alluring body is what is inside here”—he touched her lightly on her forehead—“and here”—he placed his hand on her breast, over her heart.

  “Oh, Charles.” S
he buried her face in his chest, hugging him tightly. She felt like crying. She felt as if her heart would burst, it was so full of love.

  He bent his head to whisper in her ear. “Of course, I also love your luscious surface. I love your mouth”—he kissed the sensitive point behind her ear—“and your breasts”—he moved down to the base of her throat—“and your lovely, lovely thighs.” He trailed kisses from her jaw to her mouth, hovering just over her lips. “I love tasting you”—he brushed her lips—“and sliding deep into your sweet warmth.”

  She was panting. Heat pooled in her womb and she throbbed with need. She wanted him inside her now. She wanted his love and his seed.

  “Shall I see if the library’s lock works,” Charles asked, “or shall we just risk scandalizing the servants?”

  Chapter 16

  “I think I’ve made a mess of things, David.”

  Lord Dawson sighed and closed his book. “Grace, if I had a shilling for every time you said that, I’d be a rich man.”

  “You are a rich man.”

  “I’d be a richer man. So what is the problem now?”

  “I spoke to Miss Peterson when we were at the Duke of Hartford’s estate.”

  “Ah. And it was not a good conversation?”

  “No, it was not.” Grace dropped her head into her hands and moaned. “When will I learn to hold my tongue?”

  “I am not holding my breath in anticipation.”

  Grace looked up and glared at him. “Very funny.”

  “Well, you do have a propensity for putting your lovely foot in your mouth, my dear. What exactly did you do this time?”

  “I threatened the woman with social ruin if she hurt John’s feelings.”

  David slowly nodded his head. “I am sure she received that well.” He grinned. “I believe I advised you to stay out of Parker-Roth’s business, did I not?”

  “Oh, do not say you told me so. Nothing terrible has happened yet—except Miss Peterson seems to have taken a healthy dislike of me.”

  “I am not surprised. How would you have felt—how did you feel—when people advised you on your behavior with regard to me?”

  Grace bared her teeth. “I should have listened to them. They obviously had my best interests at heart.”

  “Liar.”

  She stuck out her tongue and then dropped her head back into her hands. “I worry about John. It’s not surprising. We’ve been friends since we were children. I feel responsible for his unmarried state. I—”

  “Grace, you give yourself too much credit.”

  “What?” Her head snapped up and fire shot from her eyes. It was a good thing he was not easily intimidated. “You know he was terribly wounded when I stood him up on his—our—wedding day.”

  David sighed. They had been over this many times before. Would Grace ever forgive herself? Perhaps only once Parks wed.

  He fervently hoped the man tied the knot with Miss Peterson.

  “Parker-Roth is a grown man, Grace. I’m not saying he wasn’t…upset when you failed to show up at the church. I’m certain he was embarrassed and angry and, yes, hurt.” He permitted himself a slow smile. “And he would have been even more…mmm…upset had he known exactly what you were doing when you were supposed to be saying your vows to him.”

  “David!”

  “But he is in charge of his own life, completely capable of making his own decisions. I am certain he would not want your pity. In fact, I wager he’d be horrified if he knew you were agonizing over his fate like this.”

  “But—”

  “Leave it be, Grace. Let him find happiness with Miss Peterson or let him tell her to go to the devil…but let him do it by himself, without your interference. Trust me, he truly would not welcome it. No man would.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because, my love, I am a man myself, and if that fact has slipped your mind, I would be happy to refresh your memory.”

  Grace opened her mouth as if to argue, but stopped. Her lips slid into a half smile. “Perhaps I do need a reminder.”

  He put his book on the table. “Here or in our room?”

  She looked around the library. “Here.” She grinned. “And in our room.” She got up and wrapped her arms around his neck. “My memory is truly deplorable. It needs frequent…um…prodding.”

  “Then I am just the man to assist you. Indeed, it would be my pleasure.” He brought her hips snugly against the part of him most eager to prod her…memory. “My very great pleasure.”

  Meg let out a long breath as the hackney drove off. The first part of her adventure had been completed successfully. The hackney driver had not suspected she was a female—or if he had, he hadn’t said anything.

  Could he have guessed? Surely not. She’d kept her face down and her hat tilted to block as much light from her countenance as possible. She’d lowered her voice and spoken gruffly and quietly…He wouldn’t have allowed her in his coach if he’d suspected, would he? Or would he have been happy of the fare, no matter how odd or scandalous the passenger?

  It didn’t matter. He was gone now into the mass of London humanity. He did not know her name. She would never see him again…

  Lud! She hadn’t thought. How was she going to get home?

  She straightened and tugged on her waistcoat. She would worry about that later. Now she had many other hurdles to jump, such as how she was going to pass as a man in the much brighter light indoors—or how she was going to get indoors in the first place. Did one just knock or was there some ritual she didn’t know? Her ignorance would betray her before she’d even crossed the threshold.

  Sweat trickled down between her shoulder blades. Perhaps she should give up now. But she still had the problem of how to get home.

  She couldn’t give up. She just needed to make her feet climb two shallow stairs. She would grab the knocker—it was in the shape of a pineapple, quite un-alarming—and give it a hearty rap. The butler or footman would answer and—

  She’d be discovered.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. And another. And another…

  She couldn’t do it.

  She heard a group of gentlemen approaching and stepped quickly into the shadows. Lud! She recognized them—Lord Easthaven, Lord Palmerson, the Earl of Tattingdon. Lord Smithson, leaning heavily on his cane, brought up the rear.

  This was her opportunity. The gentlemen were all old enough and exalted enough that they could not have the slightest inkling such a lowly individual as a Miss Peterson existed. Lord Smithson was more than a little deaf and his vision was very weak. Perfect. She stepped in behind them, entered the foyer, and reluctantly handed her hat to a footman.

  Lord Smithson was having trouble negotiating the stairs to the next floor. Without thinking, she reached out to help him. When they got to the top, he stopped her.

  “My thanks, young—” He squinted at her. “Do I know you?”

  “Y-yes.” This was it. She was going to be discovered in this house full of men. She would be ruined beyond imagination. She drew in a breath to begin begging everyone’s pardon.

  “No, don’t tell me.” Lord Smithson’s voice was almost loud enough to wake the dead—Meg fervently wished she were among that number—but fortunately his companions, apparently assuming he was in good hands with her, had gone on ahead. “Have to test my memory, don’t you know. Exercise it, just like I exercise my legs, so it stays in fine fettle.”

  Lord Smithson peered into her face. How she kept from expiring right there was more than she could fathom.

  “You look familiar.”

  Oh, dear God.

  “Young ’un. Barely shaving.”

  She could only nod. Her heart was pounding so violently she could barely hear his words, loud as they were.

  “I have it!” Lord Smithson pounded his cane on the tile floor.

  Her heart stopped.

  “You’re one of the Devonshire Beldons, ain’t you?”

  “Uh.” What coul
d she say? “I, um—”

  Lord Smithson frowned. “Have a touch of the grippe, Beldon? Your voice sounds mighty odd.”

  She was a coward. She nodded. “A touch,” she whispered. She coughed weakly and, she hoped, pitifully.

  Lord Smithson grunted. “Best get some hot punch for that. Come along.”

  He led her into a large drawing room. The low drone of male voices was untempered by any lighter feminine notes.

  “Here you go, Beldon. This will cure you of anything that ails you.” Lord Smithson sloshed a glass full of punch and handed it to Meg.

  “My thanks.” She took a sip—and almost spat it over Lord Smithson’s shirt front. This tasted like no punch she’d ever had before.

  Lord Smithson took a long swallow from his glass and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Finish it all, my boy, and you’ll feel like a new man.”

  Meg smiled and pretended to take another sip. If she finished all this, she would definitely feel different. It must be more than half alcohol.

  “Palmerson, have you met young Beldon here?”

  Perhaps a fortifying sip would be a good idea. Meg gulped down a mouthful and started coughing.

  “Beldon’s got a touch of the grippe, don’t you know,” Lord Smithson said.

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  Meg nodded and focused on Lord Palmerson’s shoes.

  “I say, Smithson, do you know where they’ve hidden the chamber pot?”

  “It’s usually in this cupboard.”

  “Ah, good. Been at White’s drinking all evening, you know.”

  Lud! Meg glanced up. Lord Palmerson had one hand on a cupboard door and the other on the fall of his pantaloons.

  “Excuse me.” She turned and fled.

  She found a seat on the other side of the room by a healthy potted palm and a large table. Two narrow little chairs, obviously added to accommodate the anticipated crowd, were perfectly situated in a back corner by a closed door that might provide a means of escape if she had need of one. As an added bonus, there were no chamber pot-harboring cupboards in sight.

  “If you could all take a seat, we are ready to begin.”