Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  “I didn’t!” Sarah looked like an indignant kitten. “My arms gave out, that’s all. I was as surprised as you were, I’m sure.”

  James took his gloves off and tucked a silky strand of red-blond hair back behind the delicate rim of Sarah’s ear.

  “Surprise was not my main emotion.”

  Her breath caught and she pulled her head away from his fingers. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you want to swallow me whole or something.”

  James laughed and stepped back, putting Sarah’s hand on his arm. “Do I frighten you?”

  She considered the question. “No. I’m sure you should, but you don’t.”

  “So how do I make you feel?”

  “I don’t know.” She looked at her hand on his arm. “You make me feel odd. Comfortable, sometimes, but fluttery other times.”

  “Fluttery?”

  Sarah chewed on the edge of her bottom lip. “Nervous, but not unpleasantly so. Excited, maybe, like I’m waiting for something, but I’m not sure what.” She looked up and saw James grinning. “You’re doing it again.”

  “Doing what again?”

  “Looking at me that way. It is most unsettling.”

  “Is it?” James put his hand over Sarah’s. “Do you know how you make me feel?”

  “No.” She looked up at him, eyes wide with “expectation. “How do I make you feel?”

  “Excited, like I’m waiting for something.” He leaned closer and leered at her. “But I know what I am waiting for!”

  Her eyes blinked once, then she pulled back her hand and swatted his shoulder. She didn’t put any muscle into it, so he could tell she wasn’t really angry.

  “Hey, don’t you know you’re not allowed to hit a duke?”

  “I’m an American. I’ll hit any duke I please.”

  “That will endear you to all the old biddies at Almack’s.” James laughed, picturing Silence Jersey’s face should Sarah really slap Devonshire or Rutland or Cumberland. “I shall have to keep a close eye on you when you meet Prinny. Our Regent often deserves a good wallop.”

  “I’m sure he does. Why do you put up with him?”

  “Because he will be king, and unlike you Americans, we English are still attached to our monarchy. Perhaps we fear that if Prinny goes, all the nobles go. I’m not sure I could adjust to being plain Mr. Runyon.”

  Sarah stopped, pulling James to a stop also. He looked questioningly down at her.

  “You would be a wonderful plain Mr. Runyon.”

  James stared at her. “Sarah.” He blinked and looked off toward the house. “Sarah, my love, I do hope you will decide to have me.”

  “Sarah, James says we’re to ride over to Westbrooke today!”

  Sarah put aside the book she was reading to smile up at Lizzie. The girl was almost dancing around the library. Her excitement seemed a trifle extreme for something as mundane as a visit to a neighbor. “I can’t picture Robbie presiding over a tea tray,” she said, laughing.

  “Well, he won’t really. I mean, I’m sure there will be tea and cakes—Mrs. Mandley, his housekeeper, bakes lovely cakes—but the point is to give you some more riding practice and a chance to see the estate where your father grew up.” Lizzie flopped down on the chair next to Sarah’s. “Isn’t it a good thing Mrs. Croft just finished my new riding habit? It makes me look much more the thing, don’t you think? Older and more…sophisticated.” She managed to sound both confident and anxious simultaneously.

  “Oh, definitely. I’m sure, um, James will be quite impressed.”

  Lizzie stuck out her tongue, and Sarah laughed.

  “However, I’m not certain Lady Amanda, if she were sitting in my chair, would be impressed by your current deportment, miss! I believe she would point out that ladies do not behave with such enthusiasm. They seat themselves with a shade more grace than you just exhibited, and they most assuredly do not stick out their tongues.”

  “Well, she’s not sitting in your chair, and you know I can behave when I want to.” Lizzie rose elegantly to her feet and curtseyed. “Miss Hamilton, I trust you have no objection to joining a small excursion this afternoon to Lord Westbrooke’s estate?”

  Sarah nodded back graciously. “No, Lady Elizabeth, I have no objection at all, that is, if his grace really has approved the plan.”

  Lizzie dropped her skirts and skip-hopped to the library door. “Of course he has. It was his idea, after Major Draysmith brought word that evil Cousin Richard is safely situated in London.”

  Later that afternoon, they set out for Westbrooke. Major Draysmith rode ahead with Lizzie while James stayed with Sarah. Her horsemanship had improved greatly from the time he had first lifted her onto Rosebud’s back, but she did not feel up to maintaining any pace much faster than a walk.

  “I’m sorry to keep you plodding along with me,” she said. “You must long to be up with the others.”

  “No, I don’t.” James grinned. “I had my gallop early this morning, and I’d much rather be keeping you company than my sister. Charles will see Lizzie comes to no harm. He often took charge of our young recruits on the Peninsula.”

  Sarah looked ahead to where Lizzie and Charles were riding. They were almost out of sight.

  “What will Major Draysmith do now that the fighting is over?”

  “I don’t know.” James frowned. “I’m not sure Charles knows himself.”

  “Doesn’t he have an estate to manage?”

  “No. He’s the second son—the spare. After he came down from Cambridge, he racketed around London for years, drinking, gambling, whor—” James coughed. “…hardly caring what he did. He followed me into the army out of boredom, I think, but it was the best thing he could have done. It gave him a purpose. He was an excellent officer.”

  Sarah worried her bottom lip with her teeth. She liked Major Draysmith. “And his brother?”

  “Knightsdale? What has he to say to the matter?”

  “Perhaps he needs an estate manager.”

  James laughed. “Knightsdale already has an excellent manager, Sarah. Don’t worry about Charles. He doesn’t need—or want—any help, especially from his brother.”

  “Why especially from his brother?”

  James shrugged. “I don’t imagine any man wants to hang on his brother’s sleeve, but Knightsdale and Charles don’t get along. No bad blood, really, just nothing in common. I’m not sure Charles has slept a night in his ancestral home since he left for Eton. When he’s in the neighborhood, he stays with Robbie or me.”

  “Really?” That struck Sarah as sad. If she were lucky enough to have siblings, she would see that they stayed close. “What about a family of his own then, now that he’s free to settle down? Doesn’t he want to marry?”

  “Not any time soon! He’s only thirty, Sarah. Plenty of time for a leg shackle.”

  Sarah frowned at the space between Rosebud’s ears. “You’re younger than he is, aren’t you?”

  “Ah, but I have the burden of passing my title on to the next generation—a burden I’m so hoping you’ll help me with.” James leered down at her. She slapped Rosebud’s reins to encourage the horse to move faster. Rosebud stopped dead and turned to look reproachfully back at her.

  James laughed and brought Pythagoras up so that his leg brushed Sarah’s skirts. “If you wish to run away from me, love, you’ve chosen the wrong steed.” He leaned over, putting his gloved hand over hers on the reins. “I do hope you don’t plan to run away.” He started to bend farther, his eyes on her lips.

  “James!” Lizzie’s voice sounded surprisingly close.

  James straightened quickly. His sister was riding toward them, looking puzzled. Major Draysmith, by her side, struggled manfully not to laugh.

  “Whatever are you doing with Sarah?” Lizzie asked.

  James turned an interesting shade of red. Sarah leaned over to pat Rosebud’s neck.

  “I believe your brother was giving Miss Hami
lton a few extra riding tips,” Major Draysmith said with a straight face, though his eyes were dancing wickedly.

  “Oh.” Lizzie looked at James and then at Sarah. “Well, hurry on, do. At your pace, we’ll never get to Westbrooke.”

  “It’s only over the hill, Lizzie. You and Charles go ahead. Miss Hamilton is still getting used to riding.”

  Sarah was not going to risk being alone with James again, not when she was sure Major Draysmith knew exactly what James planned to do the moment he and Lizzie were over the crest of the hill.

  “I am sure I can manage a brisker pace.” She touched Rosebud’s side with her riding crop. This time the horse blew a long, gusty breath and obligingly moved a little faster.

  Westbrooke was an immense house of gray stone that looked as if it had once had some thought of being a castle—its huge wooden doors were set between two crenellated towers—but had gotten distracted from that goal over the years. It was now a welter of towers, turrets, chimneys, and bays.

  “Don’t you get lost in there?” Sarah asked, gaping at the bewildering facade as Robbie greeted them on the broad stone drive. He laughed.

  “It’s not as confusing as it looks,” he said, turning to make a show of kissing Lizzie’s hand. Sarah noted the delicate shade of pink that flooded Lizzie’s cheeks as Robbie’s lips brushed her skin. “Come in and see for yourself.”

  Robbie led them up the large open staircase. “This is the original section of the house, built in 1610. Subsequent earls added on as they pleased, not much caring if the new style blended in with the old. Ah, here we are.”

  Sarah faced a long hall hung with the heavy, gilt-framed portraits of two centuries of Hamiltons.

  “Here’s the first earl.” Robbie pointed to a life-sized painting of a man with long reddish brown curls, a spreading white lace collar, and polished armor. Sarah slapped her hand over her mouth, not quite suppressing her startled giggle.

  “Very true,” James said. “Trim the flowing locks and you have Robbie ready for battle. We looked and looked through the attics, didn’t we, Robbie? We never did find that suit of armor.”

  “We decided it must have belonged to the artist fellow,” Robbie said, moving down the line of portraits. He dutifully introduced Sarah to each of her ancestors. He stopped again at a large canvas hung almost at the end of the corridor.

  “This was painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds the year before your father left for America. My father used to say they had a terrible time getting David to cooperate.”

  Sarah could believe it. The older man and woman—her grandparents—as well as the other young man, Robbie’s father, were grouped together. They looked relaxed and happy. Her father stood off to the side, stiff and unsmiling. She expected him to take out his pocket watch at any moment and urge the artist to hurry along. It was obvious he thought he had better places to be.

  “I believe Sir Joshua captured my father’s spirit admirably.”

  Robbie laughed and turned to the last painting. “My mother was a great admirer of Sir Thomas Lawrence and his more romantic style, so my father commissioned him to do our family picture. I confess I had much sympathy for my Uncle David.”

  “What do you mean, Robbie?” Lizzie sounded almost outraged. “You look like a very sweet little boy in that painting.”

  “Well, I hate to disillusion you, Lizzie, but I wasn’t. My father bribed me with a pony if I pleased my mother and sat still. It was pure torture, but I wanted that pony very badly.”

  “I see there’s still some blank space on the wall, Robbie.” Major Draysmith grinned. “Planning to hang your own family grouping soon?”

  Sarah noticed the sudden, keen interest on Lizzie’s face.

  Robbie threw up his hands as if to ward off evil. “You’ve confused me with our ducal friend here, Charles. James may be hankering for a leg shackle, but I wish to remain a free man for many years to come.”

  Sarah opened her mouth to explain once again that she and James were not going to be married, but she stopped when she saw the shadows in Lizzie’s eyes.

  James leaned on the terrace balustrade at Alvord and looked down on the moonlit garden. The door behind him opened onto the warmth and light of his library. He breathed deeply, savoring the smell of mud and growth. The early spring wind tugged at his hair as he watched the night clouds scud across the sky.

  He loved Alvord. It was in his blood and in his heart. But tomorrow they left for London with its noise and dirt. The ton was there with its sharp eyes and sharper tongues. Richard was there. He felt the back of his neck tighten, and he twisted his head to loosen the tension.

  They could not stay in the country, much as he would like to. Lizzie needed her Season. So did Sarah. She should have the chance to go to the parties, to dance, and even to be courted by other men before he brought her home and made her his duchess. Before he took her to his bed and filled her with his children.

  God, he could hardly wait. He’d have her naked beneath him again, just as she had been at the Green Man, but this time she would not push him away. This time he would finish what he had barely started there.

  He took one last look at the moon and the garden. The quiet serenity of the scene would have to last him. Even the gardens in London were noisy, and the moon was too often obscured by fog.

  He stretched and then turned back to the library, pulling the door to the garden closed behind him, heading for the stairs and his solitary bed.

  Chapter 7

  “He’s in London.” Richard spun the scrap of vellum into the fireplace. The flames caught it and twisted the expensive ink and paper to ash. “He’s opening Alvord House for Lizzie’s come-out. So gracious of him to invite me to her ball.”

  “You are his cousin.” Philip Gadner tightened the belt on his dressing gown and stretched his slippered feet closer to the fire. It was so hard to stay warm these days. He felt the cold and the damp like sharp daggers in his bones. “People would talk if he didn’t invite you.”

  Richard grunted and downed his brandy. “Alvord House should be mine.”

  “Yes, I know. And it will be yours, Richard. Your plans—”

  “Fail at every turn! God Almighty, that son of a bitch has amazing luck. By rights he should have taken a bullet to the brain at Ciudad Rodrigo or Badajoz. At the least he should have come back scarred or crippled, but the bloody bastard waltzes back to England without a scratch.”

  “Well, yes, that was unfortunate. Who could have known that the French would fail so miserably?” Philip glanced at the bed behind him. He would love to get under the thick quilts. Then he’d be warm, at least for a while. Richard would soon be too drunk to care. That was the way it was these days. There were only occasional flashes of the emotion they had shared when they were younger.

  He closed his eyes, shutting out Richard’s black scowl. Things would be better when Richard got the dukedom. Then Richard wouldn’t need the drink or the women. The rage that infected him would be gone like pus from a lanced boil. He’d be happy.

  Philip’s lips jerked as the familiar pain flashed through his body. He had believed that story without question when he was seventeen and in love. He had believed it most of the time when he was twenty-five and healthy. But now he was thirty and cold. Why the hell did he stay? He was a decent valet. He could find other work. Someone else would take him on. Not a duke, of course. Maybe not even a peer—he had been with Richard too long. But someone would hire him.

  It wasn’t the promise of wealth and luxury that kept him with Richard. God, how he wished it were only greed. But no, in spite of all the abuse and neglect, he still cared for the man. His love was a tenacious weed.

  “He’s got the whore with him.”

  Philip sighed. “The girl’s not a whore, Richard. She’s the Earl of Westbrooke’s cousin.”

  “She’s got red hair, don’t she? Just like that piece at the Green Man.”

  “That dead piece at the Green Man.” Philip’s long, thin nostrils flared. �
��You can’t leave bodies about the countryside, Richard. It’s most untidy.”

  “Wouldn’t have killed the girl if you’d been with me, Philip, I’m sure.” Richard poured more brandy and cupped the glass in his hands. “Don’t know, though. God, you should have seen her eyes when she knew it, just when she knew I was going to kill her.”

  Philip twitched his dressing gown over his boney knees. “You’ll not be putting your hands around this girl’s neck.”

  “No?” Richard leaned back in his chair. The fire glinted red in his brandy. “I can’t have James getting an heir.”

  “She’s just a houseguest, isn’t she? Just Westbrooke’s cousin.”

  “My cousin does not kiss houseguests. He certainly does not kiss them outside on his estate where any passerby can see him.”

  “Perhaps the bullet reminded James that he should not be planning a future.”

  “Perhaps.” Richard took a swallow of brandy. “Who knows with James? I had better go to this come-out ball and see how he treats her. If he ignores her, I’ll ignore her. But if not…”

  “If not, you’ll ignore her, too.”

  Richard hunched one shoulder and sank deeper into his chair.

  Philip felt a stab of panic. “You have to leave her be, Richard. You cannot kill this girl.”

  “Don’t be such an old woman.”

  “I’m not.” Philip struggled not to shout. He knew from long experience that showing his own anger would only fuel Richard’s. He swallowed and took a deep breath. “Let’s not make any decisions now. Go to the ball and see how he treats her. Then we’ll make plans, all right?”

  Richard hesitated, then nodded. “All right.” He snorted. “I wasn’t going to strangle the girl on the dance floor, you know.”

  “I know.” Philip sighed. The storm had blown over for the time being. “I’m for bed now. Are you coming?”

  Richard paused and Philip felt a sudden surge of hope. He knew that somewhere deep under the layers of dissatisfaction and anger that the years had piled on, under Richard’s obsession with James and the dukedom, the spark of what they had once known still flickered.