Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  Lady Gladys frowned as if she might deny his request. “Sarah, this is Mr. Symington,” she said finally. “Sir, Miss Hamilton is the Earl of Westbrooke’s cousin from America.”

  “America, heh?” Mr. Symington’s ample eyebrows shot up as though they might fill the vacant spot on his head. “Place is full of savages, ain’t it?”

  “No—” Sarah began, but Mr. Symington interrupted.

  “Would you care to dance?” He took her arm before she could reply. She looked back at the older women as she followed him onto the dance floor. Lady Gladys smiled slightly and shrugged.

  Sarah and Mr. Symington took their places in the set.

  “Say, you do know how to dance, don’t you?” he asked, suddenly looking alarmed. The couples on either side of them stared, and one of the women giggled.

  “Yes, I do.” Sarah promised herself a few false steps aimed at Mr. Symington’s toes.

  The music began. Mr. Symington’s waistcoat looked in danger of popping its buttons. As the dance progressed, it was clear the gentleman had also partaken liberally of garlic at his most recent meal—the odor became stronger as the beads of perspiration collected on his bald head and rolled down his bulbous nose. His labored breathing fanned Sarah’s décolletage. It was a most unpleasant sensation. At least he had no air left for speaking.

  At the conclusion of the set, Mr. Symington looked near collapse. Sarah did not want to spend any more time with him, but neither did she want him expiring in James’s ballroom.

  “Would you like a glass of lemonade?”

  “Ah, ah, thank, ah, you,” Mr. Symington panted. “I’ll just—oh!” Suddenly his breathing was shallow and fast. His eyes fixed on a point over Sarah’s right shoulder. She reached to grab his arm, thinking he was going to faint.

  “Ah, the charming Miss Hamilton.” Richard’s voice was unmistakable. “And ‘Simple’ Symington.”

  Sarah turned to face James’s cousin. She glanced back at Mr. Symington. Another man might take Richard to task for his blatant rudeness, but Mr. Symington just fiddled with his watch fobs.

  “Mr. Runyon, uh, a pleasure, uh, I’m sure. Um, of course you’ve met Miss Hamilton. She is, ah, staying with your cousin.”

  “I know.”

  Mr. Symington ran a finger under his cravat. It was clear to Sarah that the man desperately wanted to be elsewhere.

  “We were just going to get some lemonade,” she said.

  “An excellent idea. Run off to James’s refreshment room, Symington. I’ll keep Miss Hamilton here. No need to drag her along, is there?”

  “No, no need at all.” Mr. Symington’s head bobbed like a cork in a flooding river. “That would be splendid, I’m sure. I’ll just be going then.” He left without a backward glance.

  Mr. Symington, Sarah noted, had no aspirations to chivalry.

  The orchestra chose that moment to begin another waltz. “My dance, Miss Hamilton.”

  Sarah stiffened. Once again she was going to be a reluctant dance partner, but this time she felt a spurt of fear in place of boredom. She had to go with Richard—she couldn’t cause a scene—but she would not go easily. She slowed her steps, causing him to pause.

  “Well, I’ll grant this of old James. He seems to have found a filly with some spunk,” Richard said as he hauled her into his arms.

  “I beg your pardon?” Sarah tried to step back, but Richard’s hands were made of iron. Her breasts brushed against the front of his chest. She knew he was holding her much too close. Already the conversations around them had stopped. More than one furtive glance was sent their way.

  “Don’t play the fool with me,” Richard hissed. “I know James wants you.”

  “Mr. Runyon, not that it is any of your business, but I assure you the duke and I are merely acquaintances. I was in need of a place to stay that provided female companionship and he graciously extended his hospitality. In return I am helping a little with his sister’s come-out. I fail to see how any of this could possibly concern you.”

  “I saw you dancing with him.”

  “I’ve danced with many men tonight.” Sarah struggled to keep her voice level as a mixture of anger and fear surged through her.

  “You don’t understand, Miss Hamilton. I saw James. I know my cousin. He wants to get under your skirts.”

  “Mr. Runyon!” Sarah would have left him on the dance floor then, scene or no scene, but she couldn’t. His grip on her was unbreakable.

  “Just remember,” he said, his voice low and menacing, “your continued good health depends on James’s bachelorhood.”

  “Mr. Runyon,” Sarah gasped, praying he would loosen his hold soon, “I have no matrimonial designs on your cousin.”

  “I hope not. I cannot have James getting a brat on you.” He dragged her past the orchestra in silence, his brow furrowed. Sarah hoped he had finished all he had to say. She was not so lucky.

  “Even if your marriage would not be a great inconvenience to me—and a definite threat to you,” Richard bared his teeth in what Sarah assumed he meant for a smile, “I’d hate for your American heart to be broken.”

  Sarah felt a hysterical giggle threaten to escape her throat. Richard cared about her heart? If it broke, he’d be eager to count the pieces.

  “Do not doubt me, Miss Hamilton. If you are foolish enough to marry my cousin, your heart will be broken.” He jerked her through a turn and she had to grab his shoulder to keep from tripping. “You are new to our ways, so I shall enlighten you.”

  “I’m quite certain that is not necessary.”

  “I’m quite certain that it is, Miss Hamilton. If you had grown up among us, you would know all this without anyone saying a word. You would know James’s reputation.”

  “His reputation?”

  “Oh, it is not so terrible—for a duke. We lesser mortals…” Richard shrugged. “Well, society is somewhat less understanding, shall we say?”

  “I believe you have said enough.”

  Richard laughed. “I don’t think so. You know James is a member of the ton, Miss Hamilton, but do you realize that ton marriages are simply business deals? The man supplies his name and fortune; the woman produces an heir. Love—or, to call it truthfully, sexual satisfaction—happens elsewhere.”

  “Mr. Runyon, please! I’m sure you should not be saying such things.”

  Richard ignored Sarah’s words. “You women must wait until you’ve presented your husband with his squalling ticket to the next generation. We men don’t have to wait. We can sleep where we will, when we will. Why, on his wedding night, the Earl of Northhaven bedded his young wife at ten, his mistress at eleven, and Lord Avery’s wife at midnight—and then toddled off to Madame Bernard’s exclusive whorehouse.”

  “That’s disgusting! I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe me, Miss Hamilton. It is hardly remarked upon, it is so common. Keep your eyes and ears open at any ton gathering and you will soon learn I speak the truth. So, if you are expecting to find love in James’s marriage bed, you will be sadly disappointed. And satisfaction? Perhaps you will find that—if you are braver than most virgins.”

  Sarah shook her head and pulled back. Richard’s grip tightened again. There was no escaping him.

  “Do you know my cousin’s nickname, Miss Hamilton?”

  “No, and I don’t want to know it.” What Sarah wanted was for the dance to end.

  “If I don’t tell you, someone else will. People love to gossip, and a duke’s sexual exploits are so interesting.”

  Sarah looked Richard in the eye. “Mr. Runyon, I must ask you to stop this immediately. Your conversation is highly inappropriate.”

  She might have saved her breath.

  “James is called ‘Monk,’ my dear. A joke, of course. James is not exactly a candidate for holy orders.”

  “I believe this is my dance, Miss Hamilton?”

  Sarah looked up at Major Draysmith. He frowned.

  “You look a little pale. Would you prefer to s
it out this set? I would be happy to accompany you to the refreshment room.”

  “Yes, please.” Leaving the ballroom sounded very appealing. She was trying to maintain her composure, but she was certain all the gossips in the room had made note of her dance with Richard and were studying her reaction.

  The room James had set aside for food was much cooler. The only other couple there left when Sarah and the major entered. Sarah sank gratefully into a chair as the major went to get their drinks.

  She should not have been surprised by Richard’s words. He had just confirmed what her father and the Abington sisters had always told her about the British ton. Certainly James had shown her his polished powers of seduction.

  But she was surprised. Shocked.

  She was an idiot.

  She watched Major Draysmith cross the room. He was a handsome man. His military bearing emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, and his light blue eyes with their dark rims were striking. Her stomach should have been fluttering with excitement. When he handed her the lemonade and his gloved fingers brushed hers, she felt only the pleasant anticipation of a cool drink.

  She was definitely an idiot.

  “Your pardon, Miss Hamilton, but I couldn’t help noticing you with Runyon. Did that blackguard say anything to overset you?”

  She shrugged slightly. “My short acquaintance with Mr. Runyon has led me to expect him to be unpleasant. He did mention some nickname his grace had acquired as though it were significant.”

  “Yes?” Charles looked baffled for a moment. “Oh, you mean ‘Monk.’ Runyon stuck James with that label at university. No one calls him by it anymore—at least not to his face.”

  “I see.” Sarah carefully placed her lemonade on the table. Suddenly it was impossible to swallow even a mouthful.

  “Forgive me, Miss Hamilton, but you shouldn’t let such a little thing upset you.”

  “No, of course not. And please, call me Sarah.” She stared down at her drink. Her unhappiness was her own fault. She had let the weeks at Alvord lull her into thinking of James as an American with an odd accent. Stupid. She had met the man in bed, after all. Naked. He obviously wasn’t bashful about shedding his clothes with strangers.

  How many of the women in the ballroom tonight had welcomed the Duke of Alvord into their beds?

  “Then you must call me Charles. And you shouldn’t let Runyon upset you,” Charles was saying. “He’s vermin that the ton has chosen not to rid itself of, unfortunately. When you marry James, Runyon will be shown the door as he should be. Until then, avoid the man. I do.”

  “I intend to avoid him.” She sighed. “And please, don’t think that I will be marrying his grace.”

  Charles’s face assumed an interesting blankness. “I see.”

  Sarah laughed. “You don’t intend to argue with me, do you?”

  Charles grinned. “No, ma’am. We soldiers learn early which battles are not worth the blood.”

  Sarah tried to take a sip of lemonade. She could get a little down now. “Tell me, Charles, why do the English insist on this ridiculous system of primogeniture? It sets brother against brother—cousin against cousin—does it not?”

  “Now, Sarah, don’t judge us by Runyon’s conduct! I’m a second son and I don’t hate my brother. I don’t envy him his title at all. If anything, I pity him.”

  “Pity him? Why?”

  “Because his life’s not his own.” Charles leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. “He’s the Marquis of Knightsdale. That’s his title, but it might as well be his name. He’s never been just Paul Draysmith. He was born Earl of Northfield and became Knightsdale while still at Eton. He seems content enough with his lot, fortunately. The land is in his blood. But he’s never had a choice, don’t you see?”

  “Yes.” Sarah did see. James also had the land in his blood. And he also had no choice. He had to protect Alvord. He had to marry, even if it meant marrying a redheaded American. But that didn’t mean that he needed to limit himself to his wife’s bed.

  “I think I have a better life,” Charles was saying. “I have the freedom to follow my own path. I joined the army. I could go to America tomorrow, if I wanted, as your father did. No, I sincerely hope my brother has a long life and many sons. I have absolutely no desire to ever step into his shoes.”

  Charles finished his lemonade and looked at his glass. “I must have been daft to take this stuff. Champagne’s what we need. What do you say?”

  “That I’ve never had champagne?”

  Charles laughed. “Then I’d better let James introduce you to it. He wouldn’t take kindly to my getting his betrothed tipsy.”

  “I am not his betrothed!”

  “Right.” Charles leaned back. “You really should consider it, though. You’d be getting a comfortable position and doing James a favor at the same time. He needs to marry soon because of Richard. That night at the Green Man, he was on the verge of asking Charlotte Wickford to marry him. He certainly deserves better than that life sentence.”

  “Oh.” Now Sarah understood why the Duchess of Rothingham had sought her out.

  “Ah, this is where you’ve gotten to.”

  Sarah’s heart lurched at the sound of James’s voice. She looked up and smiled before she could stop herself.

  “Just giving Sarah a respite from the ballroom, James,” Charles said. “Did you know that she’s never had champagne?”

  James lifted an eyebrow. “And have you been giving her some?”

  “Not I. I leave that to you.”

  James nodded. “Would you like to try some champagne, Sarah?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She looked down at her hands as James went to get the drinks.

  “Are you all right?” Charles asked. “You look pale again.”

  “No, I’m fine.” As fine, she thought, as a woman could be who suddenly realizes that she might be in love with a rake. James returned and handed her a glass. She took a quick sip. The bubbles tickled her nose.

  “Did you need a rest from dancing, Sarah?” James asked. “Don’t tell me your feet are tired.”

  “They are, actually. It’s nice to sit for a while.”

  Sarah took another sip and watched James from the corner of her eye. His dark blond hair glowed in the candlelight, and the clean, strong angle of his jaw stood out against the snowy white of his cravat. He was so handsome. Sinfully handsome. Of course women wanted him. She wanted him. She swallowed another mouthful of champagne. The bubbles tickled her throat as well as her nose.

  “I think Runyon was causing trouble,” Charles said.

  “Was he?” James looked intently at Sarah. She ducked her head and put the champagne glass to her lips again. “What did he do, Sarah?”

  “Nothing, really. I think he was trying to frighten me. I told him you and I were just acquaintances, but he didn’t believe me.” She took another sip of champagne.

  Charles snorted. “Of course he didn’t believe you—the two of you just about set the ballroom on fire with that waltz.”

  “Damn!” James sounded both angry and frustrated.

  Had he kissed Charlotte Wickford, Sarah wondered. He must have, if he had considered becoming engaged to her. She took a larger swallow of champagne. The bubbles were definitely nice.

  “Can’t say I like him getting near Sarah,” Charles said.

  “You can’t like it?” James’s voice rose. He lowered it. “God, I hate it, but I can’t order the man out of London, much as I’d like to. At least he’s gone now. I saw him leave just before I came in here.”

  Sarah let the men’s words wash over her as she watched the champagne bubbles stream up from the bottom of her glass. She raised it to her lips again.

  “I think that is probably enough, sweetheart,” James said, taking the glass away. “Let’s go dance, shall we?”

  Sarah felt as if her head were floating above her shoulders. She smiled at Charles. “If you’ll excuse us?”

  “Ma’am, J
ames was my commanding officer. Of course I’ll excuse you.”

  “Wise, Charles. Very wise.” James put his hand under Sarah’s arm and helped her to her feet. She swayed slightly and leaned into him. “No more champagne.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re tipsy, sweetheart.”

  As they entered the ballroom, the orchestra was starting another waltz. Sarah smiled. She much preferred the waltz to all the other dances—especially if she was going to be dancing with James. He took her into his arms and she closed her eyes, savoring the music. She felt light and graceful, surrounded by James’s strength. There was nowhere else she would rather be. She decided Richard’s words were unimportant.

  “Am I putting you to sleep, Sarah?”

  “No.” She looked up at him, still under the spell of his closeness. The right corner of his mouth twitched up.

  “Keep looking at me like that, my love, and the ton will never recover from the scandal I may feel compelled to enact.”

  Every inch of Sarah’s skin burst into fiery bloom. Her body began to throb in a most embarrassing place and her knees were suddenly wobbly. She was afraid she was going to melt into him.

  “James!” she said, weakly.

  He laughed. “We are probably scandalizing society enough just dancing together. I suggest a mental diversion. Perhaps you should recite the Declaration of Independence.”

  Sarah’s mind went blank. All she could do was stare at James’s lips. She knew that was a very improper, even stupid thing to do, but she had lost all control of her muscles.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Hmm. Well I have to admit I am exceedingly pleased to have reduced you to such a mindless state, sweetheart, but we do need to change the subject. My inexpressibles are getting much too expressive.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. What exactly did my unpleasant cousin say to you during your dance?”

  Sarah missed a step. James steadied her, pulling her a little closer than proper. Her breasts brushed against his chest. She felt the contact all the way to her toes. “Nothing,” she whispered. “Nothing at all.”