Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  “Thank you for a very pleasant dance, Mr. Dunlap. I hope we will see each other again.”

  Shit. Dunlap watched Alvord dance with Sarah Hamilton. He hadn’t needed an introduction; he knew the duke by sight. Alvord had never visited one of his establishments, but a savvy businessman always knew where the deepest pockets lay.

  He also knew where the deepest pitfalls lay, and he was teetering on the edge of one now. He’d known Runyon was lying when he’d said Alvord had a “slight” interest in the Hamilton girl. Slight! Alvord’s breeches were bulging with his interest. Dunlap would have been a corpse rotting in a New York alley long ago if he had not learned to tell when a man had staked a sexual claim to a woman. Separating Miss Hamilton from the duke was going to be a very dangerous undertaking indeed.

  James breathed in Sarah’s sweet scent and his body grew even harder. His gloved hands touched only her gloved hand and the small of her back, but he remembered the soft, heavy warmth of her body in his lap and the gentle curve of her breast in his hand. He remembered the feel of her throat under his lips, the fiery silkiness of her hair brushing his face.

  He needed to taste her. She had been so cold to him since Lizzie’s come-out. It had been hell. And then to see that Dunlap fellow with his hands on her. God, he couldn’t think of the man without an overwhelming urge to rearrange his pretty face.

  He had Sarah through the doors and down the steps into a darkened section of the garden before he consciously made the decision to leave the ballroom.

  She wasn’t struggling. That was a good sign.

  He waltzed them in slow circles to the faint strains of music floating from the open windows. The dense foliage managed to muffle the din of the city and shelter them from the worst of the soot and stench. He could almost imagine he was back at Alvord.

  Sarah shivered and he urged her closer to his warmth. Warmth? He was more than warm at the moment—and his temperature was definitely rising. His legs tangled in her skirts as his lips found her temple.

  “I’ve missed you, sweetheart.” His voice was slightly husky to his own ears.

  “Hmm?”

  He looked down. Her eyes were closed, her lips curved in a slight smile.

  Should he talk to her about that blasted nickname? He didn’t understand why it upset her. Why would she care that he had never slept with a woman? Given her reaction when she’d found him in bed with her at the Green Man, she was not partial to rakes. He’d certainly never been called a lecher before—nor been beaten by a naked woman with a pillow. He grinned. Now that was an experience he wouldn’t mind repeating, with a more satisfying ending. If Sarah wanted him to have some experience, he’d be more than willing to get it with her. Beginning now perhaps.

  He had better things to do with his mouth than talk.

  Sarah was happy. She was exactly where she wanted to be—in James’s arms. Here in the darkened garden, away from the ton’s prying eyes, she could pretend she was in Philadelphia and James was a nice, solid American.

  The air was slightly chill. She shivered, and James’s broad hand on her waist urged her closer. She went willingly. She felt sheltered by his large, firm body. Safe. Cherished.

  An illusion. He was a rake. He had admitted it, acknowledging without excuse that stupid nickname. Certainly Nigel and the other young bucks by the palm fronds had no doubts concerning James’s amatory exploits.

  She felt his lips on her skin and heard his voice, deep and husky. She breathed in his scent.

  If only he were an American and they were in Philadelphia. He would take her out walking on Sunday afternoons. They would stroll along Chestnut Street or perhaps along the river. He would be polite and proper. He would most assuredly not waltz her into someone’s darkened garden and kiss her eyelids in such a disturbing fashion. He would not brush his lips along her jaw, nor lick the spot under her ear, nor suck lightly on the skin there. And surely his hands would stay where they belonged, not wandering to her bottom or tantalizingly close to her breast.

  Her body would not ache in this most improper manner if James were a proper American.

  He wrapped his arms around her and she felt his hard length from her breasts to her knees. She was forced to put her own arms around his neck or puddle to the ground in a boneless mass.

  She moaned, and his tongue slipped past her lips as it had that night in his study, but this time it was not shock that pulsed through her body. It was something else, something hot and hungry. Her head fell back against his shoulder and she opened her mouth wider, letting his silky-rough tongue stroke deep into her, everywhere he wished. Everywhere she wished.

  He freed her mouth and she panted into his cravat.

  Promenading with a proper, polite American suddenly did not seem so appealing.

  James tried to clear the lust from his mind. It appeared Sarah was not going to stop him, so he had better stop himself. He wanted her—God, did he want her!—but not here in Easthaven’s garden where any idiot of the ton might stumble upon them.

  “You’d better go back inside, sweetheart. Alone.”

  “What?” Sarah blinked up at him, clearly not yet returned from the wonderful, hot place they had been together. At least he hoped they had been there together.

  “Go back inside, Sarah.” He straightened and held her away from him, looking her over as best he could in the dim light. Fortunately he had halted his explorations before he’d gotten to rearranging her hairstyle or dress. She would do—barely. “I’ll stay out here for a while.”

  “Why?”

  Because even if her clothing passed muster, his breeches would proclaim to all exactly what they had been doing in Easthaven’s delightfully dark garden.

  “Because people might wonder what we had been doing if we came in together, love.”

  “Oh.” If there had been enough light, James was sure he would have seen bright red spots on Sarah’s cheeks.

  “Slip in the side door, Sarah. It will take you directly to the ladies’ retiring room.”

  “Yes, all right.”

  He watched her hurry down the path to the door he had pointed to, and then he leaned back against a handy tree trunk. God, he ached. More than just the most obvious part of his anatomy throbbed in frustration. His mind, his heart, maybe even his soul wanted Sarah. If tonight’s performance was any indication, she wanted him, too. But would she let herself acknowledge her desires? Would she marry him?

  He didn’t know.

  “Sarah, we were just looking for you.”

  Sarah stopped inside the garden door. Lady Gladys and Lady Amanda stood in the hall between her and the retiring room.

  “Where have you been?” Lady Gladys frowned. “We saw James dance you out the door ages ago. I can’t imagine what he was thinking.”

  “I can.” Lady Amanda’s eyes had focused on Sarah’s neck. “Time to call for John Coachman, wouldn’t you say, Gladys?”

  “Why? Oh!” Lady Gladys also studied Sarah’s neck. “Oh, dear me, yes. We’ll get our cloaks immediately.”

  Sarah glanced in a mirror as she hurried after the ladies. A small red mark glowed brightly on her white throat where James’s lips had been such a short time earlier.

  Chapter 9

  “Lady Gladys, may I have a moment of your time? I wish to discuss my future.”

  Lady Gladys and Lady Amanda put down their teacups. Sarah had never been in Lady Gladys’s sitting room before. It was a pleasant, sunny place, but she was too nervous to pay much attention to decor.

  Lady Gladys eyed the high-necked gown Sarah had chosen to wear that morning. It was stylish—and it hid the reddish mark on her throat.

  “Seems to me you and James spent some time last evening discussing that topic. I would say the issue was decided.”

  Sarah wiped her palms on her skirt. It was precisely last night’s “discussion” that had prompted her to seek out James’s aunt this morning. Any more encounters of that nature and she’d be giving London ladies lessons in wantonn
ess.

  “Indeed, miss.” Lady Amanda chuckled. “You’ve got poor James thinking with what’s in his breeches rather than what’s under his hat. He’s usually not so indiscreet. Keeps his amorous interests to the bedchamber.”

  “Amanda is right, Sarah. James has never singled a young lady out for such marked attention before. Society is taking notice.”

  “The Duchess of Rothingham certainly is. Has that great beak of hers quite out of joint. Never enjoyed a sight more in my life, I tell you.”

  “Amanda!”

  “Well, it’s true. Admit it, Gladys. You’re as delighted as I am to see Suzie Bentley in a dither. Why she thought she could foist her brat off on James is more than I can fathom.”

  Lady Gladys nodded. “She always had rocks for brains. It’s no surprise she gave birth to the Marble Queen.”

  “She was insufferable as a girl, and marrying Rothingham just made her worse.”

  Sarah tried to bring the conversation back to her problem. “If society is taking notice, Lady Gladys, then so is Mr. Runyon. He does not want his grace to marry.”

  “Richard doesn’t want his grace to live, Sarah, but that doesn’t mean James will climb into a grave for him. Don’t worry about Richard. James will take care of him.”

  “But do you think the duke really wishes to marry?”

  “Oh, pish!” Lady Amanda flicked her fingers at Sarah. “What man does want to marry? I’m sure they’d all like to flit from woman to woman, like a bee in a garden. And James has certainly made it clear that he’d like to sip the nectar of your flower, girl. Knows the only way to do that is to marry you.”

  “But his reputation…”

  “What reputation? Oh, you mean that ridiculous Monk business.”

  Lady Gladys turned to stare at Lady Amanda. “What ridiculous Monk business?”

  “You know, Gladys. The silly rumors that have James cavorting with half the ladies of the ton and all the whores of London.”

  Lady Gladys snorted. “Are those stories still making the rounds?”

  “They get more outrageous each Season.”

  Sarah felt a rush of relief. “So they aren’t true?”

  “Oh, I’m sure some of them are, dear.” Lady Gladys shrugged. “James is twenty-eight.”

  Lady Amanda nodded. “You must just take them with a grain of salt, Sarah. Why one of the tales has James sailing down the Thames with half a dozen barques of frailty. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? I’m sure there couldn’t have been more than two or three of the fashionable impure aboard.” She paused, tapping her finger to her lips. “Well, three or four. James is quite exceptional.”

  “Quite.”

  Sarah blinked. Lady Gladys sounded rather proud of James’s alleged sexual prowess.

  “But James knows what’s due his position, Sarah.” Lady Gladys smiled. “Don’t worry. He’ll do his duty and be discreet about his other activities. You won’t have cause for embarrassment.”

  “If you will just decide to let the boy do his duty,” Lady Amanda said. “Say yes, Sarah, and put him out of his misery. Episodes such as last evening’s precipitous trip to the garden delight the gossips, but generally only make men frustrated and out of sorts.”

  Lady Gladys frowned. “Yes, Sarah, if you don’t intend to have James, then you should not be teasing him by disappearing into the shrubbery with him.”

  “You do intend to have him, don’t you, miss?”

  Sarah looked back helplessly at the two older ladies. Her feelings were a roiling mass of confusion.

  “I don’t know.”

  James was just stepping out of his study when Lady Amanda accosted him.

  “I don’t mean to tell you how to conduct your love affairs, boy, but dragging a virgin into the bushes is not one of your most inspired notions.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, don’t poker up, James. You scandalized all the old biddies at the Easthaven do, which would have been fine if you’d gotten a ‘yes’ out of the girl, but you didn’t. Spooked her, more like. Best keep your distance till you can keep your pants buttoned.”

  “Lady Amanda! You go too far.”

  “You’re the one who went too far. If you’re going to kiss the girl, don’t leave a mark—or at least not where everyone can see it. Haven’t you wondered why Sarah is wearing only her high-necked dresses?”

  “You are in for a treat this evening, Miss Hamilton.” Mr. Symington tugged on his waistcoat. A futile exercise. It rode back up over his paunch the moment his fingers left the fabric. “Mr. Edmund Kean is reprising his role as Shylock in The Merchant of Venice.” He leaned closer and patted Sarah’s hand. “That’s a play by Shakespeare, you know—a very famous English playwright. Dead now, unfortunately.”

  Sarah gritted her teeth and tucked her hand under the folds of her skirts, out of Mr. Symington’s reach. She did wish that he were not so fond of onions. Talking to him was enough of an ordeal without the added trial of breathing in the odor of his last meal.

  “Shakespeare’s fame has spread across the Atlantic, Mr. Symington.”

  “Really?” Mr. Symington smoothed his three strands of hair over his pink scalp. “Glad to hear some culture has reached the savages.”

  Sarah inclined her head and imagined the pleasant thwacking sound her fan would make if she broke it over Mr. Symington’s bald pate. She glanced at Lady Gladys for help, but she was talking to Lord Crossland, the elderly peer who had escorted them this evening. Lady Amanda was determinedly studying the other side of the theater. Both ladies were too wily to be trapped into tedious conversation with Simple Symington. Lizzie, sitting next to Lady Amanda, caught Sarah’s eye and winked, but made no move to rescue her. Sarah swallowed a sigh and turned back to her companion.

  “Kean brought the house to its feet in ’14 with his performance,” he was saying. He coughed modestly into his hand. “Wasn’t there myself. Couldn’t come to town. Had to stay in the country with my poor wife.”

  Poor wife, indeed, Sarah thought. She probably died of boredom, happy to be free finally of her husband’s droning voice. She pinched herself for her uncharitable thought, but she feared that many more moments of Mr. Symington’s pompous prattle would put her in her own grave.

  She looked around the theater. She did feel a bit of a savage tonight. She had never been to a play before. She had heard her students talk of attending Philadelphia’s Walnut Street Theater, and she had dreamed of going there herself one day, but she had always known that was a vain hope. Her father and the Abington sisters had no time for such frivolous pursuits.

  The grandeur of the room was overwhelming, as was the sound of so many people talking. A noisy broth of people bubbled in the pit, while rows of boxes filled with elegantly attired chattering ladies and gentlemen rose to the ceiling. It seemed that no one but herself was quiet. She tried to keep one ear tuned to Mr. Symington’s remarks as she admired the women in their colorful dresses, jewels, and plumes and the men in their black coats and white cravats.

  Her eyes froze on one man in a box directly across from her. James, who had been too busy to escort his family to the play, was sitting between Lady Charlotte Wickford and the Duchess of Rothingham. As Sarah watched, James said something, his head close to Lady Charlotte’s. Lady Charlotte laughed and tapped his arm playfully with her fan.

  Sarah heard a sharp snapping noise. She looked down into her lap. Her own fan was in two pieces.

  James’s arm stung where Lady Charlotte had hit it. That was the twelfth time she had punctuated a comment with her fan. Why she thought that action was endearing was beyond him. He would have moved farther away from her, but he was trapped by the duchess on his other side. Outflanked by the enemy—an embarrassing tactical defeat for a former officer.

  At least he had a good view of his own box and Sarah. He would never tire of looking at her. Tonight she was wearing a dark blue gown cut low over her bosom. He let his eyes linger where his hands itched to go—ov
er her beautiful reddish hair, caught up to show the lovely angle of her jaw and the seductive curve of her neck, over her delicate shoulders and her creamy white skin, down to the dark line of her dress where it skimmed the tops of her small, perfect breasts.

  He wanted to be over there, sitting in the chair that Symington occupied. He wanted it so much he ached. Everywhere. He shifted position to take some of the pressure off his desire. That was why he had to stay away. Much as he had hated to hear Lady Amanda’s words, he had to agree they held a modicum of truth. It had been a colossally stupid thing to do, taking Sarah out into Easthaven’s garden. He might just as well have made love to her on the ballroom floor under the ton’s avid eyes.

  A strangely appealing thought. The ballroom floor, that was, not the spectators. Making love to Sarah in any location would be heaven. He found himself spending much of his day imagining the act in detail. And his nights…well, he was not sleeping much.

  Charlotte said something and he murmured a noncommittal reply. He spared her hand a glance. It hadn’t moved. If she hit him one more time with her bloody fan, he swore he would grab it and hand it back to her in pieces.

  He chuckled inwardly, watching Sarah struggle to be polite to Simple Symington. Symington had foisted himself on her just moments after she’d stepped through the box’s door. He must have been lurking by the theater entrance, waiting for her to arrive. Poor girl. It was clear the man wanted a new wife and had selected her as a feasible candidate. What a crashing bore. Sarah would have to be a bedlamite to accept an offer from him.

  James saw her smile and look over her shoulder. Someone new had entered the box. A tall, athletic-looking man with thick chestnut hair. William Dunlap.

  Bloody hell. James felt no desire to chuckle now. He watched Dunlap skillfully maneuver Symington into giving him his seat. Then he sprawled in the chair, barely within the bounds of propriety, his long legs bumping into Sarah’s skirts. Somehow, his arm came to rest on the back of her chair. James’s eyes narrowed as he watched one of Dunlap’s long fingers brush the warm, smooth skin of Sarah’s shoulder. She flushed, shifting forward in her seat. Dunlap laughed and withdrew his arm. James clenched his fists. God, if he weren’t on the other side of the damn theater, he’d grab the American by his elegant cravat and toss him into the pit.