Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  “Yes. I’m fine.” He cleared his throat. “I believe the…conversation…was a little more intense than that.”

  “Were you there?”

  “Good God, no!”

  Why was he so appalled? “Well, then you can’t know, can you?”

  Lord Dawson made some odd, sputtering sounds and wouldn’t meet her eyes. Very strange.

  “And even if they had had a very complete discussion, which we do not know that they did—”

  Lord Dawson was now making strangling sounds.

  “—running away”—He glared at her—“that is, leaving Town so that they cannot meet again indicates the issue has not yet been resolved.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  She did roll her eyes then. “I do know that his flight—um, departure—means your uncle still feels pain. Do you deny that?”

  He certainly looked as if he would like to, but honesty won over loyalty. “No.”

  “Exactly. And I’m certain my aunt is still hurting.”

  Lord Dawson made a very rude noise. Her fingers itched to wrap themselves around his neck and squeeze. She took a deep breath—and noticed his gaze drop to her chest.

  The man was absolutely maddening. She’d told Aunt Kate she needed a fichu for this dress, but Aunt Kate would not listen to reason—and Grace hadn’t had the heart to argue with her, her aunt had been so despondent. She snatched her fan off the table where Lord Dawson had placed it and unfurled it, directing his attention back to her face.

  “My lord, your attitude is not helping matters. You have apparently taken a dislike to my aunt.” He made another derogatory sound. She pressed her lips together and counted to ten. She must remain calm. She could not let her infernal temper get the better of her.

  “That is your prerogative. However, it has nothing to say to the problem at hand. You need to put aside your personal prejudices”—another scoffing snort. She was about ready to kick the nodcock in the shins…or some softer, more sensitive location—“to focus on what is best for your uncle.” No need to mention Aunt Kate as well; she’d heard enough disparaging sounds for the time being.

  Lord Dawson’s nostrils flared; his lips formed a tight, thin line. He was not persuaded, but at least he was listening.

  “I firmly believe your uncle and my aunt need to come to some understanding so they aren’t tortured by their past.” She stepped forward, laid her hand on Lord Dawson’s chest, and looked up at him, hoping he could discern the sincerity in her eyes.

  “And if they cannot manage to see that, then the people who care for them—you and I—need to. I think we should find a way to bring them together physically”—now why did the man’s face turn red?—“so they cannot run from each other. If they are stuck in the same place, they may have a rational, thorough discussion. They are both intelligent adults. They must realize it would be much more comfortable if they could move about in society without constantly fearing they might encounter one another.”

  “You may have a point.” Lord Dawson gazed down at her, his eyes hooded. She could not read his expression, but at least the anger had left his face. He seemed relaxed.

  His gloved hand covered hers where it rested on his waistcoat, his fingers almost absentmindedly stroking the back of her glove. Even through the layers of cloth she felt…something. Strength. Heat. Possessiveness? Her other hand came up to join its mate. Heat curled low in her stomach.

  He smiled slightly.

  No, he was not relaxed. There was a…not tension, exactly. An energy. That was it. An air of expectation, of watchfulness about him.

  Suddenly the passion between them was no longer anger.

  She wet her lips, and his eyes followed her tongue. Her mouth felt swollen, hot. She opened it slightly. Was she panting?

  Now she knew the look in his eyes. He was a cat playing with a mouse—and she was the mouse.

  Oh, how she wanted to be caught.

  His face moved down toward hers. His lips were so close…She tilted her chin—

  “Grace!”

  “Ack!” She jumped back and tripped on her skirt. She would have crashed into the bookcase if Lord Dawson hadn’t caught her. “Aunt Kate, what are you doing here?”

  “Acting as your chaperone.” Aunt Kate quickly stepped into the room and shut the door behind her.

  It was very crowded with three adults in such a small space, especially when one of them was glaring at the other two.

  “How did you…er.” Grace cleared her throat and looked at Lord Dawson.

  Lord Dawson examined the ceiling.

  “How did I find you? I asked Mrs. Fallwell and Lady Wallen-Smyth. They thought you had come this way. They were correct.” Aunt Kate looked pointedly at Grace. “Mrs. Fallwell, by the bye, is a noted London gossip.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh, indeed. Fortunately tonight she is much more interested in the Duke of Alvord and Miss Hamilton, so I think your”—Aunt Kate sent Lord Dawson a scathing look. He received it with a completely bland expression—“little indiscretion will go unnoticed if we proceed directly to the ballroom.”

  Grace frowned. But she and Lord Dawson had yet to come up with a plan to mend the rift between her aunt and Mr. Wilton. “You go ahead, Aunt Kate. I’ll be along in just a minute.”

  “What?” Aunt Kate’s mouth dropped open.

  “There’s no need to look so shocked. Lord Dawson and I merely have a few things we still need to attend to.”

  “I’ll bet you do. Things like the things you were attending to when I entered this room?”

  “Ah.” Grace felt her cheeks burning. “No, er, that is…” She looked at Lord Dawson. He was examining a gouge in the room’s pitiful little table. “I’m sure Lord Dawson—”

  “Exactly. I am very sure Lord Dawson…” Aunt Kate stared at the baron. The baron stared at his fingernails. “Good evening, sir.”

  Lord Dawson inclined his head as Aunt Kate yanked Grace out of the room.

  Damn. David collapsed—carefully—onto the room’s lone chair. It was just as uncomfortable as it looked, but he didn’t plan to stay long. Once he gave Grace enough time to get to the ballroom and perhaps join a set, he could leave this infernal room.

  Well, he also had to give a certain organ time to resume its normal proportions.

  Blast it all, why did Lady Oxbury have to arrive at just that moment? A second later and he would have had Grace in his arms, his mouth on hers, his tongue deep…

  All right, so it was probably best Lady Oxbury had arrived when she did. Best, but damn frustrating.

  He dropped his head back against the wall and let out a pent-up breath. He should think about Grace’s words not her—Right. Think about what she’d said.

  He hated to admit it, but Grace was correct. Alex wasn’t happy, and he likely wouldn’t be happy until he resolved his issues with Lady Oxbury. But how to get him to accomplish that feat? When the man had left for Clifton Hall, he’d acted like he never wished to see Grace’s aunt again.

  David turned his head to look at the bookcase. A small, black spider dangled from one of the shelves. It appeared to be floating in air until you stared closely enough to see the thin strand of silk supporting it.

  Grace was correct about another point as well. The first step to getting Alex and Lady Oxbury to discuss their differences had to be getting them in the same location. Alex was not going to come back to Town, but with all the gossips in London, it wouldn’t be a good choice anyway. Some other—any other—location was preferable. The last thing Alex needed was the gabble-grinders sniffing around him. He valued his privacy too much.

  So if Alex would not come to Town, Lady Oxbury would have to go to the country. But she couldn’t very well visit Clifton Hall, and Riverview was now a bachelor establishment as well. Neutral ground would be better in any event, but where? Whom did he know who would be willing to host a house party and who had a wife or mother or other suitable female to act as hostess?

  His m
ind was a complete blank. He couldn’t think of a single name.

  The spider slowly drifted down to the next shelf and started crawling over the books. He watched it scale A Few Theories on Household Management.

  He didn’t know many of the ton. He’d never been to Eton—Grandda and Grandmamma had thought it better that he be schooled at home. He’d spent a few years at Oxford, but all the other men there had seemed little more than boys, more interested in pranks and whoring than their academic studies. He’d had very little in common with them.

  Perhaps Lady Grace knew a likely host.

  The spider moved on to Several Highly Efficacious Tonics and Cordials.

  They definitely needed to arrange a house party. The country with its greater privacy—and more opportunities for assignations—would be a far more likely location for Alex and Lady Oxbury to effect a reconciliation. And if Alex and Lady Oxbury were no longer estranged…He smiled at the spider. He could build his own little web to catch a certain spirited young lady.

  There were so many delightful spots in the country to steal a kiss or two. Picnics by the lake, strolls through the gardens, a ramble through the woods. Rules were always more relaxed there and, in any event, Grace’s meddle-some chaperone would be too busy with his uncle to be popping into every secluded room or leafy bower. He should be able to have Grace saying “I do” to any number of delightful activities.

  He would be certain to procure a special license before they left just in case he could persuade her all the way to the altar.

  He consulted his pocket watch. Had enough time elapsed since Lady Grace departed? Surely so. He would go out into the ballroom—

  Wait a minute. He’d forgotten Viscount Motton. He’d seen him here tonight.

  The viscount was around his own age and brilliant—he’d been involved in a few investments with him. Even better, his estate was a long day’s ride from Clifton Hall—close enough to be almost in Alex’s neighborhood, but far enough that Alex would have to stay over. Hmm. And if he were not mistaken, Alex had spent part of the trip up to Town nattering on about some crop rotation scheme Motton was trying at Lakeland that he might want to implement himself. He’d even been talking about stopping by Motton’s estate. Perfect.

  Now he only had to come up with some subtle way to suggest a casual acquaintance hold a house party in the middle of the Season for his benefit.

  Right. That would be easy.

  He stood and straightened his waistcoat. Best be—

  The door swung open with an inordinate amount of giggling. Two very surprised people stared at him. He bowed.

  “Good evening, Lord Featherstone; Mrs. Fallwell.”

  “Ah.” They gaped at him, apparently unable to compose a coherent sentence between them.

  “I was just leaving.”

  “Ah.”

  He bowed again, stepped around them, and walked briskly toward the ballroom. He did not look back.

  He did not want to know…he did not want to think about anything concerning the old roué, the society gossip, and that very small room.

  Chapter 10

  Hermes was barking…in her ear?

  Kate cracked open an eye. Hermes’s large orbs stared back at her. She groaned.

  “Go back to bed. It’s the middle of the night.”

  Hermes begged to differ.

  “Ow!” He brushed up against her breast. It was uncommonly sensitive, perhaps because her courses were a few days late.

  Her courses were never late.

  She must have some odd malady. She was so tired, and she felt bloated and out of sorts all the time.

  Hermes was still staring at her; absently, she stroked his ears.

  It wasn’t surprising she was tired. She’d been keeping most irregular hours, and when she did find her bed, she didn’t sleep well.

  She sniffed, wiping away a sudden tear as she pictured the primary reason for her lack of sleep. Damn it all, men were supposed to want bed frolic without any emotional complications. Alex should have been happy she wasn’t demanding anything of him.

  She’d had a wonderful time, and then he’d had to go and ruin it by asking her to marry him. She couldn’t marry him. He must know that. Why had he teased her with the offer?

  She smiled slightly. But oh, what he’d done with her in this bed. His touch had been magical. There was no resemblance—none at all—between bed activities with Alex and with poor Oxbury. Just thinking about Alex made her body throb in embarrassing places. She craved his touch…

  But she could never have it again. She couldn’t flirt with scandal by carrying on an affair with him—and, in any event, he’d said he never wanted to repeat the experience. And then he’d left her—and London—so abruptly.

  He had hurt her—but she had hurt him. Why had she played the merry widow then? She should have given him the truth.

  Had she broken his heart? Well, they were even. Her heart was in pieces as well.

  She sniffed again. She was crying far more easily these days, too. She must get more rest.

  Hermes licked her face.

  “Stop it, you silly dog.” She lifted the covers. “Here, as a special treat you can sleep next to me. But this is a once in a lifetime opportunity, you know, so do not get used to it.” She was very fond of Hermes, but she’d learned early on that letting him sleep in her bed gave her uncontrollable sneezing fits.

  She closed her eyes to give him the proper example.

  His very wet tongue accosted her cheek once more.

  “Please go back to sleep. It’s too early to get up.”

  “But it’s not, my lady.” Marie pulled open the bed curtains.

  “Wha—?” Why was Marie here? And her bedchamber was full of light…but it faced west. “What time is it?”

  “Almost two o’clock.”

  “In the afternoon?” She’d never slept that late. She prided herself on being an early riser. She must definitely be sickening.

  “Aye. Jem took Hermes for his morning walk, but I thought ye’d want to take him out now.”

  It was two o’clock! How was that possible? She’d dragged Grace away from the Wainwright ball early last night because she’d been too exhausted to stay another minute.

  “I brought ye some chocolate.”

  “Ah.” Chocolate. A nice cup of chocolate would settle her nerves. She struggled to sit up—and inhaled the thick, sweet scent. Ohh. She put her hand over her mouth. “I don’t want any chocolate this morning—I mean afternoon. Take it away. Please.”

  Why was Marie giving her that look? And why was she staring at her chest? She looked down at her thin nightgown. She’d become attached to the old thing in the last few weeks since—she blushed…and saw her breasts darken slightly.

  Obviously the garment was too threadbare.

  Were her small breasts looking a little larger? And a little…different?

  Ridiculous. She crossed her arms over them and winced. They were definitely sensitive.

  “Yer courses are late, aren’t they, my lady?”

  Marie would know since she collected the soiled laundry. “A little late.”

  “How late?”

  What was this, the Grand Inquisition? “I don’t know. A few days. Perhaps a week.” She was feeling nauseous. Was there a basin handy? She might have need of it.

  Marie was frowning at her. “If I did nae know any better, I’d say ye were increasing.”

  “What?!”

  “Increasing. Ye know. Breeding. In the family way. With child.”

  “Ga.” She dove for the cupboard by the bed and flung it open. Thank God! She grabbed the basin and emptied her stomach. “Ohh.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  Marie gave her another look. Kate clutched the basin more tightly. At the moment it seemed like her sole anchor to reality.

  “But I couldn’t…It’s not p-possible…”

  “Aye, I know.”

  “I’m forty years old.”

  “T
hat’s not the impossible part. Many a woman past forty finds herself with a babe. As long as ye still get yer courses, ye can still get a child.”

  “Oh.” Surely she knew that—she just hadn’t thought about it. She’d been so regular all these years. And Oxbury had exercised his marital rights several times a month—almost daily when they were first married—yet she’d never conceived. “But I’m barren.”

  Marie shrugged. “Perhaps the fault was with yer lord. I’ve seen more than one barren woman bury her first husband and have a quiverful of children with her second.” Marie fixed her with a penetrating gaze. “And that’s the part that makes it impossible for ye to be increasing—ye have no husband.” Her gaze sharpened. “Or do ye?”

  “Of course not. You know I’m not married. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Ah, but church vows aren’t needed for a babe. It just takes a man in yer bed with lively seed and a strong plow.”

  She must be as red as a beet. She could barely get her breath. Could she be…had she and Alex made…but they had only done it once…

  “Had ye a man in yer bed, my lady?”

  “Ah…”

  “And it needn’t be a bed, ye know. A quick poke in the garden will do the trick as well.”

  “But…”

  Marie crossed her arms. “Ye may as well tell me, my lady. There’s no point in lying. I’ll know soon enough when yer courses don’t come and yer belly swells.”

  “Ah. Ah. Oh.” She threw up again and then burst into tears.

  Marie took the basin carefully from her hands, sat down on the bed next to her, and gathered her into her arms. Kate hugged her and sobbed into her sturdy shoulder.

  “Ye know, my lady,” Marie murmured in her ear, “ye need to send a note to Mr. Wilton.”

  She was increasing.

  What in God’s name was she going to do?

  Hermes tugged on his leash, pulling Kate down the hall. It was a good thing he knew the way to the park. She couldn’t find her way out of her room at the moment. She was locked in a nightmare.