Meg avoided Lizzie’s eyes. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because, well…I’m not engaged.”
“What?! How can you not be engaged? You were sitting on Parks’s lap, your dress—”
“Yes. I know. But it really wasn’t Mr. Parker-Roth’s fault—”
“You pulled your dress down?”
“No, of course not.” Meg shifted in her chair. “One thing just led to another, if you know what I mean.”
“I can’t say that I do.” Lizzie grinned. “Oh, I understand the bit about one thing leading to another, but usually that all leads to an engagement.”
“Well, in this case it didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Lizzie! I really don’t want to discuss it.” Meg cleared her throat. “I hope we didn’t interrupt anything with our visit this morning. You were in the middle of reading a letter?”
Lizzie gave her a searching look. She was clearly not giving up on the topic. “Yes, I was. From Aunt Gladys.” She laughed. “You may not be engaged, but Aunt Gladys is.”
“Lady Gladys?” Lady Gladys would not see seventy again. She had been Lizzie’s chaperone until she’d retired to Bath. She was much stricter than Lady Beatrice. If Lady Gladys had been in charge last year, they would never have gone to Tynweith’s house party and Meg would never have met Mr. Parker-Roth—which would have been a very good thing.
If her first encounter with Parks had been in Lord Palmerson’s garden last night, would she feel differently now? She was not a starry-eyed debutante. She hadn’t expected to fall madly in love with a potential suitor. She’d been prepared to make an intelligent, rational choice without the discomfort of a pounding heart and heaving bosom.
Viewed dispassionately, Parks was a perfect matrimonial candidate. He was wealthy, male, and interested in horticulture. Perfect—except he’d not shown the slightest interest in her from the time he’d left Tynweith’s estate until he’d rescued her in the garden. And his reaction in the parlor could hardly be called “interest.” Animal lust, that was all it was.
She didn’t need to be loved, but she didn’t care to be ignored and then treated like a…whore.
She sniffed. She would not cry. How ridiculous. And she would not marry a man who could treat her with such a lack of respect.
An annoying little voice whispered in her conscience: You weren’t exactly pushing him away, were you?
Heat rushed up her neck to her cheeks. Her heart pounded in her ears.
All right, perhaps she, too, had experienced lust. She would not have thought herself capable of such a feeling, but apparently she was. How embarrassing! Certainly Emma and Lizzie were not prone to such a base emotion. They must conduct their conjugal encounters in a much more dignified fashion.
“Are you finished eating, sweetums?” Lord Manders had twisted to look at Meg. Lizzie lifted him up, patting him on the back. “Is your little belly full?”
He answered with yet another hearty burp.
“Good, boy.” She kissed him—and he grabbed a fistful of her hair.
“Ow!”
Lord Manders squealed and grabbed more hair.
Meg tried not to laugh. “Do you need help, Lizzie?”
“What does it look like? Of course I need help.”
Meg wrapped her hands around the baby’s sturdy middle while Lizzie worked to free herself. The viscount had gotten so much stronger since last she’d seen him. He was four months old now.
“Come, my lord. Let go of your poor mother.”
He looked up and gave her a wide baby grin.
Lizzie curled his last finger open.
“There.” She sat back quickly. “You take him, will you? I’ll never be able to look at the letter if I’ve got him on my lap. He’s turning into a regular octopus.”
Meg sat down with Lord Manders in her arms. His solid little weight felt good. Emma’s Henry was already nine months old, so holding him was more like a wrestling match—he always wanted to be off crawling into mischief. Viscount Manders was too young to squirm. She cuddled him closer.
She’d never been one of those girls who cooed over babies. She’d expected to have some, of course. It was her duty—an inconvenient but inevitable chore that would take time away from her horticultural pursuits. But now…well, perhaps having children would not be so dreadful. She just had to find the proper husband and father.
Resolutely, she banished Mr. Parker-Roth’s image from her mind.
Lizzie squinted down at the letter she now held in her hand. “Yes, Lady Gladys is definitely engaged.”
“To whom?”
“Lord Dearvon.”
Meg frowned. Lord Dearvon…surely it couldn’t be…“The elderly bald man with the hairy ears who’s always talking about Waterloo?”
“Well, I believe Aunt Gladys refers to him as an old friend who shares her love for the theater, but yes, I think you have the correct gentleman.”
Lady Gladys and Lord Dearvon. Together. Married. Doing things married people did…
No. It was not possible.
“Isn’t Lady Gladys rather old for marriage?”
“One would certainly think so.”
One would certainly hope so. “Perhaps she is looking for a companion to share her old age—though I thought she already had a companion.”
Lizzie grinned. “You won’t believe this either, but Lady Amanda is marrying as well—a Mr. Pedde-Wilt. I think, though I am not completely certain—Aunt Gladys, in a moment of false economy, crossed her lines so much I have trouble understanding her scribble—but I think they are having a joint ceremony. Soon. In May—unless Aunt Gladys was saying Lord Dearvon’s gout may keep them from a wedding trip. It really is very hard to puzzle out.”
The entire situation was very hard to puzzle out.
Lizzie put down the letter and leaned forward. “So about Parks—”
“Ack!”
Lord Manders looked up to see who had made that strange sound.
“I do not wish to discuss Mr. Parker-Roth.”
“I don’t care what you wish, Meg.” Lizzie frowned at her. “You know, Robbie and I were getting very worried about you.”
“Worried?” Meg tried to laugh. “Why would you worry about me?”
“You’ve been disappearing into the shrubbery at every social event.”
Meg flushed. “I only stepped out with one or two—”
“Or five or six. If you thought you were being discreet, you were mistaken. Robbie told me men were starting to make wagers as to whom your next partner would be.”
“No.”
“Yes. Surely you noted the rakes beginning to cluster around you?”
“Um…” She had been slightly uncomfortable recently. She hadn’t missed the men’s odd pauses, significant glances, and muffled laughter, but she’d chosen to ignore them. Most of the men of the ton were coxcombs and jinglebrains—she didn’t expect much rational behavior from them.
“You used to be very observant; I thought you must have noticed. And it’s not just that—mothers are starting to shepherd their little debutantes away from you. In fact, all the marriageable misses are avoiding you as if you had the plague.”
“No.” Meg frowned. “I’m certain you must be mistaken.” Perhaps she had noticed fewer women talking to her, but she’d been happy for it. She didn’t like the London girls. They were silly, shallow, boring creatures capable of discussing only the weather and the most recent gossip.
“Robbie and I were delighted to see you with Parks last night. I don’t know why you refused his offer—he did offer, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“So why did you decline? You were quite taken with him at Tynweith’s house party.”
“I was not.”
Lizzie just looked at her. Meg shifted in her chair.
“I enjoyed talking to the man. He is very knowledgeable about horticulture. It was nothing more than that.”
&nb
sp; Lizzie raised one eyebrow. “I seem to remember at least one luncheon you missed because of Mr. Parker-Roth.”
“We were discussing garden design.”
“Hmm.”
“Don’t look at me like that. It is perfectly permissible for a man and a woman with common interests to have a sensible conversation without the need to call the banns. My feelings for Mr. Parker-Roth are nothing more than respect for another horticulturist.”
Lord Manders chose this moment to let out a very ominous noise. The sound did not emanate from his mouth.
Meg wrinkled her nose and looked down in horror at the smelly little creature sitting on one of her favorite dresses. The creature grinned back.
“Those are my sentiments exactly, Bobby,” Lizzie said, picking up her son. “Auntie Meg is indeed full of…”
Lizzie rolled her eyes and went to change her baby.
Chapter 6
“Lady Knightsdale would like to speak with you, Miss Peterson. She’s in the nursery with the Duchess of Alvord.”
“Thank you, Blake.”
“Did the duchess bring her children?” Claire asked.
“Yes, Lady Claire.”
“Oh, good.”
Claire ran ahead. Isabelle waited for Meg.
“Did you enjoy your visit with Lord and Lady Westbrooke, Isabelle? Claire was rattling on so in the carriage about the kittens, I don’t believe you got a word in edgewise.”
Isabelle smiled fleetingly. “Yes, Aunt Meg.” She looked down, fiddling with her bonnet ribbons. “Are you getting married?”
Trust Isabelle to remember Robbie’s comment.
“No, of course not.”
Isabelle looked up, her eyes full of doubt and worry. “Then why did Lord Westbrooke think you were?”
“I don’t know.” Meg did not want to discuss last night’s events. The entire business was best forgotten. “Let’s go see the duchess, shall we?”
Isabelle frowned, then dropped her gaze back to the floor. “All right.”
They started up the stairs. It was so quiet, Meg could hear the whisper of their slippers on the marble. Isabelle was not a chatterbox by any means, but she usually said something.
This silence was heavy, too full of unspoken words.
“Did you like the kittens, Isabelle?”
“Yes.”
There was no enthusiasm in her voice. Meg glanced at her. Isabelle had grown. Her eyes were almost level with Meg’s—if she would raise them from the stairs.
“Did you have a favorite?”
“No.”
Meg felt like a chatterbox now. “Are you certain? Claire seemed very partial to the black one.”
That made Isabelle look up. “Aunt Meg, I am thirteen. I am not a baby. I—” She bit her lip and looked back down at her slippers.
They climbed the last few steps in silence.
Isabelle was correct—she was not a baby. She had survived a cold, abusive mother and a selfish, self-centered father—and the shock of their murder when she was nine. Physically, too, she was almost a woman. Too soon she would take an interest in men—and they would take an interest in her. She deserved the truth. She needed it.
Meg stopped at the top of the stairs. “Isabelle, I was not completely honest just now. I do know why Lord Westbrooke thought I was getting married. Something happened last night at the Palmerson ball. Some people feel I’ve been compromised, but I do not agree.”
“What happened?”
There was honesty—and then there was honesty.
“It’s rather complicated. I made the mistake of going into the garden with a man.”
“Aunt Emma said you’d gone into the garden with lots of men.”
Meg felt herself flush, partly in anger. “It was not lots, Isabelle. I’m surprised Emma said such a thing to you.”
“Oh, she didn’t tell me. She was talking to your step-mother. She didn’t know I was listening.”
“Oh.” Meg could believe that. Isabelle had perfected the skill of listening unobtrusively in the last year. “Well, I do agree that I made a definite mistake last night.” She put a hand on Isabelle’s shoulder and looked directly into her eyes. “Emma will give you many lectures on proper deportment—”
Isabelle smiled. “She already has.”
“I’m sure.” Sometimes, growing up, Meg had felt Emma spoke only in lectures. “Well, much as her…advice can be annoying, you should listen to it. Especially the part about not being alone with a man. You cannot always tell by looking at him whether a man is a blackguard or not.”
Isabelle nodded. “I know.”
Unfortunately, she probably did know—her father had been a prime example of a handsome blackguard.
They started up the next flight of stairs to the nursery.
“Who is the blackguard you have to marry, Aunt Meg?”
Meg stumbled, catching herself on the banister. “I do not have to marry the blackguard! I mean, the blackguard is not the man people think I have to marry—not that I need to marry anyone, of course.”
Isabelle stared at Meg. “I don’t understand.”
Meg examined the banister rather than meet Isabelle’s eyes. “I went into the garden with one gentleman. When he became too…amorous, another gentleman rescued me. Unfortunately, someone saw me with the second gentleman and assumed…” Meg cleared her throat. “This person took it upon herself to spread the story, telling everyone the second man had behaved inappropriately, which he had not.”
At least not in the garden.
Meg repressed that thought.
Isabelle frowned. “That isn’t fair.” She sounded suitably incensed.
“No, it isn’t.”
“Who spread the story? Perhaps the woman did not tell that many people.”
Meg continued up the stairs. “It was Lady Dunlee.”
“Oh.” Isabelle hesitated a moment before following her. “Then you are ruined.”
“I am not!”
“Aunt Meg, even I know Lady Dunlee’s the ton’s biggest gossip.”
They reached the nursery level just in time to hear a large crash. A baby started wailing.
“That sounds like Henry,” Isabelle said. “He’s probably pulled something over on himself again.”
“Again?”
“Yes. He keeps trying to stand. He pulls up on things and they inevitably fall over. It is driving us all mad.”
Sure enough, when they entered the room, Emma was holding Henry and a small chair was on its side.
“I swear I am going to bolt everything to the floor until he can walk,” Emma said to the Duchess of Alvord.
Her Grace smiled. “David started walking just last month, so I know exactly how you feel.”
“Thank God we left Prinny at home. A dog running around the nursery is the last thing we need.”
“It would make things more difficult, to be sure.” Her Grace smiled at Meg. “Miss Peterson. How are you?”
“Very well, Your Grace.”
Emma spun around. “Meg! I’ve been waiting for you.” She looked at Henry in her arms. “Oh, hush, you silly baby. I can’t hear myself think.” She followed this with a loud, wet kiss on Henry’s cheek, turning his cries to belly laughs. Then he was squirming to be let down.
“Isabelle, can you watch Henry for me? Try to keep him from tipping over something else, will you?”
Isabelle smiled and followed Henry as he crawled across the nursery floor to where Claire was watching the duchess’s second son, one-year-old Lord David, drop lead soldiers into a pot. The duke’s heir, the Marquis of Walthingham, and Emma’s oldest son, Charlie, Lord Lexington, were at the far end of the nursery, building a tower with blocks.
“Don’t let Henry eat the soldiers, Isabelle.”
“I won’t.”
Emma turned her attention back to Meg. “Meg, Mrs. Parker-Roth sent word round this morning. She asked if we might call on her this afternoon. Of course I said yes.”
Meg felt her stomac
h knot. She did not want to see Parks’s mother.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Of course it is. You want to get to know your future mother-in-law, don’t you?”
“She is not my future mother-in-law. I am not marrying Mr. Parker-Roth.”
“Don’t be a goosecap, Meg. Of course you are. You don’t have a choice.”
“Emma…”
“Perhaps it would be wise to lower your voices, ladies,” the duchess said. She tilted her head toward where Isabelle and Claire were playing with Henry and David—and obviously eavesdropping.
Emma frowned, but said more softly, “Sarah, can you persuade Meg?”
“I doubt it. I refused to marry James just to suit your British notions of propriety, remember.”
“I assure you that even in the United States Meg would have to marry Mr. Parker-Roth.”
“Really?” The duchess looked at Meg. “So there’s a chance of an interesting event in nine months’ time?”
“No!”
Lord David dropped the infantryman he was about to put in his mouth. All the children turned to stare at Meg.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, speaking in little more than a whisper this time. “No, there is no chance of that whatsoever, Your Grace. It is completely impossible.”
“Well, if nothing of that nature occurred…?”
“Definitely not.”
“Then I don’t see why you must marry Mr. Parker-Roth if you don’t wish to.”
Emma made an annoyed sound. “Sarah, you don’t comprehend the gravity of the situation. Meg was found in an extremely disheveled state by Lady Dunlee. There’s no hope of containing the scandal. You might as well try to collect dandelion seeds after a strong wind.”
“It can’t be that bad. You and Charles will stand by her, Emma, as will Robbie and Lizzie and James and I. I’ve been among your society long enough to know the ton will not risk offending a duke, a marquis, and an earl.”
“But, Sarah—”
The duchess put her hand on Emma’s arm. “You are understandably concerned. There may be—will be—a little talk this Season, but after a few months, when it is obvious there’s nothing”—the duchess nodded at Meg’s waist—“developing, people will move on to other scandals. It is certainly not worth Meg chaining herself for life to a reprobate.”
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