Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  She tried to think clearly, but she could not get the images, the sensations, of her encounter in the grotto with Lord Knightsdale out of her mind. His smell. His taste. The silky-roughness of his tongue filling her mouth.

  She felt hot. Melting. At least something was definitely damp.

  She stared down at her teacup. Perhaps disgusting Mr. Stockley was correct—perhaps she did have…urges. She thought of the door between her bedchamber and Lord Knightsdale’s. The door that had no key. The door that was always unlocked.

  She waved her hand in front of her face in a vain effort to cool her blood.

  “Are you all right, dear?” Mrs. Graham asked softly.

  Emma nodded. She hoped none of the other ladies noted her flushed cheeks. What would they say if they knew she had received an offer of sorts? Well, doubtless Lady Beatrice would consider Charles’s words a full-fledged marriage proposal, but Emma did not. She wanted talk of love, not convenience. Of passion, not practicalities. Was that too much to ask?

  Probably. Charles was a marquis, after all. For him, marriage was a necessary duty.

  But if she did hear words of love—would she marry him then?

  Ridiculous. She would not consider it. She was certain he would speak of love when pigs flew.

  She did not expect to see porcine flight in her lifetime.

  Lud! Emma stuck her head out of her bedchamber and listened. What in the world was that noise?

  “Aaahhh! Mama! Achoo! Aaahhh.”

  Lady Caroline erupted from her room and flew down the hall, screaming and sneezing. More people poked their heads into the corridor. Emma saw Meg and walked down to her sister’s room.

  “What’s going on, Emma?”

  They watched Lady Caroline pound on her mother’s door.

  “I have no idea.”

  Lady Dunlee’s maid finally answered the banging.

  “Yes, m’lady? Oh! Oh, my!” The maid threw her apron over her face and started wailing.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Mary.” Lady Dunlee’s sharp voice could be heard over the din. “What is all the caterwauling about? Can’t a body have a moment’s peace—” Lady Dunlee appeared at her door. Her mouth dropped open, her eyes widened, and then she started screeching.

  Lady Beatrice brushed past Emma, Queen Bess following leisurely behind her. “Lady Dunlee, please, calm yourself.”

  “Calm myself? Calm myself! I’ll calm myself. Look at my daughter.”

  Emma looked along with all the other houseguests in the corridor. Lady Caroline’s eyes were swollen to narrow slits; her face was covered with raised, red splotches; and her nose was streaming. She sniffed, sneezed, and scratched.

  “I see.” Lady Beatrice cleared her throat. “I’m sorry Lady Caroline is indisposed.”

  “Indisposed? You call this indisposed? I call this a disaster.”

  “Well, it certainly is unfortunate. Perhaps she would feel better if she lay down?”

  Lady Caroline screamed and hid her face in her mother’s shoulder.

  “No?” Lady Beatrice rocked back on her heels. “Precisely what is the problem, Lady Dunlee?”

  “That!” Lady Dunlee pointed at Queen Bess, who had decided to sit by Lady Beatrice’s skirts and clean her hind leg. “That creature is the problem.”

  “Lady Dunlee, do not point at my cat in such a fashion.” Lady Beatrice moved to shield Queen Bess. “I am sure she did not mean to distress your daughter.”

  “Ha! I’ll have you know that Lady Caroline is very sensitive to cats.”

  “It was on my pillow, mama. I know it was. I was fine when I lay down to rest.”

  Lady Dunlee straightened to her full height. “What was your cat doing on my daughter’s bed?”

  “I have no idea. Queen Bess is not partial to pork.”

  “Pork?” Lady Dunlee frowned so hard her eyebrows met in a V above her nose. “Why are you talking about pork?”

  “Just that Bess is a very intelligent animal. I would have thought she’d have taken one look at your daughter and determined there could be nothing of interest in her room.”

  Lady Dunlee drew a scandalized breath.

  “Lady Beatrice, are you comparing my daughter to a…a pig?”

  “Yes.”

  Lady Caroline sobbed louder as the assembled onlookers tried unsuccessfully to muffle their laughter.

  “Please have my husband and son fetched, and our carriage brought round,” Lady Dunlee said. “We are leaving.”

  Lady Beatrice smiled. “Have a lovely trip.”

  “Poor Lady Caroline.”

  Meg snorted. “You don’t mean that.”

  Emma laughed. “No, I don’t, but I feel as though I should. She did look so miserable—but all I could think of was how her face now matched her manners. She’s a rather miserable young lady.”

  “She surely is.” Meg turned to go back into her room.

  “Uh, Meg?”

  “Yes?”

  Emma fidgeted with her skirt. “I do wonder how Queen Bess got into Lady Caroline’s room—I thought the girl was rather careful to keep her door closed.”

  Meg shrugged. “Perhaps she forgot this time.” She stepped farther into her room. Emma remained on the threshold.

  “Are you having a good time, Meg? I hardly ever see you.”

  Meg turned to face Emma. “Emma, do you want to come in?”

  “Well, yes, if you’d like me to. I do have a few minutes. It would be nice to chat. I was wondering what you’ve been up to. You didn’t go walking with the rest of the young ladies this afternoon.”

  “I didn’t go walking because walking sedately around the lake is boring. I have walked around that lake before and in better company.”

  “Better company?”

  “My own. Without the nasty, brainless London misses and their idiotic escorts.”

  “But you are supposed to be getting some social polish, Meg.”

  “I don’t want that kind of social polish. I know not to eat my food with my hands or talk with my mouth full. I don’t need to know how to backstab and belittle.”

  “But…” Emma looked around Meg’s room for the first time. She blinked. Every horizontal surface but the bed was covered with vegetation. Twigs and flowers were arranged on sheets of paper on the desk. Bits of crockery with green things lined the ledge by the window seat. An assortment of leaves covered the dressing table.

  “Meg.”

  “Don’t start, Emma.”

  “But what are you doing?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m collecting specimens, of course. I don’t get over to Knightsdale often, you know. I’ve found a number of interesting plants here.”

  Emma surveyed the mess before her but decided for once that she did not want to argue with Meg. She was not Meg’s mother.

  Sudden tears pricked her eyes. She batted them away.

  “Meg, what do you think of Mrs. Graham?”

  Meg gave her a sharp look. “What do you mean?”

  Emma walked over to examine the greenery by the window seat. “Do you think Papa is going to marry her?”

  “Probably.”

  “Doesn’t that bother you? Doesn’t it bother you that she’s taking Mama’s place?”

  “Emma…” Meg clasped her hands behind her back and sighed. “Would you care to sit down?”

  “I can’t.”

  Meg looked around the room. Even the chairs were covered with twigs or leaves. “Oh, yes. I see. Sorry. Um, we could sit on the bed.”

  “No, I don’t mean that.” Emma looked at Meg. “I’m too agitated to sit.”

  “Ah. Well, um, the thing is, Emma, I really don’t remember Mama. I wasn’t even one year old when she died. You’ve been all the mother I’ve known.”

  “And you don’t mind Mrs. Graham taking”—Emma swallowed more tears—“taking my place?”

  “Emma.” Meg rubbed her forehead. “I haven’t needed a mama for years. You’re my sister. You will always be m
y sister. I’m sure you will still feel quite free to tell me what you think of my conduct, my plans, my future. I don’t foresee much change in our relationship.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Emma sniffed and sat down on Meg’s bed. Meg sat on the other side.

  “But I do think Mrs. Graham will be good for Papa,” Meg said.

  “How? How could she be good for Papa?”

  “He likes her, Emma. I think he loves her. He smiles more now.”

  “He smiled before.”

  “Yes, I know, but this is different. He just seems…happier, as if he is excited by something besides his musty old books and translations.”

  “But he has us.” Emma plucked at Meg’s counterpane.

  “I think he’s realizing he won’t have us forever. He expects us to marry eventually. Then he’ll be all alone.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, Emma. Not that I intend to marry soon, but I do think I might marry some day. And you should consider it, too. I know Papa doesn’t want you to sacrifice your life for his. You have already done enough.”

  “I am not sacrificing my life. What a ridiculous notion.”

  “I know you don’t consider it a sacrifice, but think—don’t you want a house of your own?”

  “I have the vicarage to take care of.”

  “But what about children? I would think you would want children of your own.”

  “Perhaps.” Emma thought about Meg as a child—and Isabelle and Claire. She did like children. If she stayed home and kept house for her father, she would not have children to raise, that was true. And if her father married Mrs. Graham, she would not have a home to run, either. She would be completely superfluous.

  She wrapped her arms around her middle.

  “Papa won’t marry Mrs. Graham if I don’t want him to.”

  “Perhaps—but you don’t want to rule his life like that, do you? Use his love to control him, to limit him? He’s never done that to us. He’s always let us follow our hearts.”

  “What do you mean? Where have we followed our hearts? We are still at home, aren’t we?”

  “That’s my point. Papa lets me go off and muck around with my weeds and things. He didn’t force you to have a Season—nor did he force me, even though it would have been so easy for him to have sent me to London with Lizzie this spring. He never insisted you marry—and you are certainly past the age where many fathers would have done so.”

  Emma looked away from Meg. “I never had any offers.”

  “Because you were never interested in any of the local men.”

  “What do you mean?” Emma frowned. “I’ve always danced at the assemblies, haven’t I? I have been perfectly polite and pleasant.”

  “Yes, polite and pleasant. Not passionate.”

  “Meg! What do you know of passion?”

  “Nothing, really. But I have eyes, Emma. I watch, and I am actually quite a skilled observer.” Meg chuckled. “Perhaps it comes from noticing subtle differences in similar plants. In any event, I can tell when there is romance in the air. When a girl is interested in a man, she sparkles. Her eyes brighten, her skin flushes, she breathes quickly. She becomes more animated. You always look the same whether you are talking to an elderly chaperone or an extremely eligible young lord.”

  “Ridiculous. I am sure you are wrong. I believe Papa never pushed either of us to swim in social waters because he was too absorbed in his books to care.”

  Meg laughed. “Well, there is that. He does prefer to avoid a bother, and up until now—until Mrs. Graham moved to the village—I think he was content to let things stay the way they were. But I don’t believe he is content any longer.”

  “No?” Emma had not noticed any indication that her father was restless. Well, there had been that incident in the study when she had walked in on him and Mrs. Graham. She much preferred not to contemplate that.

  “Emma, if Papa truly loves Mrs. Graham, he should marry her.”

  “Nonsense. He doesn’t love her. He’s infatuated, that is all. I suppose Mrs. Graham is attractive for a woman her age. She knows how to entice a man. I don’t fault her, really. I’m sure the life of a widow can be quite precarious. I just wish she would find another victim to assure her a comfortable future.”

  “Emma, you don’t believe that, do you?”

  Emma shrugged. “I don’t know what I believe. I do know I can’t live in the same house with that woman.”

  “I don’t think you will have to.”

  “No?” Relief flooded Emma. She smiled. “You think Papa will come to his senses?”

  “I don’t think it’s Papa who needs to see sense.”

  Emma frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I think you won’t be living at the vicarage much longer. I told you I’m quite observant—though in this case, a blind man could read the signs. When you talk to Lord Knightsdale, you do not look as though you are speaking to an elderly chaperone.”

  “What?”

  Meg grinned. “The moment Lord Knightsdale approaches, your eyes brighten, your face flushes, and your bosom heaves.”

  Emma’s eyes widened and her chin dropped to the bedclothes. She stared at Meg. She couldn’t mean…Surely she wasn’t insinuating…? She snapped her mouth closed and glared.

  “I’ll heave something at you, you miserable excuse for a sister!”

  Meg fell back on the bed, laughing, as Emma grabbed the nearest pillow and swung it at her head.

  CHAPTER 9

  Charles stared at the pile of papers on his desk. He needed a secretary.

  No, he needed a wife. Emma. He had been making some interesting progress with his courtship in the grotto. If only Lady Caroline had not come hunting him.

  There was a scratching at the door.

  “Come.”

  Mr. Lambert appeared, bearing a large pile of letters. “The post, my lord.”

  “Put it down on the desk, Lambert.”

  Lambert blinked at the mountains already occupying the desk’s surface.

  “Where, my lord?”

  Charles sighed. “Good question. Just hand it here, then.”

  “Very good, my lord. And I presume you have heard the news that Lord Dunlee and his family have departed?”

  “Really? That’s a bit sudden, isn’t it? Did he give any reason?”

  “I believe it was Lady Dunlee who insisted on leaving, my lord.”

  “Lady Dunlee? Why ever would she wish to go? I would have said she was rather intent on the festivities.” Intent? She had all the focus of a French officer on a battle line. He had definitely thought she’d meant to take him prisoner for her piggy daughter.

  Lambert cleared his throat. “One of the upstairs maids confided to Mrs. Lambert that Lady Beatrice insulted Lady Caroline.”

  Charles raised his brows. “Odd. Aunt Bea doesn’t usually go about savaging young misses.”

  “I believe Lady Caroline insulted Queen Bess.”

  “Queen Bess? Why would Aunt Bea get in a pother over British history?”

  “Not the monarch, my lord. The feline Queen Bess. Apparently Lady Caroline is sensitive to cats. Lady Beatrice’s pet got into the young lady’s room, and she was suffering the consequences—Lady Caroline, that is, not Queen Bess. Very…spotty, Mrs. Lambert said.”

  “I see. Thank you for informing me, Lambert.”

  So, Charles thought as Lambert closed the door behind him, one less young lady to avoid. Too bad Aunt hadn’t offended Lady Caroline earlier. If she had left before the lake walk, his interlude with Emma in the grotto might have been significantly more satisfying. He might even now be an engaged man.

  He needed to plan his campaign carefully. If her response at the grotto was any indication, Emma was not indifferent to him, but she did have some odd bee in her bonnet. She had never explained why she had slapped him. He had only asked her to marry him. He had not even kissed her—that had come later, and she had shown no signs of wa
nting to slap him then.

  No, no signs at all. He shifted in his chair, thinking of her softness and her heat, the way she had melted, had opened to him. God. And it was her fault he had kissed her at all. She had been staring at his lips in a most hungry fashion. It was only polite to give her a taste.

  He’d be happy to give her more than a taste. He would dearly love to taste her, every inch, every curve, every secret spot.

  “Busy, Charles?”

  Charles shook himself free of the sweet lust that had heated his brain. “Not really. Come in, Robbie.”

  Robbie surveyed his desk as he approached. “Looks like you should be busy.”

  “I know. I think I’ve attended to the most pressing business.” Charles stared down at the mess before him. “But I’m not entirely certain.”

  “You need a secretary.”

  “I know, damn it. I need a lot of things since my brother died and I inherited the blasted title. I can’t accomplish everything at once.”

  “Right.” Robbie helped himself to the brandy decanter. “Sounds like you need a drink, too.”

  “Thank you.” Charles took a glass from him. “Your absence this afternoon didn’t help matters. I was stuck acting nursemaid to the young misses and jinglebrained boys Aunt Bea has collected for this bloody house party.”

  Robbie grinned, slouching into the chair next to Charles’s desk. “Why do you think I was so quick to volunteer to fetch Alvord’s sister? I damned well didn’t want to be tramping around your lovely lake with that collection of cabbage-heads.”

  “I thought maybe you wanted some time with luscious Lizzie.”

  “Lizzie—luscious?” Robbie laughed. “Little Lizzie is like a sister, Charles. You know that. Lovely, charming, but…luscious? She’s barely out of leading strings.”

  “Not exactly, Robbie. She’s seventeen. She made her come out this Season. Alvord could be receiving offers for her now—he may already have a handful.”