Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  Mrs. Windham flushed and nodded back, resuming her progress down Picadilly.

  “Stop sitting there like a complete stock and come inside.” Emma crossed to the Pulteney’s front door where a doorman stood ready to throw open the portal.

  Meg scrambled down the steps and grabbed Emma’s wrist.

  “I really don’t think…that is, do we have to…?” Meg struggled to breathe.

  Emma scowled at her. “What is the matter? You are behaving like a bedlamite.”

  Meg looked at the doorman. He looked straight ahead as though he were just another Coade stone statue. He had probably seen any manner of minor dramas while at his post, but Meg did not want to add another tale to his collection. She lowered her voice.

  “Emma, did Mrs. Parker-Roth happen to say if her son was going to be present?”

  Emma grinned. “Anxious to see him again, are you?”

  “No!” Just the thought threatened to send her luncheon ignominiously spilling over the walk. Her cheeks felt clammy and her fingers tingled.

  God forbid! Was she going to faint?

  Emma patted her hand. “Calm yourself. I’ll wager Mr. Parker-Roth has taken himself off. He would be very much in the way, as I’m sure he knows.”

  “He would?” Meg eyed the Knightsdale coach. The footman hadn’t put up the steps yet. If she made a dash for it, she could climb back in before it pulled away. “What exactly are we going to discuss?”

  “This and that. His family, his interests, his estate.”

  “Emma…”

  “Wedding plans—”

  “Emma! I told you, I’m not marrying Mr. Parker-Roth.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you are marrying the man. You have no choice.” Emma linked her arm through Meg’s and nodded to the stoic doorman. “Come along. Mrs. Parker-Roth must be waiting for us.”

  A red-headed giant opened the door to the Parker-Roth apartment.

  “Please tell your mistress that the Marchioness of Knightsdale and Miss Margaret Peterson are here,” Emma said.

  “Ack, is that so?” The giant turned to examine Meg from her bonnet to her slippers. “Is this the master’s lassie, then?” He gave a low whistle. “I’m thinking Johnny will be a happy man afore he’s much older.”

  Meg felt her cheeks flush. They must be as red as the giant’s hair.

  “Sir!” Emma said, “I don’t believe we asked for your opinion.”

  The man grinned. “Then ye’ll be thanking me fer giving it to ye so generously, won’t ye?”

  Emma drew in a sharp breath. “You are impertinent.”

  “Aye.” His grin broadened. “I’ve been told that afore.”

  “MacGill!” Mrs. Parker-Roth’s voice echoed from somewhere in the suite of rooms. “Stop toying with the ladies and show them in.”

  MacGill smirked. “If ye’ll follow me?”

  Emma leaned close as the giant set off down a short corridor and whispered, “The man is a very odd sort of butler. You must have a word with Mr. Parker-Roth after the wedding about his suitability.”

  “Emma,” Meg whispered back, “how many times do I have to tell you that there will be no wedding?”

  “And how many times do I have to tell you that you have no choice? You will marry Mr. Parker-Roth.”

  Emma spoke a little too loudly. MacGill snorted. Meg was certain he was going to make some comment, but instead he stepped aside for them to enter the parlor.

  “Lady Knightsdale, Miss Peterson, welcome.” Mrs. Parker-Roth came forward to take their hands. Her face creased into well-worn smile wrinkles, and her green eyes, so like her son’s, twinkled at them. “I am so happy you could visit.” She gestured to a woman on the settee. “Let me make known to you my traveling companion, Miss Agatha Witherspoon. Agatha, Lady Knightsdale and her sister, Miss Margaret Peterson.”

  Miss Witherspoon nodded at them. She looked to be on the shady side of sixty. Her hair was gray and wiry, cut so short she bore a striking resemblance to a hedgehog. She wore an odd, reddish orange printed garment wrapped around her body.

  “A sari,” Meg muttered in surprise as Mrs. Parker-Roth conferred with MacGill. Father had spoken of these Hindu garments once, but she had never seen one.

  “Don’t be sorry,” Emma said. “Just be sensible.”

  “What?”

  “Didn’t you just say you were sorry?”

  “No.”

  “Yes, you did. I heard you quite distinctly.”

  Miss Witherspoon snorted. “I believe your sister was referring to my gown, Lady Knightsdale.”

  Emma frowned. “Meg would never make such an impolite observation, would you, Meg?”

  “Emma—not sorry—sari!”

  “I don’t know why you need to talk in riddles. If you are not going to—”

  Mrs. Parker-Roth turned as MacGill left the room. “Pardon me, Lady Knightsdale. I am sorry. I’m sure MacGill’s behavior is not what you are used to.”

  “Definitely not.”

  Meg bit her tongue. Until Emma had married Charles, she had not been used to any servant behavior whatsoever.

  Her sister was not usually so haughty. The strain of being in London—and of dealing with Meg’s situation—must be testing her sorely.

  “The man’s Scottish, you know. Very independent. He’s my son’s valet, but he acts as our general manservant when we travel. His twin brother is Johnny’s head gardener.”

  “I see. So your son thinks highly of him?”

  “Oh, yes indeed. Johnny thinks both the MacGills are beyond reproach.” She smiled. “MacGill will be bringing tea in just a few minutes. Please, take a seat.”

  Meg chose a straight-backed chair with sturdy wooden arms and a seat cushion that had all the give of a small boulder. Emma joined Miss Witherspoon on the settee. Her eyes widened as she finally focused on the woman’s attire.

  “That is quite an unusual frock you are wearing, Miss Witherspoon. I don’t believe I’ve seen its like in Kent. Is it something new?”

  “It’s a sari, Lady Knightsdale,” Miss Witherspoon said, speaking very distinctly. “Many of the native women in India wear them. They are quite comfortable.”

  “Ah. I…see.”

  Emma was obviously struggling to find a suitable rejoinder. Meg took pity on her.

  “Have you been to India, Miss Witherspoon?”

  “Oh, yes—several times. And to Africa and South America—all over the globe. We just returned from Siam a few weeks ago.”

  “We?” Meg glanced at Parks’s mother. Miss Witherspoon followed her gaze and laughed.

  “Oh, not Cecilia. I could never get her away from the Priory for so long a time, though I have tried. No, I travel with my very dear friend Prudence Doddington-Prinz.”

  Emma frowned. “Is that safe—two ladies traveling by themselves?”

  “Well, we don’t go alone, of course. Often we have an expedition leader. And Mr. Cox accompanies us as well. He’s a former pugilist who can be quite intimidating when the need arises. Not that it does. We are experienced travelers. We do not take unnecessary risks.”

  Mrs. Parker-Roth snorted.

  “Now, Cecilia, you cannot judge. This is the riskiest thing you do—travel to London occasionally.” Miss Witherspoon rolled her eyes heavenward. “You lead such a sheltered—such a tame—existence. Frankly, I don’t see how you bear it.”

  “There is nothing tame about my existence, Agatha. I have six children who often bring more excitement into my life than I quite care for.”

  “But how can you call yourself an artist when you’ve never visited Italy or Greece and seen the art of the Masters?”

  Mrs. Parker-Roth’s mouth thinned to a tight line. “Agatha—” She stopped, obviously getting hold of her temper, and then smiled at Meg and Emma. “Forgive me. This is a long-running argument, I’m afraid.”

  “Indeed it is.” Miss Witherspoon leaned toward Meg. “Consider carefully, Miss Peterson. Do not make the same mistake Cecilia d
id and fall in love with a pair of broad shoulders.”

  Meg flushed, remembering exactly how being pressed up against a certain pair of broad shoulders—and broad chest and muscular arms—had felt.

  “I did not make a mistake,” Mrs. Parker-Roth said.

  “You did, Cecilia. You could have been a great artist.”

  “Agatha—”

  “Marriage and motherhood are all very well for some people. Obviously if we want the human race to continue, someone must produce the next generation. It just didn’t have to be you, Cecilia, and you didn’t have to produce so much of it. A little restraint would have been a good thing.”

  Mrs. Parker-Roth flushed. “Agatha—”

  “It’s not as though your husband has a title to pass on—and in any event, you took care of that concern, had it been one, promptly with Pinky and Stephen.”

  “Pinky?” Meg asked. A distraction seemed to be in order.

  Mrs. Parker-Roth gave her a somewhat harried smile. “We called Johnny ‘Pinky’ when he was little to differentiate him from his father. His middle name is Pinkerton. He doesn’t care for the nickname now.” She turned back to Miss Witherspoon. “Agatha, really, I don’t think—”

  “That is self evident,” Miss Witherspoon said. “You didn’t think. Once you met John Parker-Roth at your come-out ball, your brain ceded control of your behavior to your—”

  “Agatha!”

  “—to some other organ which led you into marriage and then motherhood. Still, if you’d stopped after Stephen, you could have been free years ago—though I grant you, Napoleon made continental travel extremely difficult, if not impossible, for some of that time. But that’s neither here nor there. It wasn’t the Corsican Monster keeping you chained to England, but your own brood of little demons.”

  Mrs. Parker-Roth gasped. “You go too far!”

  Miss Witherspoon shrugged. “Yes, all right. I apologize. They are very well-behaved demons.”

  “They are…you called my children…”

  Miss Witherspoon touched Mrs. Parker-Roth’s arm. “You could have been such a fine artist, Cecilia.”

  Parks’s mother finally mastered her breathing sufficiently to emit a short, exasperated noise. “I am persuaded I’m as fine an artist as I could ever have been, Agatha.”

  “I don’t think so. Remember all those years ago when we met at Lady Baxter’s soiree? You were such a fiery young woman. You said you were only tolerating a Season because it brought you to London and the Royal Academy of Arts. You swore you’d defy your father to pursue your muse.”

  “I was ridiculous.”

  “You were passionate.” Miss Witherspoon sighed. “It is partly my fault, I suppose. I should not have put John in your way, but I never suspected you’d be tempted by a poet.”

  Meg glanced at Emma. Her sister looked distinctly uncomfortable, as if the conversation was galloping at breakneck speed toward a precipice and she had not an inkling how to rein it in.

  “Agatha, why can’t you understand? I don’t need—or want—to go to Italy or Greece. I can see as well in England’s light as I can anywhere. There is plenty of beauty in my own little corner of the world. And if the choice is between my painting or my children—well, there is no choice. Nothing—nothing—is as important to me as my family.”

  Miss Witherspoon clicked her tongue, throwing her hands in the air and sitting back on the settee.

  “Oh, pish! That is what you have persuaded yourself to believe, Cecilia. It’s what men want us to believe. We’ve been taught from our cradles that marriage is a woman’s highest calling. Gammon!”

  “Just because you’ve never wed—”

  “Thank God! I have more sense than to sell my body to the highest bidder.”

  “Agatha!”

  Meg looked down quickly and studied her hands. Miss Witherspoon on the Marriage Mart? The thought of anyone bidding for her stout, aging form was beyond ludicrous, but perhaps she had not resembled a hedgehog—an angry hedgehog—so markedly in her youth.

  “Don’t ‘Agatha’ me. It’s too true that many women would be happier if they’d remained single. They say ‘I do’ once, and their husbands say ‘you won’t’ ever after.”

  Emma was scowling. “You make marriage sound like prison.”

  “It is, Lady Knightsdale. Oh, you may be confined to a lovely estate and your warden might be rich and handsome, but you’ve still given up your freedom. You must serve his needs, letting him use you as he will, when he will, pawing you whenever the urge strikes, leaving you bulging with child over and over again—”

  “Agatha!” Mrs. Parker-Roth almost shouted. “You exceed the bounds of propriety.”

  Miss Witherspoon’s nose twitched. “My apologies if I’ve offended anyone’s sensibilities. I merely wish to save Miss Peterson from disaster.”

  “Disaster? Are you equating marriage to my son with disaster?”

  “I’ve nothing against Pinky, you understand, Cecilia. He’s nice enough, for a male.”

  “Miss Witherspoon.” Emma’s tone was a touch strident. “Disaster will strike if my sister does not marry Mr. Parker-Roth. Her reputation will be in tatters.”

  “Balderdash.” Miss Witherspoon waggled her finger at Emma. “A reputation is required only if one wishes to wed in the ton. If that is not of interest, then reputation, as society defines it at least, becomes irrelevant. Look at your husband’s aunt, Lady Beatrice.”

  “I’m not certain we should look at Lady Beatrice.”

  Miss Witherspoon continued as if Emma had not spoken. “Bea chose to live her life to suit herself. The society tabbies whispered, but she ignored them all and eventually they had to accept her.” She tapped Meg on the knee. “You can do the same, Miss Peterson. Ignore the old cats. Let them hiss among themselves—you turn a deaf ear. Follow your passions. You do have passions, don’t you?”

  “Uh.” Passion. The word was becoming synonymous with Parks. With his hands, his mouth, his tongue…Heat flooded her. “Um, I’m very interested in plants.”

  “Agatha, Miss Peterson cannot expect society to treat her as it does Lady Beatrice,” Mrs. Parker-Roth said. “Lady Beatrice is the daughter and sister of a marquis. Society is much more tolerant of women who have powerful families behind them.”

  “And Miss Peterson is a marquis’s sister-in-law. Most of the tabbies will hesitate to give her the cut direct. They’d be afraid of alienating Knightsdale.”

  “As well they should be,” Emma said. “Charles would eviscerate anyone who insulted Meg.”

  “Exactly. So you see, Miss Peterson, you don’t have to wed Pinky.”

  “Johnny, Agatha.”

  “Johnny. You don’t have to chain yourself to some man—”

  “Johnny is not ‘some man,’ Agatha. He is an excellent, steady, loyal—”

  “—boring—”

  “He is not boring.” Mrs. Parker-Roth paused, and then sighed. “Well, perhaps he is just a slight bit boring, but he is very reliable.”

  “Predictable.”

  “There is nothing the matter with being predictable, Agatha!”

  Were these women talking about Mr. Parker-Roth? The man who’d appeared deus ex machina in Lord Palmerson’s garden to save her from Bennington’s evil attentions? Who’d felled the viscount with one blow? Who’d gathered her close and held her while she sobbed into his shirtfront?

  The man who had put his tongue in her mouth and his mouth on her breasts and his hands…everywhere?

  Meg shivered, the odd throbbing starting low in her belly again.

  There had been absolutely nothing boring or predictable about Mr. Parker-Roth’s actions in Lady Palmerson’s parlor.

  “Are you feeling quite the thing, Meg?” Emma frowned at her. “You look rather flushed.”

  “Um.”

  Fortunately, Mr. MacGill chose that moment to bring in the tea tray.

  Chapter 8

  “Domestic bliss becomes you.” Felicity tried to keep her t
one light and sarcastic, but the vaguely pitying look Charlotte gave her indicated she’d not been completely successful.

  “It does.” Charlotte’s eyes drifted over Lord Easthaven’s ballroom, stopping when they reached a man of middle height with thinning hair and thickening waist. She smiled. “I’ve never been happier.”

  Of course Charlotte had never been happier. Her first husband—that old goat, the Duke of Hartford—had cocked up his toes just over a year ago. Well, if rumors were true, it was his cock, not his toes, which had been up at the end. But his last effort had apparently born fruit, and nine months after the duke’s demise, Charlotte delivered a boy to her great relief and the previous heir’s greater consternation. A year and a day after Hartford breathed his last, his poor widow wed Baron Tynweith.

  Lord Tynweith concluded his conversation with Sir George Gaston and made his way toward his wife’s side. Felicity frowned. One would think they were starry-eyed young lovers instead of mature, experienced adults. Their devotion was nauseating.

  Her gut twisted. Nausea—that’s what she felt. Not jealousy. Of course not. How ridiculous. “You have taken to motherhood much more enthusiastically than I would ever have guessed.”

  Charlotte kept her eyes on Tynweith, a slight smile playing over her lips. “I’ve surprised myself.”

  “And how fortunate the baron seems so content to be a step-papa. Not every man would welcome his predecessor’s brat, even if the brat is a duke.”

  “Edward is wonderful.”

  Felicity kept herself from snorting. Tynweith’s generosity was not hard to explain. She’d wager the baron, not the dearly departed duke, was the new Duke of Hartford’s real father. She examined the man as he approached. He looked…boring. True, he’d been wild in his youth, but now he was no different from any other aging country squire.

  Except he had climbed into Charlotte’s bed and stolen her heart. There must be something special about him. Something that didn’t show in his unremarkable façade.

  Bennington’s face with its prominent nose pushed its way into her thoughts. Hmm.

  He was here tonight. She’d seen him talking to Lord Palmerson when she’d arrived. They were probably discussing horticulture. Bennington was quite partial to plants.