He needed to have things out with Meg…but not quite yet.
He slipped out the side door and headed for the main greenhouse.
It really didn’t matter that Meg had had her heart set on a title. She was married to him now. And he was married to her. They had no choice—they must just make the best of it.
It was his duty to take the first step. He had only to open the damn door between their rooms—Mac had threatened to open it for him any time this past week.
He didn’t want to do it.
What was the matter with him?
It wasn’t that he didn’t want Meg. God, he needed to drug himself with brandy to fall asleep, and even then he woke hard as a poker in the middle of the night. His dreams were…
He wouldn’t think about his dreams.
He couldn’t even visit Cat for relief. Not only would it be a betrayal of his marriage vows, but she’d already found his replacement. He’d stopped by her cottage to give her her congé and a diamond necklace he’d bought in London to assuage her exacerbated sensibilities, and discovered she was planning to marry the blacksmith.
Did no one care for him?
He stepped into the greenhouse and took a deep breath of the warm, moist air, full of the calming scent of dirt and growing things—only he didn’t feel calmed today.
“What the hell are ye doing here, Johnny?” Thomas MacGill frowned at him from the potting table.
“It’s my greenhouse, Thomas. I think I’m entitled to be here if I wish.”
MacGill grunted and went back to repotting a fuchsia plant.
Parks looked around. He had work to do, lots of work…he just couldn’t decide what to do first.
“How are the new plants coming?”
“Fine.” MacGill sent him a disparaging look. “Better than yer new wife is, according to William.”
“Thomas!” Not for the first time Parks considered the disadvantages of having his valet’s twin as his head gardener. “My wife is neither yours nor your brother’s concern.”
“But she is yer concern, Johnny.”
“Thomas…” He also wished he’d had the foresight to hire proper English servants and not these upstart Scots who did not know their place.
“She was in here the other day.”
“She was?” He should take Meg for a tour of his gardens. She would enjoy it. “Well, that’s not surprising. Meg is very knowledgeable about plants, as I’m sure you discovered.”
MacGill nodded. “Aye, I did that. And I discovered something else.”
Why did he have a bad feeling about this? MacGill looked far too serious—very much the dour Scot. “What was that?”
“Yer wife’s not happy, Johnny.”
Parks felt like he’d been punched in the gut. “Now, Thomas—”
MacGill glowered at him. “Don’t ‘Thomas’ me, Johnny. It’s been three weeks since yer wedding. Ye need to be fertilizing something besides yer rose beds.”
“Meg, may I speak with you?”
“Of course, Mrs., um…”
“Call me mother, dear.” Mrs. Parker-Roth patted Meg on the arm. “I do think of you as one of my daughters, you know.”
“Oh. Um. All right. M-mother.”
“Let’s go down to my studio. We can have a comfortable coze there without fear of being interrupted.”
An interruption might be a good thing, depending on the conversational topic, but Meg went along without protest.
Mrs. Parker-Roth’s studio was in a cottage orné on the other side of an ornamental lake.
“John—my husband, John, that is, not your husband—often comes here to concentrate on his sonnets,” Mrs. Parker-Roth said as they approached the building. It was larger than Papa’s vicarage. “He says the walk clears his head—and makes everyone else consider carefully whether they really need his attention. When the children were young, they’d run to him to settle their fights. When they reached the lake, though, they’d get distracted. The girls stopped to gather wildflowers; the boys, to skip stones. It saved John a lot of interruptions.”
Mrs. Parker-Roth took a large key from her pocket and unlocked the door. “I like it because I can leave my paintings out and know they will not be disturbed.” She grinned. “And, frankly, Johnny thinks many of my paintings are not appropriate for the children.” She laughed. “Well, for anyone, really. Johnny is so easily embarrassed.”
Meg followed Mrs. Parker-Roth into the darkened entry. The smells of paper, ink, paint, and turpentine enveloped her.
“Over here is my husband’s study—you can see it’s much larger than the one in the house.”
It was indeed much larger—and just as messy.
“And here is my studio.”
Meg looked into a large, airy room filled with sunlight. Canvases lined the walls.
“Would you like to see what I’m currently working on?”
“Yes, please.” Why did John’s mother have that glint of mischief in her eyes?
Mrs. Parker-Roth threw off the sheet that was draped over a large painting in the middle of the room. Meg stared at the image of a naked man reclining on a chaise-longue, legs carelessly bent to display his…well, fortunately that part of his anatomy was only sketched in broad outlines. Meg’s attention traveled to the man’s face.
Good God. She squeezed her eyes shut. It couldn’t be. She cracked an eye open. It was.
Her father-in-law gazed back at her, a very sultry expression on his face.
Her mother-in-law giggled. “I’ve been trying to finish this painting for weeks, but, well, I, um”—thankfully she covered the canvas again, unfortunately she gestured toward the red and gold upholstered piece of furniture against the wall—“get distracted.”
Meg took the long way back to the main house—the very long way. She was in no hurry to be among people. She listened to the roar of breaking waves and smelled salt in the air. She climbed a hill and gazed out over the sea. Storm clouds hung heavy in the sky; the water was gray and turbulent. Just like her thoughts.
What was she going to do about her marriage?
Her mother-in-law told her to seduce John, but could her opinion really be trusted? She had naked paintings of—Meg shook her head in a vain attempt to dislodge the image.
Felicity had said essentially the same thing, but Felicity was hardly a pattern card of respectability.
What did Meg know of seduction anyway? It was ridiculous. John would laugh himself senseless should she be foolish enough to attempt it.
Yet they had been married three weeks, and there had not been even a whisper of seduction from John. Of course, he’d been sick at first, too sick to do anything involving a bed besides sleep. And then he’d been busy with his plants and estate business. She had been busy as well, helping Jane and Mrs. Parker-Roth with the new baby. There hadn’t been much time…
There had been three weeks.
She bit her lip. She’d hardly seen John since they’d arrived at the Priory; they’d exchanged a handful of words—and nothing else.
To be brutally honest, he was avoiding her.
The wind tried to rip her bonnet from her head; she untied its strings and let the cool air rush over her heated face, drying her tears.
She should be happy. She had acres of land to explore and a dizzying wealth of plants to examine.
She wasn’t happy. The sad—the alarming—truth was, for the first time in her memory, she truly did not care what grew under her feet.
She was interested in babies. In Jane’s tiny son. In having a child of her own.
Surely John would get around to doing his duty eventually. She need only be patient.
Or would he? He didn’t need an heir. He hadn’t married her because he wanted to, but to avoid a horrific scandal—a scandal she had caused. He must hate her.
And then there was Lady Grace Dawson. Mrs. Parker-Roth assured her John no longer pined for his former betrothed. That his primary feeling was—had always been—embarrassment. That
he had never loved the woman.
How did Mrs. Parker-Roth know? She’d admitted John had not told her. She’d merely cited mother’s intuition.
But then why had John never married until now, when he was forced to do so?
She wiped her eyes. What was the matter with her? Love had not been part of her plans. She’d wanted a home of her own, which she now had. She’d been willing to have a child, but not anxious to do so.
Now she was anxious.
She started walking again, the motion helping marshal her thoughts.
Surely John must understand Lady Dawson was beyond his reach. She was married, happily by all accounts. His love was destined to be unrequited.
And love wasn’t necessary to accomplish the procreative procedure anyway. He’d been able to manage the deed with his mistress; surely he could accomplish it with her. Really, it would be vastly more convenient for him. Instead of going into the village, perhaps in the rain and cold, he need only step through a door into her room. Or she would step into his room. He would not have to leave the comfort of his own home.
With luck, he wouldn’t have to exert himself too many times before her goal was accomplished.
It was a simple plan. What could he object to?
Unless he hated her for trapping him into marriage. Lack of love should not be an issue, but hate? That might indeed be a problem.
She turned away from the sea and shoved her bonnet back on. The indecision and uncertainty had gone on long enough. She would approach John tonight. She would ask him for a child.
If she didn’t puke first.
“Are ye ever gonna visit yer wife’s bed, Johnny?”
“MacGill!” Bloody hell. First his head gardener, now his valet. He should get rid of them both. “My marriage is none of your affair.”
“Of course it is. Ye’ve been fashing about it ever since ye got home.”
“I have not.”
MacGill just lifted an eyebrow, damn him.
“I have been sick.”
“Johnny, ye’ve been well fer at least two weeks—and ye were not that sick to begin with.”
“Not that sick? I felt like I was dying.”
MacGill snorted. “Aye, I’m sure ye did—fer a day or two. Yer appetite”—MacGill waggled his eyebrows—“is fine now, isn’t it?”
He chose to ignore his valet’s insinuation. “No, actually. I’ve not been very hungry at all.”
“Because ye’ve been tying yer stomach in knots over yer marriage—or non-marriage. Ye’ve got to bed the lass, Johnny.”
Bed Meg? Part of him leapt at the thought.
But how was he going to accomplish that feat? Just knock on her door and present himself? He should have done that two weeks—or more—ago. It was rather late now. He would feel like a fool.
“Hand me a new cravat, will you? I’ve ruined this one.”
MacGill gave him more linen. “Go to her tonight, Johnny. There’s no point in putting it off any longer.”
Damn. He’d ruined another cravat.
“I don’t…the thing is…well, as you know, the circumstances of our marriage were rather…unusual.”
“What difference does that make? Ye’re wed now, aren’t ye?”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts, Johnny. Ye’re bound by yer vows—both of ye.”
MacGill was right—neither of them had a choice any longer. If Meg would have preferred to have married a title, well, it was unfortunate, but she would have to resign herself to her situation.
“It’s only gentlemanly to visit her bed, ye know. Ye can visit yer mistress—”
“No, I can’t. I would not dishonor my vows—and even if I would, she is marrying the blacksmith.”
“Is she?” MacGill grinned. “Ye do know she was seeing him on the side?”
“I didn’t know.” He’d suspected he wasn’t Cat’s only customer. It stood to reason, since he’d visited her so infrequently, that she wouldn’t be lying in bed waiting for him. Well, the lying in bed—yes; the waiting—no.
The blacksmith was welcome to her.
“As I was saying, it’s only gentlemanly ye visit yer wife’s bed. She has needs, too, which she can satisfy only with ye.”
“Needs?”
“Aye.”
“What kind of needs?”
“Ack, Johnny, surely ye know women crave men just as men crave women?”
They did?
“I hadn’t really thought about it.” Was that why Meg had been luring men into the shrubbery? She certainly had been exceedingly passionate in his arms.
“Well, think on it. The poor lassie is likely half out of her mind with lust.”
A jolt of lust—no, shock, definitely shock—shot through him to lodge in his most sensitive organ.
“MacGill! Meg is a gently bred young woman.”
“She’s a woman, Johnny, gently bred or no. I’ve seen the way she looks at ye. She’s burning, man. Burning for ye.”
Parks snorted. Damn, but he had been more than halfway to believing the Scottish bastard. He had wanted to believe him.
“Nice try, MacGill, but you got a little too dramatic at the end there. Next time stop before you get so carried away.”
MacGill laughed. “I almost had ye though, didn’t I?”
Parks was not going to answer that question. “Help me into my coat. It’s time to go down to dinner.”
MacGill held up his dark blue coat. “I wasn’t completely joking, Johnny. Ye need to do something about yer marriage.”
“I know.” He slipped the coat on and straightened his cuffs. “I will attend to it.”
“Tonight, Johnny. That’s another thing I wasna joking about. I’ve seen yer wife watching ye. She wants—she needs—ye in her bed.”
If only MacGill were right. Could he be?
No. He must be mistaken.
MacGill was not usually mistaken about anything.
Well, there was only one way to find out. He would visit Meg’s bed tonight. Then he would know.
A mix of dread and anticipation twisted his gut.
He went downstairs to try to consume some dinner.
Chapter 21
That had been the most uncomfortable dinner of her life.
Meg dropped her head into her hands and swallowed a groan. Thank God she was finally safe in her bedchamber. She should lock the door and never come out.
Every time she’d looked at her father-in-law, she’d seen the partially finished painting in Mrs. Parker-Roth’s studio—and the red and gold chaise-longue nearby. If she averted her eyes to her mother-in-law, she found herself wondering how such an ordinary looking matron could engage in such wild—
No. She pulled on her hair and squeezed her eyes tightly shut in an attempt to expunge the thought.
And then there was John. Mrs. Parker-Roth had seated them together, of course. Well, that was to be expected. Lord Motton had eaten upstairs with Jane and the baby, so there were only Mr. and Mrs. Parker-Roth, John, and herself at table. And Miss Witherspoon. Thank God for Miss Witherspoon. The woman had prosed on and on about her trip to the Amazon. Meg had hung on every word.
All right, she had pretended to hang on every word. She had really been thinking about how to raise the question of children with her husband.
She had not come up with an answer. In fact, she had been so despairing of ever mentioning the topic that she’d considered—just for a moment, of course—running off to the Amazon with Miss Witherspoon.
She was still despairing.
She got up from her dressing table to examine her figure in the cheval glass. Mrs. Parker-Roth’s maid—at some point she should acquire a maid of her own, she supposed—had helped her into her nightclothes—her very virginal nightclothes. The gown was white flannel and buttoned up to her chin.
It was not at all the thing to wear to a seduction.
She needed something very different, something that would make John mindless with lust. She wanted him to forget
all his reservations and just do…it.
Surely once he’d done it the first time, he wouldn’t be so shy about doing it again.
Unless he found the activity unpleasant.
She let out a long breath. Would he find it unpleasant? She couldn’t say, obviously. She might well be clumsy and inept. It would be no surprise if she were—she had no experience. But she was a quick learner. If John were disappointed, he need only tell her what she must do differently. And if he wouldn’t tell her, she must ask.
Though now that she considered the issue, he had not appeared bored or dissatisfied in Lady Palmerson’s parlor or Lord Easthaven’s garden—or on the street in front of Lord Fonsby’s townhouse. Surely the activities he’d engaged in at those locations must be related to the procreative act.
Enough. Worrying about it served no purpose. She could only do her best.
She turned away from the looking glass to the wardrobe and pulled open a drawer. Her first step on her path to seduction must be to shed this voluminous gown. Fortunately, Emma had given her something more appropriate as a wedding gift.
She opened a small, insubstantial package. This nightgown was white also, but the similarity ended there. She held it up and blushed. It could not be as scandalous as it looked.
She very much feared it was. She pulled off her flannel nightgown and slipped the new gown over her head. The silky fabric slid over her body, caressing her skin. She went back to examine the effect in the looking glass.
Yes, indeed, it was very, very scandalous. Two thin straps attached to a tiny bodice that barely skimmed the tops of her breasts. The skirt flowed over her hips and around her legs—and was slit up to her thigh on one side. The fabric itself was almost transparent, revealing far more than it hid.
She could not walk into John’s room like this. She grabbed a heavy woolen dressing gown, yanking it on before opening the connecting door.
Mr. MacGill spilled his cup of tea onto his lap. He leapt out of his chair.
“Oh dear. Are you all right?” Meg rushed forward.
“Yes, yes.” The man mopped his pantaloons with a towel he’d grabbed from the washstand. “Don’t fash yerself. The tea had cooled. No damage done.” He paused with the towel pressed to his knee, looked up, and grinned. “And is there a reason ye’re here, lassie?”
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