Would he take a turn in the garden with her? Charlotte had said he’d strolled through Palmerson’s foliage with Miss Peterson.
Her stomach clenched. The clock was ticking. At any moment, her father’s financial failures might come to light. She had no time to waste. She must lure some man into the bushes as soon as may be. Bennington might do.
“Do you hear from Lord Andrew? He’s in Boston, isn’t he?”
“Hmm?” But would he go? She’d always thought him a trifle staid. More than a trifle. As stuffy as a churchman. But if he’d been frolicking in the foliage with Miss Peterson…And surely no churchman would have been filling Aunt Hermione’s urn…
He was a viscount. He needed an heir. He was heading rapidly toward forty.
Perhaps he, too, heard a clock ticking.
“Felicity.”
“What?” She looked at Charlotte. What was she prosing on about? Where was Tynweith? Ah, he had stopped again to chat with Lady Dunlee. Now that he was a married man, he was a social pussycat.
“Felicity, you are not attending.”
Perhaps she had been looking for the wrong type of man all along. Perhaps the less showy specimens were the most…rewarding.
“Felicity!”
“What?! There is no need to shout, Charlotte.”
Charlotte looked heavenward for a moment. “I asked you if you ever hear from Lord Andrew. Really, it’s a wonder Westbrooke and Alvord let him live, after what he did to Lady Westbrooke at the house party.”
It was a wonder. What had he—and she—been thinking? “No. Andrew is not a correspondent.” He had written once, asking for money. When she’d said she had none, he’d lost interest in her.
Andrew was showy. He was quite beautiful to behold, but his beauty was only skin deep. He was rather rotten on the inside. Bennington, however…
She definitely needed to take a stroll through Lord Easthaven’s gardens with the viscount.
“I cannot believe not a single gentleman has requested you stand up with him this evening, Meg! If only Charlie did not have the earache and want his papa at his side. You can be sure if Charles were here, you would have plenty of partners.”
“Hmm.” Emma was probably correct, but somehow the thought of dancing with a man who had the social equivalent of a gun to his head was not especially appealing.
“Perhaps Mr. Symington is looking for a partner.”
“Mr. Symington is always looking for a partner.” He was looking for one now. Meg watched ladies duck behind pillars and potted palms as the short, balding, portly Mr. Symington—Simple Symington, the wags called him—walked past. Rumor had it his good wife had died of boredom during one of her husband’s discourses.
Rumor also had it she’d died with a smile on her face.
Simple Symington was coming her way. Botheration! Was the man actually going to ask her to dance? It would be torture. Not only was he fat and boring, he reeked of garlic and onions. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Standing up with him would be better than—
Symington glanced at her, reddened, and scurried off in the other direction.
“Lady Dunlee must have beckoned to him,” Emma said. “She is always looking for gentlemen to partner her silly daughter.”
“Of course.” Emma made perfect sense—except that the new Lord Frampton was already escorting Lady Caroline, Lady Dunlee’s daughter, to join a set, and Lady Dunlee was dragging her husband toward the garden door, probably to see what other scandals she could flush out of the bushes.
Tonight Meg had all the attraction of a fresh pile of horse-dung. The fastidious ton was stepping carefully around her.
She did not care. Miss Witherspoon had the right of it. She would not let society rule her. She would follow her passion.
Mr. Parker-Roth’s strong face—his green eyes behind his spectacles, the brown lock of hair falling down over his forehead—flashed into her thoughts.
She flushed. No. Plants. Plants were her passion. Stamens and stigmas. Leaves and stems and habitats. Not hands and lips and tongues. Not broad shoulders or hard chests or a chin with the slightest cleft. Definitely not.
She did not need a husband. She could do very well on her own. Well, there was the small problem of funds. She didn’t have a rich, eccentric aunt kind enough to pop off and leave her a fortune. She couldn’t very well ask Charles to support her, even though he could afford to. She didn’t want to be beholden to him.
Perhaps she would ask Miss Witherspoon if she could travel with her. The two older ladies might have use for a younger companion. She would like to see the world beyond England—dahlias in Mexico, roses in China, orchids in the West Indies. She could do some plant hunting of her own. She might even find a new species—Rhododendron Petersonus or Fuschia Petersonia.
The thought was not nearly as enticing as she’d expected.
“Oh, look,” Emma said. “Mr. Parker-Roth has arrived.”
“He has?” Surely she hadn’t squeaked those words? The look Emma sent her confirmed that she had. What was the matter with her? Her heart fluttered in her chest like a bird trapped in a net.
She was being foolish. She was not some silly debutante, sent into paroxysms of delight at the sight of a well formed male—though Mr. Parker-Roth was indeed well formed. Very well formed. Excellently formed.
He was standing in the doorway with his mother, greeting their hostess. His black coat stretched tight across his shoulders; his pantaloons hugged his powerful legs. He was not especially tall, but his presence dominated the room. Surely all the other women in attendance must have noticed his arrival.
They had—or if they hadn’t, the women standing next to them alerted them to the fact. Whispers spread like wind through tall grass. All female eyes swiveled from Parks to her.
She wanted to puke.
“I believe I need to repair a tear in my gown, Emma.”
“Nonsense. You can’t—”
There was no time to debate the issue. Her stomach insisted she find the ladies’ withdrawing room immediately.
He wanted to puke.
He nodded at Lady Easthaven and smiled. Why the hell had he allowed Mother to talk him into coming to this asinine ball? He should have stayed at White’s. He should have refused to leave the Pulteney Hotel. He could have pleaded a headache. She knew he’d been plagued by the damn things since childhood. And it would have been true. His head had begun pounding at White’s. Listening to Mother’s discourse on marriage all the way over in the carriage hadn’t helped matters a whit.
How many different ways could he say Miss Peterson had declined his offer? What did Mother not understand about that? Certainly she didn’t expect him to abduct the girl? This was England, for God’s sake, not some heathen country. Women could not be spirited away in the dark of night and forced into matrimony.
If Miss Peterson said no, there was no more to be said. And she was the Marquis of Knightsdale’s sister-in-law. She would manage perfectly well without the protection of a mere mister such as himself.
Devil take it, he just wanted to go back to his room, drink a cup of MacGill’s medicinal tea, snuff the candles, and lie down with a cold compress on his forehead.
He glanced around while his mother chatted with Lady Easthaven. Where was Miss Peterson? She must be here. Mother would not have dragged him to this blasted gathering if she hadn’t been certain the girl would be attending. Surely Lady Knightsdale had shared her schedule when she’d visited this afternoon.
There. He saw Miss Peterson’s hair, the warm brown of rich earth glinting gold with the candlelight. Back straight, head high, she was striding away from him to a door on the far side of the room, leaving her sister-in-law standing by a pillar. Where was she going?
“You’ve caused quite a stir, Mr. Parker-Roth. As you can hear, everyone is buzzing about your antics.”
“Antics, Lady Easthaven? I don’t know what you mean.” There was a lot of whispering going on and far too many arch looks directed h
is way.
Lady Easthaven tapped his arm with her fan. “You know, sir.” Blast, she was smirking. “They involve a certain lady.” She winked at Mother. “Such a naughty boy you’ve raised, Cecilia.”
Mother’s jaw had dropped. She clearly could not gather the breath to reply to this affront.
He clenched his teeth. He had a reply, but he was quite certain it was not good form to whack one’s hostess over the head with her own fan. Still, he was sorely tempted. “I believe you are misinformed, Lady Easthaven.”
“Misinformed? I don’t think so. Lady Dunlee—”
“Is the biggest gabble grinder in England. Surely you don’t believe every tale she spins?”
“Well, I—”
Mother gathered her wits enough to retort. “Have you ever known John to engage in anything even remotely resembling an antic, Dorthea?”
Lady Easthaven frowned. “Well, no, not exactly.”
“Not at all. John does not believe in antics, do you, John?”
Antics? He could tell them about antics. He had been the perpetrator of some very interesting antics in Lady Palmerson’s parlor.
“Definitely not. Most improper.” And he was feeling shockingly improper at the moment. Surely Miss Peterson wasn’t looking for more sport in the garden?
“Mr. Parker-Roth.” Lady Easthaven’s voice sounded oddly gleeful. “Did you just growl?”
He glanced at the ladies. Eyes wide, they stared back at him like a pair of barn owls.
“No, of course not. I do not growl. Preposterous.” He needed to speak to Miss Peterson. She had vanished through the blasted doorway. “If you’ll excuse me?”
He didn’t bother to wait for the ladies to murmur their permission.
Lady Easthaven could congratulate herself on a shocking squeeze. He could barely inch around the edge of the room, damn it. Where the hell had Miss Peterson gone? One would think Lady Knightsdale would keep a closer eye on her sister. It was the girl’s penchant for disappearing into the shrubbery that had propelled the marchioness out of the wilds of Kent and into London’s ballrooms, after all.
Lady Knightsdale was proving to be as lax a chaperone as Lady Beatrice.
Surely Miss Peterson couldn’t have gone into the garden, could she? She’d taken the wrong door if that were her destination—of course, she might be getting wilier. Perhaps she’d chosen a circuitous route to meet this evening’s paramour.
“Parks, I see you managed to pour yourself out of White’s. Are you taking my advice and pursuing Meg?”
Westbrooke had obviously gotten too friendly with the brandy bottle. “Will you keep your voice down?”
“Don’t get into such a pother. No one can hear me in this din.”
Parks glanced around. Plenty of ladies were staring at him, but none was obviously reacting to the earl’s words. Perhaps Westbrooke was correct, but he didn’t care to risk it. Besides, his goal was none of Westbrooke’s damn business. He lowered his own voice in the hopes that the earl would follow suit. “Where is your lovely wife?”
The earl pointed with his chin—his hands were occupied with what looked to be two glasses of lemonade. “Lizzie’s over there with the Duchess of Alvord.” He raised his burdens. “I was sent to procure them drinks.”
“I see. Well, you’d best hurry on, then. They look quite parched.”
“Gammon. You’re sneaking off somewhere, aren’t you?” Westbrooke grinned. “I wager you are heading for the garden, hoping to find Meg out in the shrubbery again.”
Westbrooke’s appearance would be much improved by a liberal application of lemonade to his head.
“Of course not. I merely wish to inspect Lord Easthaven’s plantings.”
“Right.” The earl grimaced. “I hope you’re kidding, but I suspect you’re not.” He raised his lemonades again in mock toast. “Well then, enjoy the foliage—and any females you find lurking there.”
There was no point in replying. Westbrooke found his own humor very entertaining—he did not care if the rest of the world shared his amusement.
Parks watched the earl walk off, and then slipped out into the cool night air. A few couples were chatting on the terrace. He avoided them and strode down the steps into the garden. In a moment he’d put the light and noise of the ballroom behind him.
He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly, letting the quiet and the comforting smells of dirt and vegetation calm him. He was losing perspective. He always grew tense in London, but this was much worse. He rubbed his forehead. He really needed a cup of MacGill’s soothing tea.
He’d felt distinctly short-tempered with Westbrooke just now. That was not normal. He rarely lost his patience with his friends. What was the matter with him?
Miss Peterson’s countenance flashed into his mind.
He took another deep breath. Of course he was thinking about her. He’d come out here to find her, hadn’t he? To keep her from making more of a mess of things than she’d already done. To keep her from finding herself in exactly the situation she had been in the last time she’d ventured into a garden—tussling with a man in the bushes.
He clasped his hands behind his back. And why exactly was he involving himself? She had declined his offer. She was not his responsibility. She would not thank him for meddling in her affairs.
Affairs…
Bloody hell! He did not want Miss Margaret Peterson engaging in affairs with other men. He did not want other men doing to her what he had done to her in Lady Palmerson’s parlor. He did not want another male touching…kissing…
Confound it! Insidious thoughts of milky white breasts and rose-tipped nipples belonged to his salad days. He was far too mature to allow lecherous musings to distract him.
He would visit Cat the moment he arrived at the Priory, perhaps even before he attended to the new plant shipment.
He paced deeper into the garden.
It was all a certain hoydenish female’s fault. If she had behaved like a proper young lady, he would not be in his current predicament. Lady Easthaven would not have taken the slightest note of his arrival; Mother would not be prosing on and on so relentlessly about marriage; and, most importantly, he would not be tortured by shocking dreams that left him waking in a most uncomfortable state.
The entire situation was highly annoying.
And where the hell was Miss Peterson now? He eyed the surrounding vegetation. Was she engaged in some salacious behavior in the shrubbery? Had she lured some poor buck into the bushes?
There was plenty of leafage to hide any lascivious activities Miss Peterson might wish to engage in. Lord Easthaven had allowed his plantings to become sadly overgrown. Did the man have incompetent gardeners or was he purposely encouraging his guests to engage in wanton assignations? He should have a word with the earl at the next Horticultural Society meeting. The man was certainly not in evidence at this gathering.
He heard muffled giggling and a lower, male murmur. Another giggle, a rustling of leaves, and silence.
Damn it to hell, she was out here. Whom was she frolicking with now? Surely not Bennington? Devil take it, she had no need to repeat herself. There was a long line of peers who’d be more than happy to oblige her in the bushes. It was none of his business. He was well quit of her.
So why were his feet carrying him toward a panting yew tree? He should turn around and go back to the ballroom. Miss Peterson was not in need of rescuing this time—from the sounds of it, she was enjoying herself immensely.
His feet refused to listen to reason. He charged around a branch and drew breath to inform Miss Peterson exactly what he thought of her conduct.
He choked.
Good God.
He would die of embarrassment here in Lord Easthaven’s very untidy garden.
Meg reached the ladies’ withdrawing room without disgracing herself—any more than she was already disgraced, that is. Lud! Thank God the room was empty. She took a deep, sustaining breath and felt her stomach begin to settle.
/> How could she ever go back out there and face the ton, the sneering, whispering, sniggering ton? She covered her face with her hands.
She would stay here until it was time to leave. She—
“Hiding?”
“Eep!” Meg snapped her head up so quickly her neck hurt. Her stomach rebelled again. Lady Felicity Brook-ton stood in the doorway.
Could the evening get any worse?
“I’m not hiding.”
Felicity snorted. “Liar.”
“I assure you, I was just…that is, I wished to…I felt—” Oh, why bother to dissemble? It was patently clear Felicity did not believe a word she was saying. “All right, I suppose I am hiding.”
“Couldn’t take the old cats sharpening their claws on you, hmm? They do so like a tasty tidbit of gossip, and you’ve presented them with a plate full. Aging spinster, marquis’s sister-in-law, disappearing into the bushes with a procession of men. Luring the reticent Mr. Parker-Roth into misbehavior.” Felicity grinned. “Delicious.”
“I—” Meg put her hand over her mouth. “I feel sick.”
Felicity pushed a chamber pot toward her with her foot. “I cast up my accounts the first time, too. It gets easier.”
“It does?” Meg sat down and drew in another deep breath. She avoided looking at the chamber pot. It was within easy reach if necessary.
Felicity took the chair next to her. “Yes. Of course, I was only ten the first—and only—time I let the ton upset me.” She looked away, jiggling her foot, her mouth pulled tight.
Meg had a sudden urge to touch the other girl’s knee in sympathy. “What happened?”
Felicity shrugged. “Nothing, really. I’d only been in London two days. Before then, I’d been living in the country with my mother. But she died, so the servants shipped me up to the evil earl.” She smiled briefly. “My father was rather appalled to see me standing on his doorstep.”
“Would no one else take you in?” Meg tried to keep the horror out of her voice, but a ten-year-old girl in Needham’s care…?
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