Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  Ohh.

  She felt ill. Heat burned her face and…other places.

  What had he meant by it? He’d obviously been angry. She’d expected him to read her a scold at his first opportunity. She had most definitely not expected him to…she could never have imagined he would…

  She had to get away. She glanced over her shoulder. The door was still closed, but it was unlikely to stay closed long.

  Where were the stairs? She’d not come in this way. The room was very large, with red curtains and big gilt frames holding dark pictures of men in helmets and togas. Somewhere there must be a—

  “Eep!” There was movement on the other side of the room. Who was it? She couldn’t see—the light was too dim. Someone was trying to save a few pence by limiting the number of candles. It was definitely a gentleman, though. One would have thought he’d have made his presence known when she’d entered, but he seemed as taken aback as she.

  “Good evening, sir. Could you point me toward the stairs?” She cleared her throat. The man didn’t say a word. “It is rather urgent. I must leave immediately.” Lud! She heard the door hinge squeak. “Please, I beg of you—”

  A male hand closed around her arm. She screamed.

  “Good God, woman, do you want to bring the entire Horticultural Society running in here? Keep your voice down.”

  She pulled back. Why wasn’t the other man coming to her aid? Was he afraid of Mr. Parker-Roth? Surely after her scream, he could not think she welcomed this contact?

  “Unhand me, sir.” She gestured toward the other man. “You can see we are not alone.”

  “What?” Parks looked across the room. “What are you talking about?”

  “The other gentleman.” She called to her potential rescuer. “Sir, please, I am in need of your assistance.”

  Mr. Parker-Roth snorted. “There’s no one else here.”

  “What? But I distinctly saw—”

  “You distinctly saw your own reflection. Come on.”

  “What? How can you say—oh.” He was right. She looked at her “savior.” He was standing next to Mr. Parker-Roth, with Parks’s hand wrapped around his arm. “I didn’t realize. It is so dark in here.”

  He grunted. “It’s not going to be dark enough to hide the fact you’re a female when Rathbone stops yammering and all those men spill out into this room.”

  Truthfully, she wasn’t eager for that to happen either, but Parks was not giving her sufficient credit. “I did make it here without being discovered, you know.”

  His fingers tightened on her arm. “That’s a miracle. What did you do, come in with a blind man?”

  She bit her lip. “Lord Smithson introduced me. He thought I was one of the Devonshire Beldons.”

  “Good God.”

  Mr. Parker-Roth escorted her out of the room and down a very short hall. When they reached the stairs, he released her.

  “We’re going to collect our hats and leave. Don’t say a word to anyone.”

  “But—”

  “Not a word. Trust me, you sound nothing like a man.”

  She shrugged. She had no desire to waste time arguing. The sooner she left this place, the happier she would be.

  Mr. Parker-Roth proved extremely efficient. They stepped onto the street in moments without eliciting any noticeable reactions from the servants.

  “Shall I call for your carriage, sir?” one of the footmen asked.

  “No, thank you. We shall walk.” Parks strode up the street in the direction of Knightsdale House. Meg hurried after him.

  “Why aren’t we taking your carriage?” She lowered her voice, stepping closer to Parks as a trio of drunken lords stumbled by.

  “Ned went home. I told him not to come back till midnight.”

  She heard a retching noise and then a splash behind them.

  “Then what about a hackney? It’s rather a long walk, isn’t it?”

  There was enough light to see his glare clearly. “I find I need the exercise. I am slightly agitated by the night’s events.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh, indeed.” He kept walking.

  She tried to match his steps. It was easier walking in pantaloons than skirts—she could definitely get used to that—but the shoes she’d borrowed didn’t fit well enough for an extended perambulation. She’d have blisters in the morning. And her legs weren’t long enough to keep up without almost running. She was getting breathless.

  Why was he so upset anyway? He wasn’t her father. He had no responsibility for her. What she did had absolutely nothing to do with him.

  “I don’t know why you are so peevish. I’m not the first woman to attend the Horticultural Society meetings in male attire, you know.”

  That got him to pause. “What are you talking about?”

  His tone was not encouraging. It was somewhere between incredulous and vicious.

  She stiffened her spine. She would not let herself be intimidated. The man was much too overbearing for his own good. “Miss Witherspoon told me her friend came for an entire year and no one was the wiser.”

  He snorted. “You don’t mean Prudence Doddington-Prinz, do you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Good God.” He resumed walking. She had to skip to keep up. They were now passing a long line of carriages waiting for Lord Fonsby’s ball to end. The baron’s townhouse, still a few houses ahead of them, glowed with the light of hundreds of candles. The sounds of music and voices drifted out the open windows. A few of the coachmen, loitering by the carriages, glanced at Meg—at least she felt they were looking at her. Were they suspicious? She tried to use Parks as a shield.

  “What do you mean? What is the matter with Miss Doddington-Prinz?”

  “Have you ever seen her?”

  “Well, no. But what does that have to say to the matter?”

  He glared at her again. “Miss Peterson, believe me—”

  “Shh!” Meg looked significantly at the coachmen. Had they heard him call her “Miss”?

  Mr. Parker-Roth seemed not to notice.

  “It is no surprise at all that Prudence Doddington-Prinz passed as a man for a year. The woman is tall and square with no curves to speak of. She has more hair on her upper lip than I do.”

  “Oh.” Were more of the coachmen stopping their own conversations to listen to theirs? “Please lower your voice, sir.”

  Mr. Parker-Roth might have been deaf for all the attention he paid her. He stopped. She looked around. Lud! Was he blind also? Not only did a host of coachmen have their ears cocked in their direction, but they were now standing directly in front of Lord Fonsby’s townhouse, illuminated for all the world to see. She took his arm and tried to pull him a few steps farther along into the shadows. She felt as if she were trying to tow the Tower of London up the Thames.

  “Do you want to know the real reason I did not call a hackney?”

  Why was he so agitated? Perhaps if she agreed with him, he would calm down.

  “Yes, certainly. I’d love to know exactly that. Please tell me, but first let us step along to a more private location. In case you haven’t noticed, we are being observed.” She tugged on him again. If they could just get past Lord Fonsby’s house. It was not far.

  It was too far. He shook her off. “A more private location? Ha!”

  There was no denying it—every coachman on the street had found a reason to congregate just ten feet from them. Perhaps she should simply remove Mr. Parker-Roth’s cravat and gag him with it.

  “Sir, I’m certain you will regret this.”

  “Yes, I’ll regret this. I do regret this, but I can’t help myself. You torture me; you defy every convention. You go out into the shrubbery with other men; you plan to sail off to the jungles of the Amazon with no more thought than you might give a trip to Hyde Park.” He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Do you know how I felt when I saw you at the meeting tonight? When you waved your kerseymere-clad arse in my face?”

  She felt her jaw fall
open at his vulgarity. She was shocked…but the odd warmth that was becoming all too familiar coiled low in her stomach, too.

  She looked away—and saw that she was not the only one shocked by Mr. Parker-Roth’s words. The coachmen were gaping, too. If they leaned any closer to glean every detail of this spectacle, they’d fall over. But there was no need for them to strain. Mr. Parker-Roth was speaking loudly enough for the entire neighborhood to hear.

  “And now you suggest a more private location?” He gave her another shake. “Be careful what you wish for.” He squeezed her shoulders and bit out each word. “I did not call a hackney because I did not trust myself in a darkened carriage with you.”

  The coachman directly behind Mr. Parker-Roth gasped. Surely that was not Lord Dunlee’s livery the man was wearing?

  “Sir, are you foxed?” Meg hissed. “Lower your voice.”

  “No, damn it, I am not foxed. I am mad. Completely and utterly insane. A candidate for Bedlam.” He finally lowered his voice—and his head. His lips brushed hers. “I have lost my mind.” She felt the words as much as heard them. “You have stolen it. Like an invasive vine, you have choked all the sense out of me.”

  She wasn’t certain she cared for that simile, but she was given no opportunity to argue. His mouth covered hers.

  The man was insane, and she had caught his insanity. At the warm—no, the hot—touch of his lips on hers, she forgot where she was. She forgot half the coachmen in London were staring at them. She forgot she was in pantaloons, coat, and cravat on a London street in front of a townhouse that would at any moment disgorge scores of the haut ton. She forgot everything, lost as she was in the hot, wet wonder of his mouth.

  She welcomed the sweep of his tongue over hers. She delighted in how it filled her, possessed her. She clung to him and opened her mouth wider, letting him take what he wanted. What she wanted.

  She traced his tongue with hers and he growled deep in his throat. His hands slid down her back. She frowned. Her breasts ached for his touch, but they were flattened under layers of cloth. He could not reach them. She whimpered and pressed closer.

  Ah. There were some advantages to male attire. She rubbed against the interesting bulge she’d discovered. His hands reached her bottom—

  “Good God!”

  That sounded like Lord Dunlee’s voice.

  John’s mouth left hers. One arm came up around her waist to pull her tightly against him; one hand flew up to press her face against his shoulder. She felt shielded. Protected.

  She did not fight him. If Lord Dunlee was here, Lady Dunlee could not be far behind.

  “Good evening, Lord Dunlee,” John said. He cleared his throat. “Lady Dunlee.”

  Meg tried to bury into his shoulder.

  “Why, Mr. Parker-Roth.” Lady Dunlee’s strident voice carried to the farthest reaches of the ton. “I never imagined you favored…I would never have guessed your preferences turned to…” She coughed. “I suppose this explains why you aren’t married.”

  “You have to marry him now, Meg.” Charles rubbed his forehead. They were seated in Charles’s study—well, Meg was seated. Charles and Emma stood, looming over her. “Sodomy is…well, the man’s reputation is completely ruined.”

  “But he wasn’t…I mean, I’m a woman.”

  “But no one who witnessed the event knows that,” Charles said. “Parker-Roth protected your identity at considerable cost to himself.”

  “There are horrid caricatures of him up in all the print shops.” Emma looked pointedly at Meg’s head. “Which you would know if you could go about in society.”

  Meg resisted the urge to put her hands to her shorn hair. She hadn’t left Knightsdale House since Mr. Parker-Roth had brought her home. Fortunately, Lizzie and Robbie had been attending Lord Fonsby’s affair and had hurried them into their carriage before the situation could get more out of hand than it already was.

  “They won’t prosecute him, will they?” If Parks were brought to stand trial for such an offense…it didn’t bear thinking of. “Lizzie’s cousin Richard was never charged, and he definitely…well, everyone knew he and his valet were…” Meg didn’t know the details of such relationships, but it was no secret Richard Runyon had engaged in one.

  “But Richard didn’t advertise his proclivities on a London street in plain view of half the ton.” Charles sighed. “And since he also frequented London’s brothels, both fashionable and not, there was some doubt as to his habits. Parker-Roth, on the other hand, has been more discreet in his activities. However, that means society has to guess what his preferences are, and the ton always prefers to assume the most salacious possibilities.”

  “There is no need to assume anything after the exhibition in front of Lord Fonsby’s townhouse. If Lizzie’s description is even half accurate, the man was practically making love to Meg on the street.” Emma crossed her arms and glared at Meg. “What in God’s name were you thinking, Meg?”

  “Um.”

  “Your sister has a point, Meg. Your behavior has been less than exemplary.”

  “Less than exemplary?” Emma’s voice rose. “Call it what it is, Charles. Meg has been behaving like a common harlot.”

  Meg swallowed. She felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach, but Emma was right. Her behavior had been shocking. Completely scandalous. She closed her eyes briefly, remembering the hideous moment when she’d been pulled out of her madness by the sound of Lord Dunlee’s voice.

  “Don’t you think you are overstating the case slightly, Emma?”

  “I am not. What else do you call it, when a woman engages in such…pursuits…on a London street?”

  Charles blew out a long breath. “Well…” He looked at Meg. She looked down at her slippers.

  “Even if you’d been dressed in your finest gown, Meg,” he said, “you’d still be compelled to marry Parker-Roth. You see that, don’t you? This is at least the second time you’ve been observed in close embrace with the fellow.”

  Emma threw up her hands. “I don’t understand what the problem is. You obviously don’t find the man repulsive. I cannot understand why you are resisting, unless—” Her tone sharpened. “Have you been behaving this way with other men?”

  “No!” Meg looked up, horrified. “How can you say so?”

  “Because you’ve been disappearing into the shrubbery all Season. Even I will not assume you were only examining the foliage.”

  Meg flushed. “Well, I was not…um…doing what I was doing with Mr. Parker-Roth.”

  “Thank God for that!”

  “Why are you resisting, Meg?” Charles asked. “I know Parker-Roth offered at the Palmerson ball. And, as Emma says, you obviously have some feelings for him.”

  “Feelings,” Emma said, “that should only be expressed after you have received Mr. Parker-Roth’s wedding ring, miss.”

  Charles and Emma stared down at her. What was she to answer? She didn’t understand it herself.

  “I don’t believe Mr. Parker-Roth wants to marry me.”

  Emma snorted. “He clearly wants to do something with you—and he can only honorably engage in that activity after he puts a ring on your finger.”

  Meg flushed. “You don’t understand. He really doesn’t want to have anything to do with me. It’s just that…well, I annoy him.”

  “That’s one way to describe it.”

  “Emma…”

  “Charles, the girl is being foolish beyond permission. If she can’t see the man is beside himself with lus-love, she is blinder than I am.” Emma flourished her spectacles.

  Charles laughed. “Well, perhaps Parker-Roth is just as blind as you are—not that I expect you to compare spectacles, of course—because I suspect he doesn’t recognize his own emotions. I don’t know why.” He shook his head. “I just about gave him carte-blanche to seduce Meg.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “Charles!”

  For once Meg felt Emma was in complete accord with her. They both gaped at Lord Kn
ightsdale.

  He shrugged, though his cheeks were markedly redder than normal. “It seemed clear to me the two of them were attracted to each other. I just encouraged Parker-Roth to move things along. I was tired of worrying—and having you worry, Emma—about the situation. I can’t say I’m impressed with his response.”

  “I can’t imagine you would do such a thing,” Emma said.

  Meg could not find the words to express her horror. Charles had actually told Mr. Parker-Roth to…? How mortifying. But even more mortifying was the fact the man hadn’t acted on Charles’s invitation. If she’d ever needed proof Parks did not wish to marry her, she had just had it handed to her on a silver platter.

  “If he would just stop concerning himself with my activities, I would not be in this predicament.”

  Emma glared at her again. “If you would just stop kissing him, you would not be in this predicament.”

  “He kissed me first.”

  “Ladies, please, you are becoming ridiculous. It makes no difference. Parker-Roth has already gotten the special license. He and Meg will be married tomorrow morning.”

  “What!” Meg leapt up. She was getting married tomorrow? “When were you going to tell me this?”

  “Now.” Charles grinned. “I saw no point in taking your fire any sooner than I had to.”

  “I do think Mr. Parker-Roth should propose to Meg.” Emma looked at Meg and raised her eyebrows. “Again.”

  “Why should he?” Charles said. “Neither of them has any choice in the matter.”

  “I do have a choice.” Meg scowled. Granted, she had behaved badly. She had made some poor choices. But she was not a child. She could make her own decisions. “I could leave England.”

  “Leave England?” Emma acted as if she’d suggested jumping naked off London Bridge.

  “Yes. I hadn’t told you yet, but Miss Witherspoon invited me to accompany her and her friend to the Amazon. It would be a wonderful opportunity to—”

  “Are you mad?” Emma clasped her hands tightly together. Meg was certain her sister would rather have wrapped them around her neck. “You can’t go to the Amazon. And even if by some odd stroke of fate you could, you could not go with those women.”