Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  “Yer in big trouble, matey.”

  Surely it wasn’t possible for a parrot to gloat? David bit back a smile. Theo seemed uncommonly pleased with the monkey’s misbehavior.

  “Oh, Lord Dawson, can’t you please rescue my plume from that, that…creature!” Miss Amanda was gazing at him beseechingly. He was not impressed.

  “I’m certain Miss Smyth can get your plume for you better than I can.” He grinned. “I don’t want to risk my fingers—the animal might bite.”

  This unchivalrous reply seemed to give her pause for a moment, allowing her sister the opportunity to push into the exchange.

  “Quite right, my lord. You can’t be too careful. Who knows what diseases that beast might carry?” She batted her eyelashes at him again.

  Apparently his barony outweighed his lack of bravery, at least on Miss Abigail Addison’s scale.

  Miss Smyth’s mouth was opening and shutting, but no sound was emerging. She pressed her hands to her breast and took a deep breath. “Diseases? Diseases!”

  “Scurvy dog.”

  “You are quite right, Theo, but not about Edmund.” Miss Smyth took a step closer to Miss Abigail and waggled her finger right in front of the girl’s nose. “I’ll have you know, miss, that my Edmund does not carry diseases. How could you even think so? The very idea! He’s never been sick a day in his life. I’m sure he does not care to be so insulted.”

  Miss Amanda made the ill-considered decision to enter the fray. She laughed. “But he’s a monkey, Miss Smyth.”

  Motton’s aunt rounded on her new target. “I am well aware that he is a monkey. He is a very intelligent monkey—certainly more intelligent than a pair of young women I could mention”—Miss Smyth sniffed—“but won’t.”

  Two identical jaws dropped. Four identical eyebrows snapped into two identical frowns.

  David stepped forward. Surely the girls wouldn’t harm Miss Smyth, would they?

  They were not given the opportunity. Lady Kilgorn, Lady Oxbury, and Lady Grace fortunately stepped into the room then.

  Lady Kilgorn laughed. “Where did the wee monkey get that feather, Miss Smyth?”

  “From me, Lady Kilgorn.” Miss Amanda sounded exactly like the spoiled four-year-old daughter of one of David’s friends. “And I want it back.”

  “Well of course ye do.” Lady Kilgorn walked over to Edmund and extended her hand. “Here, sir, give me that feather, if ye please.”

  Edmund screeched. He did not seem inclined to comply.

  “Ah, ye drive a hard bargain, do ye?” Lady Kilgorn looked around the room and picked up a small, silver snuff box. “Will ye trade me then, sir?”

  Edmund looked at the shiny object in Lady Kilgorn’s hand for a few seconds; then he dropped the plume and grabbed the box. Lady Kilgorn picked up the feather and handed it to Amanda. Miss Smyth clapped.

  “Well done. You have quite a way with animals, Lady Kilgorn.” She beamed at the woman. “I was obviously very wise to include you in this house party.” She glared at the Addison twins. “Though clearly I did make a few mistakes on the guest list.”

  The Addison twins gasped in unison.

  Grace had stepped away from the fracas and closer to David.

  “Come with me into the garden?” he asked. She seemed to hesitate. “I’d like to tell you how my interview with my grandmother went.”

  She smiled then. “Of course.”

  They stepped out the French windows. The other women were having a spirited discussion about pets and appeared not to notice their departure.

  The air was fresh, damp, and a little chill, but invigorating. Grace let Lord Dawson put her hand on his arm. They walked across the terrace, down the steps, and along a path.

  “How did your conversation go, my lord?” She was so glad he had spoken with Lady Wordham. It had been obvious to her that the elderly woman needed to make peace with her past, but men could be so obtuse sometimes, so pigheaded. Just look at her father. Once he got a notion in his brain box, it was almost impossible to shake it loose.

  “It went very well.” David grinned. He looked so happy and…young. “Thank you for urging me to talk with her. I think it helped us both.”

  She squeezed his arm and smiled back at him. “Of course it did. And you were very kind to meet with her.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know about that. I was not very eager for the interview—and it was not pure charity by any means. I did gain something important—I learned about my mother and her family—my family.”

  “Yes, of course. But you could have lived your life adequately without knowing those things. Something would be missing, yes, but nothing crucial to your happiness. Lady Wordham, however…Well, I think she needed to be forgiven. Whether she was truly at fault or not, I think she felt the burden of the past.”

  He nodded and they strolled in silence for a few moments. Grace tried to memorize every detail—the feel of his arm under her hand, the height and breadth of his body next to hers, the way the sunlight gilded his hair. All too soon, she would be returning to Standen and walking down the aisle to an altar where John Parker-Roth waited.

  Could she hold these impressions in her heart, clear and sharp and alive, so she could relive them in the years to come? No. They would fade like a painting hung in the sunlight or subjected to the inevitable dust of time.

  It was just as well. She would have John. She should not be keeping another man in her heart.

  They had strayed into an overgrown section of the garden. The air was heavy with the scent of wet dirt and leaves.

  “Grace.”

  “Hmm?” It was so quiet here, so private. Almost as if she and David had managed to walk into another world, a world blessedly free of practicalities.

  David stopped and put his hands on her shoulders. He had a very intent look in his eyes. He was going to kiss her. Good. She tilted up her face, parted her lips. She wanted this. It was another memory, another sensation to store away for as long as she could.

  His mouth touched hers, gently at first, asking, not demanding; giving, not taking. It moved to her eyelids, her cheeks, light touches that burned into her heart, heated her, made her melt with need.

  She whimpered softly and his mouth returned to hers. This time its touch was not light. It was wet. Deep. Consuming. His tongue swept through her until she was certain he knew every corner of her soul.

  She put her hands round his neck and let her body sag into his, soft to his hard. Madness burned in her; hunger; desire.

  “Grace?”

  “Hmm?” She blinked up at him. She didn’t want to talk. Talking meant thinking. She didn’t want to think. She wanted to feel.

  She cupped his face, kissed his jaw, urged him to come back to her.

  He did. His hands moved to her hips. She wanted them on her breasts…

  He pulled his head up, laughing, panting slightly. “Grace, stop.”

  She didn’t want to stop; she never wanted to stop. She reached for him again, but he grabbed her by her shoulders and set her away from him. His touch was gentle, but unbreakable.

  “Grace.” He was grinning. “This is lovely, and I would definitely like to get back to such activities very soon, but first I have an important question to ask you.”

  Oh, dear God. She should turn away. She should make an excuse to go back to the house.

  No, running away did no good. Just as she had urged him to talk to his grandmother, now she must talk to him.

  She couldn’t talk. Her throat was clogged with tears.

  How could she explain her loyalty to her father? Her duty to honor his need above hers—above something as transitory as lust? She could tell by looking in David’s eyes he would not understand, and she did not want to see the joy in his face drain away.

  But he was relatively young, and they had only known each other such a short while. He would find another woman to love. Her father had only her.

  “Grace, will you marry me?”

  She didn’
t have to watch his face; she couldn’t see it, she was crying too hard.

  “No, David. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  Chapter 17

  “You’re retiring early, are you not, sir?” Roberts put Alex’s coat in the wardrobe.

  Alex swallowed a sigh. His valet could be damn annoying sometimes. “Not so early.”

  Roberts raised an eyebrow. Alex contemplated planting his fist in the man’s eye socket just under that obnoxious brow.

  His valet was a moderately perceptive man. Both eyebrows shot up, and then he bowed hurriedly. “I take it that will be all for the night?”

  Did the man’s glance dart toward the connecting door? Alex strove for an impassive—a phlegmatic—demeanor. Roberts probably knew exactly what he was contemplating—servants knew every blasted detail of one’s life—but he need not acknowledge that fact out loud. “Yes, thank you. That will be all.”

  Roberts headed for the door. Alex couldn’t help himself—the words were out before his brain fully realized he was speaking.

  “Ah, one more thing…”

  Roberts stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “Yes?”

  Alex’s brain finally caught up to his tongue. Was he a complete idiot? He couldn’t ask that. “Never mind.”

  Roberts smirked. “I noticed Lady Oxbury also sought her bedchamber early. The gathering must be very tiring.”

  He’d so enjoy throwing a shoe at the coxcomb’s head. “Exceedingly tiring. So tiring I may sleep late tomorrow. Do not bother to come until I call for you.” Ha! Let Roberts make what he would of that.

  It was obvious what Roberts was making of it. The man grinned at him. “Very good, sir.” He waggled his blasted eyebrows. “And may I say I wish you the best of luck?”

  Damn it, he was flushing. He could feel the heat flood his neck and face. “Why would I need luck?”

  Roberts’ eyebrows moved faster. “I have no idea, sir.” He slipped out, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Bloody liar. Roberts had a crystal clear idea of what he thought Alex intended—only he was wrong.

  Well, partly wrong. He would love to love Kate, to take her to bed and do what he’d done to her back in London.

  Ah, there was the rub. What had he done to her in London?

  He reached for the brandy decanter and poured himself a full glass. Was he going to be a father? Have a child—a son…well, or a daughter. A baby.

  In the first year or two after Kate had married Oxbury, he’d been tortured by the thought of her growing round and heavy with Oxbury’s brat. It wasn’t well done of him, he knew that. He’d known it even then, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. In his mind, having Oxbury’s child made Kate’s marriage irrefutable. When the years passed and she stayed slim and childless, he could fool himself that she didn’t share Oxbury’s bed, that she wasn’t tied to the man.

  There might be some truth to that. Oh, not that Kate was a virgin—she’d clearly not been one when he’d climbed into her bed in London. But her ties to Oxbury…for better or worse, they hung by a thread—or by the new Lord Oxbury’s whim.

  If she’d had a son, things would be very different. She’d be the earl’s mother. And even if she’d had a daughter, there would be that life she and Oxbury had created together.

  Alex sat down heavily in the brown leather wingchair and stared at the fire, cradling his brandy in his hand. He’d thought a lot about children, about legacy, in the year since Da and Mama died.

  When he died, there would be no one to mourn his passing. Oh, David would—and perhaps David’s children would miss old Uncle Alex—but that was different. He would have no direct descendent; no son to carry on his name; no daughter with his blood. And no one to inherit Clifton Hall. He blew out a long breath. Perhaps he would leave it to David’s second son.

  If David had a second son.

  Nonsense. David had to marry and have children—he had a title to pass down. It looked a bit uncertain at the moment that his bride would be Lady Grace, however. Something had happened this afternoon to cause a falling out. At dinner tonight, the two would not let their eyes meet. If by accident their gazes did connect, they looked away as quickly as they could. When David had entered the drawing room after dinner, he’d looked for Grace—and then gone to the other side of the room. Grace had retired shortly afterward.

  It was unfortunate, but David was only thirty-one, still relatively young to be considering matrimony. And, given Standen’s dislike of all Wiltons, choosing a different bride would probably increase David’s domestic harmony.

  But he was not young.

  He swirled the brandy in his glass. He’d seriously considered marriage a few years after Kate’s wedding. He’d wanted children, and he’d found a lady who seemed congenial. But he’d vacillated and she’d married someone else.

  That was the story of his life—he failed to act decisively and he lost the prize. If only he’d flown with Kate to Gretna Green twenty-three years ago, just as Luke had taken Lady Harriet…

  He took a sip of brandy. All that was water over the dam. History. This was today. He had a decision to make now.

  If Kate indeed carried his child, there was no decision to be made. He would not let his child be born a bastard.

  He put down his brandy, rose, and strode toward the connecting door. It was time to put an end to his uncertainty.

  “That will be all for tonight, Marie. Thank you.” Kate rubbed her temples. She was developing a crushing headache.

  “Would ye like a spot of tea, my lady?”

  Kate’s stomach twisted. Regretfully, tea would not help in this instance. “No, thank you.”

  Marie made a small huffing sound and lingered by the door. Kate looked up. It was obvious the woman would burst if she didn’t open her budget. Unfortunately, Kate was certain she knew exactly what Marie wished to say—and she did not want to hear it.

  She could ignore her—she should ignore her.

  Whom was she fooling? That tactic had never worked in the past; there was no indication it would work this time. Marie was capable of standing there until tomorrow.

  She sighed. “Did you have something else to say, Marie?”

  Marie’s chin came up. She looked quite pugnacious. “Happen I do.”

  Kate nodded; Marie glared.

  Zeus! If Marie wanted to ring a peal over her head, she should just do so and be done with it. It was hard to imagine she could say anything Kate had not already said to herself.

  Kate looked down and pressed her fingers to her forehead. It didn’t help. “Yes? And you wished to say…?”

  “Ye know ye have to tell him soon, don’t ye?”

  Kate didn’t need to ask who “he” was. There was only one male in attendance whom she needed to tell anything. She had decided earlier she would do so tonight, but now that tonight was here…She glanced at the connecting door. Perhaps tomorrow.

  She looked back at Marie. Her maid actually appeared sympathetic. Damn. Tears pricked her eyelids.

  She would not cry.

  “I will get to it, Marie.”

  All trace of sympathy vanished; now Marie merely looked exasperated. “And when will that be, my lady? Ye said the same thing last night.”

  She had, hadn’t she? “Well, yes, but the house party has just begun.”

  “And it will end all too soon with poor Mr. Wilton no more the wiser, I fear.”

  Poor Mr. Wilton? What was poor about Mr. Wilton? He didn’t puke his breakfast up every morning. He wasn’t worried people were looking at his stomach; he didn’t wonder if it had begun to protrude, if everyone would guess…exactly the truth. And in just a few months—perhaps a few weeks—no one would have to guess. It would be painfully obvious to anyone with eyes in his—or her—head that an interesting event was expected.

  She pressed the heels of her hands into her forehead. What if Alex laughed at her when she told him? What if he washed his hands of her, said she’d seduced him so now she could pay the
price?

  No, he would never do that. He might be very, very angry, though, and she couldn’t blame him. He’d gone all these years without any encumbrances, and now she had to tell him…

  She couldn’t do it.

  She had to do it.

  “I’ve hardly had time—”

  “Ye’ve had plenty of time.” Marie clicked her tongue. “I see how it fashes ye. Ye’ve nae been eating or sleeping well. That canna be good for ye or the wee bairn.”

  “Well…” Certainly worry was contributing to this blasted headache.

  “It’s nae gonna to get any easier, my lady. Just think if ye wait till ye are showing, how awkward that will be. I canna think Mr. Wilton would like to find out then that he’s the cause.”

  “Nooo…” Where was that basin? She was going to be ill.

  Marie crossed her arms. “If ye do nae tell the man tonight, I will tell him in the morning.”

  Kate’s head snapped up. “You wouldn’t!”

  “I would.” Marie looked exceedingly mulish.

  “But I should go to Lady Grace. She appeared very upset in the drawing room this evening.”

  Marie just stared at her.

  “And I’m not dressed.” Kate spread her arms. “See, I am already in my nightgown.”

  Marie snorted. “The man has seen ye in yer nightgown afore, my lady. He’s likely seen ye without yer nightgown—or any gown at all. I do nae think he’ll be complaining of that when ye walk into his bedroom.”

  Dear God! Walk into Alex’s bedroom…she could not do it. It was as simple as that.

  “I’ll speak to him tomorrow morning, I promise.” She could meet him in the garden. That would be private enough.

  “Ye’ll speak to him tonight, my lady, or I’ll speak to him tomorrow morning.” Marie slammed the door behind her for emphasis.

  “Ohh.” Kate covered her face with her hands. What was she going to do?

  She was going to tell Alex…somehow. She had to. Marie was a woman of her word; if Kate did not find the courage tonight, Marie would march up to Alex tomorrow.

  When had she so offended the Fates? She had lived a good life. She had done as her brother insisted and married Oxbury. She had been faithful to her husband. She gave alms to the poor, visited the sick, said her prayers every night…almost every night.