Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  “Lady Anne—and Mr. Parker-Roth! What in the world are you doing?”

  Chapter 2

  Stephen rubbed his temples and tried surreptitiously to lean against a sturdy wingback chair in Lord Crane’s bookroom. Tiny devils with sledgehammers were banging away on the inside of his forehead and the high-pitched yammering around him only added to his misery. He’d give his damn fortune to be back in his bedchamber, curtains drawn, icepack on his head. But he was, for all his faults, a gentleman. He couldn’t leave Lady Anne to face the music—or screeching—alone.

  He glanced over at her. She looked more than capable of defending herself. At the moment she was glaring at her elderly cousin Miss Clorinda Strange and Lady Dunlee, her mouth set in a tight line, her brows almost meeting over her nose. He’d swear her nostrils flared. If he were closer to her, he’d probably see green sparks shooting from her eyes.

  “Cousin Clorinda, Lady Dunlee, you are making far too much of this incident.”

  “Far too much?” Lady Dunlee sniffed and raised her eyebrows. “I don’t see how one can make ‘far too much’ of a lady disporting herself with abandon in a public square—and with the King of Hearts, no less.” She shot him a pointed look. He smiled back as blandly as possible.

  “Anne.” Miss Strange was scowling. She’d not looked pleased when they’d interrupted her—she’d been perusing some large, musty tome when Lady Dunlee had burst in, dragging them along in her wake. “Is this true?”

  Lady Anne turned a lovely shade of red. “Of course not. I was not disporting myself with”—Zeus, she turned even redder—“I wasn’t disporting myself at all.”

  Damn, he’d like to disport himself with the lady in a private room, on a large, soft bed. Odd. He’d never been drawn to bespectacled spinsters dressed in sacks before, but there was something about this spinster . . . She’d been delightful in the square. Shy, hesitant, yet curious, too—quite the contrast from her prickly behavior up to that point.

  “Oh, no?” Lady Dunlee said. “I saw you in Mr. Parker-Roth’s arms. You were running your hands over his chest before you kissed him and threw him down on the ground to have your wicked way with him.”

  Lust shot directly to his, er, brain, so he momentarily lost track of the conversation. Fortunately instinct prompted him to step quickly behind a chair, shielding his telltale bit from Lady Dunlee’s sharp eyes.

  Lady Dunlee had misconstrued the scene, of course, but he wished she’d had the right of it. He was more than willing to let Lady Anne have her wicked way with his poor self.

  How wicked would her way be? Mmm, that was an interesting question to contemplate. If her imagination faltered, his was more than adequate for the task. Much more. It was currently producing a number of delicious images, completely inappropriate for his present location. But if he and Anne were in his bedchamber—

  “Mr. Parker-Roth, did I just hear you groan?” Damned if Lady Dunlee’s eyes didn’t drop to his nether regions, still well hidden behind the wing chair.

  “I don’t believe so, madam, but I do have a touch of the headache.”

  The blasted woman kept her eyes focused on where his unruly cock was misbehaving and arched a brow. “I bet you do.”

  She couldn’t see through the chair, could she? He felt a hot flush sweep up his neck, but he did his best to ignore it. At least this corner of the room was too shadowy for his heightened color to be easily discerned . . . he hoped. He glanced at Anne.

  She appeared to be too mortified or too furious to form a coherent sentence. Her mouth was open, but only strangled sounds emerged.

  Unfortunately, Miss Strange’s voice was working perfectly. “Anne, were you actually on the ground with a man?” She might as well have said “soul eating devil.”

  Her voice drilled right between his eyes. He rubbed the spot with his index and middle finger and leaned a little more against the chair. At a guess, Miss Strange was not a huge admirer of the male of the species. Not surprising. He couldn’t imagine any of his sex admiring her. She looked like an elderly heron, all stiff and angular, with a long neck and beak-like nose. She wore her gray hair in a bun so tight her watery blue eyes bulged.

  “Oh, yes.” Lady Dunlee wasn’t even trying to hide her glee. She glanced at him again before dropping her voice to a stage whisper. “Lady Anne’s skirts were up around her knees, and Mr. Parker-Roth’s hands were on her”—she dropped her voice even lower—“derriere.”

  Lady Anne moaned—and not with suppressed desire. No matter. The sound, throaty and deep, caused his eager cock to grow another inch.

  Blast it, this was most definitely not the time or place to entertain salacious thoughts concerning Lady Anne. They were in a very sticky situation. Lady Dunlee was by far the biggest gossip in London if not in all of England.

  Miss Strange’s jaw had dropped almost to her slippers, and her throat worked exactly as if she were indeed a heron trying to swallow a large fish whole. “Ah, ah.”

  “I fell.” Lady Anne had found her lovely voice again. “I wasn’t . . . there was nothing . . .” She took a deep breath and scowled at Lady Dunlee. “It was all your cat’s fault.”

  Good God, didn’t Anne realize she was teetering on the edge of social annihilation by accusing the woman’s pet of misbehavior? It was akin to jumping in front of a speeding carriage. Lady Dunlee could—and likely would—take instant umbrage and flatten Anne’s reputation with just a well chosen word or two.

  He cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should sit down and discuss the matter over a nice, calming cup of tea.” He’d prefer a large glass of brandy, but even his sodden brain knew he dare not ask for that. At least his dimensions had subsided sufficiently so he could risk Lady Dunlee’s scrutiny long enough to take a seat. In fact, other pains were overtaking the ache in his crotch. His shoulder and hip throbbed from where he’d landed on the pavement and his head threatened to explode. His knees felt a touch wobbly and his stomach was considering revolt.

  The ladies ignored him.

  Lady Dunlee had swelled up like an angry feline. “How can you possibly say Miss Whiskers is to blame for your sins?”

  “Because she is to blame.” Lady Anne clasped her hands as though to keep from strangling Lady Dunlee. “And they aren’t sins.”

  Lady Dunlee’s eyebrows disappeared into her hair. “Rolling around on the ground in passionate—”

  Anne cut her off. “The entire incident was an accident. If your cat hadn’t darted past just then, Harry would not have taken off after her and pulled Mr. Parker-Roth backward, causing us both to fall.”

  “Ah.” Lady Dunlee’s lips pulled into a rather dangerous smile. “And I suppose Miss Whisker’s presence somehow compelled you to kiss and caress Mr. Parker-Roth before your dog pulled you over?”

  “No. I mean I didn’t.” Lady Anne’s complexion got even redder. “That is, he kissed me.”

  The silence that followed this announcement was deafening.

  “So the beast forced himself on you?” Miss Strange choked on the words. Two pairs of feminine eyes—Lady Anne had the grace to examine the floor at her feet—swiveled toward him.

  “Er . . .” If he remembered correctly Lady Anne had been a very willing participant in that kiss. Surely he remembered correctly? He wasn’t that drunk—he’d never been so drunk as to take liberties with an unwilling woman.

  “No, of course he didn’t force himself on me, Cousin,” Lady Anne said, her cheeks still bright red. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Miss Strange patted Anne on the shoulder. “There, there. No need to be embarrassed. It’s not your fault.” She glared at him. “Everyone knows men are all too often driven by their baser instincts.”

  Anne stepped away from her cousin’s touch. “You sound like the worst horrid novel, Clorinda. Mr. Parker-Roth did not attack me.” She shrugged one shoulder, looking most uncomfortable, but compelled by honor to tell the truth. “He may have initiated the encounter, but I didn’t exactly struggle.”
/>   Not exactly. He bit back a smile. Not at all.

  He cleared his throat, bringing the ladies’ attention back to him. He couldn’t let Anne dig herself deeper into a hole. A hole? Ha. He felt parson’s mousetrap yawning before him like a bottomless abyss, but there was no way to avoid it now; they might as well step in with as much grace as they could.

  “Of course you weren’t struggling, dear heart.” Three jaws dropped at the endearment. “Why would you?” He moved to take her hand in both of his before turning to the other women. “My apologies, ladies, for letting passion rule my better judgment, but I’m afraid it’s been so long since I’ve seen my betrothed, I couldn’t contain my happiness.”

  “Betrothed?” All three women spoke together in the same tone of incredulity. They were like a damn Greek chorus. Three pairs of eyes goggled at him now.

  “I’m sure you didn’t tell me you were betrothed, Anne.” Miss Strange’s tone was an odd mix of confusion and horror. “I would have remembered if you had. And your father didn’t mention it in his letter.” She paused, her brow wrinkling. “At least, I don’t think he did. I grant you he ran on so about his silly antiquities I did skim a lot of his missive.”

  Anne tried to tug her fingers out of his grasp, but he wasn’t about to let her go. “I didn’t tell you, Cousin, because Mr. Parker-Roth and I aren’t—ouch!”

  She glared at him accusatorily; he smiled. He was sorry to have squeezed her so hard, but he couldn’t let her ruin his attempt to save her reputation. Couldn’t she comprehend? All they had to do was fabricate something remotely plausible. Lady Dunlee might doubt their story—most likely would doubt it—but she couldn’t know for certain what the truth was. He and Anne would have all Season to convince her and the ton of their devotion.

  He lifted Anne’s fingers to brush his lips over them—and smiled a little more as she blushed and tried again to snatch them out of his grasp. This charade might even be pleasant. And should it—as it likely would—end in matrimony . . . Well, he’d been thinking just this evening—or was it this morning?—that he needed to give in and look about for a bride. He’d just turned thirty, he’d narrowly escaped a marriage trap two months ago, and his older brother and younger sister were both wed and busily procreating. Hell, after his second bottle of brandy, he’d admitted to himself he didn’t much care to live out his life as old Uncle Stephen.

  Not that he’d be given that opportunity, of course. When he’d been home for his nephew’s christening, Mama had been hinting—rather more than hinting—that he should embrace the joys of matrimony sooner rather than later, and with John and Jane both taken care of, she would turn the complete focus of her marital machinations on him—Nick was still too young, the lucky dog.

  He’d laughed when he’d watched her drag John up for the Season year after year and push eligible young ladies into his path—he would not be laughing so heartily if he were Mama’s victim. Frankly, he’d been a little surprised she hadn’t followed him to London when he’d left the Priory after the christening. Thank God for baby Jack. But he had little doubt the joys of grandmotherhood would not supplant the duties of motherhood—as Mama saw them—forever.

  Truthfully, marriage shouldn’t be that onerous. This farce had saved him the annoyance of shopping for a bride—or having Mama shop. Once he was wed, he’d be off looking for plants on foreign shores most of the time anyway. It might even be convenient to have a woman on his estate to warm his bed and tend his children when they arrived. It wasn’t the marriage his parents had—it wasn’t the marriage he’d thought he’d have—but it was the exact sort of arrangement much of the ton enjoyed.

  He studied Lady Anne’s expressive face. She was so full of emotion, she looked ready to explode. How would she look full of passion, naked in the center of his bed?

  Delightful.

  She should keep his nuptial bed very warm indeed.

  “I know we aren’t ready to make a formal announcement, my love,”—she scowled at him—“but now that Lady Dunlee and your cousin have found us out . . .” He turned to the queen of London gossip. “We can ask you to keep our little secret, can’t we, Lady Dunlee?” He managed to keep a straight face at the absurdity of his request. He might as well ask the sun to change places with the moon.

  “Of course.” Lady Dunlee’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “You can rely on me. I won’t tell a soul.”

  Stephen believed her. She wouldn’t tell a soul—for however long it took her to toddle across the square to the house of her bosom friend and equally accomplished gossip, Melinda Fallwell.

  “I still think the earl would have made it a point to say something to me if he’d known about this betrothal.” Miss Strange’s nostrils twitched as if she smelled something rotten.

  What was the matter with the woman? His and Anne’s betrothal might be a complete sham but why would she wish to discuss that in front of Lady Dunlee? She must see the woman was dying for the smallest crumb of gossip, and here she was offering the gabble-grinder a veritable feast.

  Stephen forced himself to smile. “I gather Lord Crane was in a hurry to catch his ship.”

  “In a hurry?” Anne said. “That hardly describes it. Papa almost shoved us out of the carriage while it was still moving. He certainly didn’t pause to have a word with you, Clorinda.”

  “No, he didn’t.” Clorinda nodded. “The man’s obsessed with bits of pottery and broken statues. Queer as Dick’s hatband about it, if you ask me—always has been. We were surprised he got his head out of the dirt long enough to marry your mother, Anne. And the current countess . . . she’s as daft about debris as he is.”

  “Georgiana does share Papa’s passion,” Anne said, trying not to sound disgruntled. Papa and Georgiana never thought twice about taking off at a moment’s notice, leaving her to manage everything at home. She’d got used to it, but to expect her to handle Evie’s come-out as well . . . What in God’s name had they been thinking? She knew nothing about the London Season, never having had one herself, and it was clear to her Clorinda would be no help. And now with this nonsensical betrothal to complicate matters . . .

  All she needed was for Brentwood to put in an appearance, and this disaster would be complete.

  “And I really don’t see how you are one to talk, Clorinda,” Anne said. “You have your nose forever buried in some ornithological tome.”

  “That’s an entirely different matter. I’m studying living, breathing creatures.” Clorinda sniffed. “Your father and the countess are pawing through history’s middens”—she wrinkled her nose in distaste—“picking through someone’s garbage.”

  Mr. Parker-Roth cleared his throat.

  “Oh, what is it?” Anne looked at the man in exasperation, but her damn heart stuttered the moment her eyes focused on him. He was so incredibly handsome. Women must stare at him wherever he went.

  Idiot! Of course they stared at him—he was the King of Hearts. All the ton’s females vied for his attention.

  “I don’t believe we need to take any more of Lady Dunlee’s time, do you?” Mr. Parker-Roth was saying. He tilted his head slightly toward the woman and raised his eyebrows significantly. “I’m sure she must have other commitments.”

  “Oh.” Anne glanced at the annoying busybody. Lady Dunlee’s beady little eyes fairly glowed. Clearly she was gathering bits of gossip like a squirrel gathering nuts for the winter. At any moment her cheeks would start to bulge. “Yes, indeed. Please don’t let us detain you, Lady Dunlee.”

  “Tut, tut. Don’t be silly.” She smiled as if she were some completely harmless matron. “As it happens, I have nothing pressing to attend to. Please, carry on. Just pretend I’m a potted palm.”

  A potted palm with a tongue that runs on wheels. “I wouldn’t think of it,” Anne said. “I know you are a very busy woman.” Busy about other people’s affairs. She walked briskly to the bookroom door and opened it. Mr. Parker-Roth gestured for Lady Dunlee to precede him. The woman hesitated, but finally must
have concluded—correctly—she had no choice in the matter. She dragged her feet, but she went.

  Anne looked at her cousin. Clorinda had already returned to the book she’d been reading when Lady Dunlee, full of moral outrage, had barged in with them. “Coming, Clorinda?”

  “Hmm?” Clorinda turned a page.

  “Are you coming to see our guests out?”

  Clorinda waved her hand vaguely, her nose still buried in her book. “You can do that without my help.”

  “Very well. I’ll—”

  “Just do be careful.” Clorinda marked her place with her finger to glance up at Anne. “Mr. Parker-Roth is very pleasant to look at, I grant you, but he’s also a bit of a rake. They call him the King of Hearts for a reason, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.” And didn’t Clorinda know the man was standing in the corridor right behind her? Anne heard him choke back a laugh. Lady Dunlee snickered.

  “Just thought I should put the word in your ear, Anne,” Clorinda said, returning to her reading. “Having spent your whole life in the country, you’re hardly up to snuff.”

  “Thank you, Clorinda.” One didn’t need to come to London to learn about libertines, but Anne didn’t wish to discuss that topic whilst the current libertine and the queen of London gossip listened. She pulled the door closed behind her and avoided her guests’ eyes. “This way,” she said.

  She started briskly toward the front of the house. She’d be extremely happy to see the back of Lady Dunlee—and Mr. Parker-Roth, too, of course. Once they were out the door, she could finally get on with her day. She’d planned to take her paints out early to explore the back garden, but first Harry had needed a walk and then the . . . incident with Mr. Parker-Roth and Lady Dunlee had occurred, and now she’d completely missed the morning light. Blast! As soon as her unwelcome guests had departed, she’d hurry upstairs and . . .

  No, the way this day was going, she’d never be so lucky. The boys were sure to be into some kind of mischief—she almost hoped they were teasing Miss Whiskers again—and she was supposed to take Evie shopping. A proper come-out required an annoying amount of clothing.