Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  Was the man insinuating…? No. He couldn’t be that much of a dunderhead.

  “Surely you’ve heard of Humphry Repton, John Claudius Loudon, Sir Joseph Banks—”

  “Parks!” Westbrooke was laughing again. The man spent far too much time grinning. “You’re wasting your breath. Frampton doesn’t read anything that doesn’t discuss horses or hunting, do you, Frampton?”

  “Of course not. Should I?”

  “Exactly.” Westbrooke nodded. “See anything at Tatt’s recently, Frampton?”

  “Actually, yes. I have my eye on an excellent bit of blood…”

  Frampton droned on about some horse he’d seen at Tattersall’s. It was probably a bone-setter of the worst sort—the man was a notoriously poor judge of horseflesh. No matter. Frampton could recite the collected works of Shakespeare for all Parks cared, just as long as he stopped talking about Miss Peterson. He let Frampton and Westbrooke walk ahead.

  Miss Peterson. Damn and blast. To think Bennington was bandying about her name at White’s…the cad. He should have hit the bloody cur’s head instead of his wood just now. No, he’d rather have his guts for garters—literally. He’d stab his stomach with a blunt knife and carve him open slowly—

  “Mr. Parker-Roth, a word, if I may.”

  The Marquis of Knightsdale stood by his side, his face like stone. He’d been a cavalry officer—a major—on the Peninsula before his brother died and he inherited the title, and he looked ready to do battle now.

  His stern façade was marred by one detail. He was holding a child—a boy barely out of babyhood—with the same curly brown hair and clear blue eyes as his own. Obviously his son, the Earl of Northfield. The earl stared at Parks, and then laid his head on his father’s shoulder.

  “Papa, I’m hungry.”

  “How can you be hungry, Charlie? You’ve been eating all day.”

  “But I am hungry.” The earl widened his eyes and turned down the corners of his mouth so he looked completely pitiful.

  The marquis sighed and reached into his pocket, pulling out what appeared to be a partially eaten macaroon adorned with bits of lint.

  “Here you go, then. Aren’t you glad I saved this for you? You wanted to throw it out, remember.”

  The earl nodded, taking the biscuit and picking off the worst of the fuzz, before popping it into his mouth.

  “Parker-Roth?” The marquis gestured with the hand that wasn’t holding his son.

  “Of course.” Parks matched steps with the marquis as they walked away from the crowd. He should be nervous—Knightsdale obviously did not want to talk of the weather—but he wasn’t. He glanced again at the earl. The child gave him a wide, crumb-filled grin.

  God.

  He looked away. What was the matter with him? He felt…Well, something about Knightsdale and his son made him think having progeny would be a good thing.

  He was losing his mind. He didn’t want children. They were noisy, dirty, destructive nuisances. He’d grown up in a family of six, hadn’t he? It had been chaos. It still was chaos when his two youngest sisters set to hair pulling. Most of the time he was forced to arbitrate their disputes himself. His parents…Well, he’d made the mistake once of seeking them out in his mother’s studio when the girls were fighting. Good God, he was never doing that again. He still couldn’t bear to think—

  No, no children. He just wanted to be left in peace to work in his garden.

  “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about my wife’s sister, sir. The marchioness is concerned—as am I—that there has been no announcement.”

  They stopped at a shallow ornamental pool. Parks had been slightly surprised he hadn’t heard from the marquis earlier—in the form of an invitation for pistols for two, breakfast for one. Dueling was illegal, but the man had been a cavalry officer…

  “Look, Papa. Ducks!”

  “I see, Charlie.” The marquis put his son down. “Why don’t you watch them while I talk to Mr. Parker-Roth?”

  The earl nodded. “May I feed the ducks, Papa?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have any bread, Charlie. We’ll go get some after I finish this conversation.”

  The earl’s lower lip stuck out and he looked as if he were considering throwing a tantrum, but changed his mind when two more ducks landed on the water. He ran over to look at them—and they swam to the opposite side of the pool.

  “Just don’t fall in, Charlie.”

  “I won’t, Papa.”

  The marquis turned back to Parks. “So, Mr. Parker-Roth, about my sister-in-law?”

  “Surely Miss Peterson informed you that I offered and she declined?”

  “Yes, after the incident in Lady Palmerson’s parlor. Given what I saw…well, I don’t suppose you need me to describe the scene that greeted the marchioness and me when we entered that room.”

  “No. No, that isn’t necessary.” Knightsdale could only recount what he’d seen—Miss Peterson, half naked, sitting on Parks’s lap. Parks remembered every detail. God, remembered? They haunted his dreams—the weight of her soft bottom on his thighs, the silkiness of her skin, the light scent of roses that grew as she warmed under his hands, her sweet responsiveness—

  Devil take it! His breeches were becoming distinctly uncomfortable. He looked away. The earl was laughing, chasing the ducks from one side of the pool to the other.

  “What do you expect me to do? As I say, Miss Peterson declined my offer. A woman in this day and age cannot be forced to the altar.”

  Knightsdale frowned. “No, of course not. I would never force Meg to wed.” He blew out a short, forceful breath, and ran his hands through his closely cropped hair. “It’s just that, well, the situation is becoming complicated. You must know people are gossiping. Meg’s reputation hangs by a thread. I am quite certain if I were not the Marquis of Knightsdale, the ton would have turned its collective back on her already.”

  Damn right they would have. The shallow-minded, nasty gabble grinders were definitely whispering about Miss Peterson—Easthaven’s ball had proven that.

  The earl was beginning to lean over the edge of the pool to reach the ducks. Should he mention it to the marquis?

  “It would be one thing if Meg had taken a dislike to you, but that isn’t the case.”

  “What?” His gaze snapped back to Knightsdale. The man looked serious. “Why do you think that?”

  Knightsdale lifted an eyebrow. “Emma told me about Meg’s disappearance into Easthaven’s garden and the state of her attire afterwards.”

  “She had been walking through the vegetation.”

  “With you in pursuit.”

  “I—” It had not been pursuit, exactly. “I just felt it was unwise for Miss Peterson to be alone in a dark garden. She might have found herself the recipient of unwanted male attentions.”

  Knightsdale snorted. “Well, she certainly found herself the recipient of male attentions.”

  Damn and blast. Parks looked away. Zeus, he hoped his face wasn’t as red as it felt.

  “Thank God Bennington created such a scene that Emma was able to whisk Meg away without drawing undo comment on her untidy appearance.”

  Parks grunted in assent.

  “At least you don’t deny that you were responsible for her dishabille.”

  He forced himself to look Knightsdale in the eye. “What do you want me to do? I will offer again, but I think Miss Peterson will only reject me again.”

  “That’s what I don’t understand. Meg is not stupid—or reckless, even though recent evidence seems to be to the contrary. She obviously hasn’t taken a dislike to you or she wouldn’t keep disappearing into the shrubbery with you. I think she wishes to marry and set up her own household. So why does she keep turning you down?”

  A question he had asked himself countless times, particularly in the middle of the night when his dreams had woken him hot and hard. “I really can’t say.”

  “Perhaps you need to be more persuasive.”

  Parks frowne
d. “I don’t see how I can be more persuasive.”

  “Papa!”

  “In a minute, Charlie.” Knightsdale was actually flushing. “The situation cannot stay as it is. In the normal course of events there would be plenty of time for extended wooing, but this is not the normal course of events. You need to focus on the goal here, Parker-Roth. Meg has no choice but to marry you. You need to persuade her to see reason.”

  Parks almost laughed. Get Miss Peterson to see reason? “That is not so easily done, my lord. Miss Peterson has a mind of her own.”

  Knightsdale rolled his eyes. “Don’t I know it.”

  “Papa!”

  “Yes, yes. I’ll be right with you, Charlie.” Knightsdale clasped his hands behind his back and turned even redder. “The thing is…well…that is. Oh, blast.” He leaned forward. “Meg is obviously mad for you, man. You need to take action—get her emotions to storm her damn brain.”

  Parks stared at the marquis. Surely the man…he couldn’t be suggesting…did he want him to seduce Miss Peterson?

  “Pa—”

  There was a loud splash. The marquis whirled around as the ducks fled quacking across the pool.

  “Charlie!”

  The Earl of Northfield stood waist deep in water.

  “Sorry, Papa.”

  Chapter 14

  Mr. Parker-Roth sent Lord Bennington’s ball spinning off across the lawn. Meg clasped her hands tightly to keep from clapping. She did not want to bring attention to herself—and she definitely didn’t want Mr. Parker-Roth to know she was watching.

  Not that he would notice if she did make noise. She’d chosen this location carefully—a good distance from the rest of the spectators and shaded by a sturdy oak. With luck, no one would notice her. She snorted. She was quite tired of being noticed. Lady Dunlee and the other old tabbies had spent the afternoon turning their noses up at her as if she were sour milk.

  She could tell the world a thing or two about Lady Dunlee…She blew out a short breath. Parks was right—what one did with one’s husband couldn’t be so very scandalous, even though one should restrict such activities—whatever they were—to the privacy of the marital bedchamber.

  She watched Robbie congratulate Mr. Parker-Roth. Parks grinned. Even from here, she could see his even white teeth.

  Had she ever seen him smile like that?

  Had she ever seen him smile? She must have, if not this Season then last year at Lord Tynweith’s house party. Hmm. Yes. He’d joked with Robbie. He hadn’t grinned, though, not like this.

  If only she were closer.

  Ridiculous. He’d not have smiled if she’d been nearby. He was too serious, at least around her. Tense and annoyed. As if she were one more unpleasant chore to be dealt with, one more responsibility.

  Could she have gotten him to grin last year? She had thought he favored her company, but it must have been the plants that had sparked his enthusiasm. She’d been the only one in attendance who’d been willing to discuss horticultural issues. If Lady Beatrice had been interested in landscape gardening or plant cultivation, he would have been just as happy to wander in the foliage with her.

  She’d wanted to flirt with him, but she hadn’t known how.

  He bent to get the coat he’d removed to bowl. He was not as tall as Robbie, but he was broader. His shoulders were—

  She was not going to drool over his shoulders, for goodness sake. He could keep his broad shoulders to himself. Really, the man was incredibly annoying. Why wouldn’t he simply explain what Lord Bennington had been doing in Lord Easthaven’s garden? He obviously knew. He could satisfy her curiosity with just a few simple words. He was certainly nimble enough with his tongue when the occasion warranted.

  Very nimble. Mmm. None of the other gentlemen who had escorted her into the shrubbery had used their tongues in such a commanding fashion. She had felt…filled. In an odd way, complete. And very, very…um…odd.

  If anyone had described the action before she’d experienced it, she would have thought the notion completely revolting. To have another person’s tongue in one’s mouth? Disgusting! But it had not been revolting at all. Even now, standing on the lawn in the daylight at an event attended by most of the ton, she felt the thrilling heat of him—the strength of his arms, the hardness of his chest, the soft yet firm touch of his lips, the wet thrusting of his tongue…

  She shivered, wrapping her arms around her waist. Lud! She was damp and throbbing down there again. What did it mean?

  Parks could probably provide the answer to that question as well.

  “Miss Peterson?”

  “Eep!” She whirled about. A giant female was standing not three feet from her.

  “Pardon me. Did I startle you?”

  No, I always scream and jump when approached. Meg swallowed that retort.

  “No, of course not.”

  The woman raised an eyebrow.

  All right, so she was lying. So what? People who ask stupid questions should expect stupid answers. Why was the woman bothering her, anyway? Couldn’t she discern Meg preferred to be alone? One did not go off to a secluded corner at a social gathering if one wanted company.

  Her conscience—why was it her conscience always had Emma’s voice?—urged her to make polite conversation. She told her conscience to take a damper. She didn’t feel at all polite. In fact, she felt aggressively impolite.

  She crossed her arms and stared at the woman.

  The woman glared back at her. Wonderful.

  Who was she? She was close to Parks’s height and extremely…well, buxom. She had lovely porcelain skin, copper-colored hair, full lips, a blunt nose, and green eyes. Not classically beautiful, but definitely striking. They had not been introduced—Meg would remember if they had. There were just not that many females so large, for one thing. But she had seen her before….

  At the Palmerson ball—that was it. She’d been with a very tall man. Meg hadn’t given her much thought—she’d been too focused on luring Lord Bennington into the shrubbery. Had she seen her at the Easthaven ball also? That evening was a blur of embarrassment, but now that she considered the question…yes, she had seen the woman coming in from the garden, again with the tall man. He must be her husband. At least no one had started gossiping about her excursion into the greenery.

  Why was she seeking Meg out?

  The woman was in no hurry to state her business. Really, the silence was growing ridiculous. They were like two dogs fighting over a bone—but over what bone were they fighting?

  “Did you approach me for some particular reason, Miss…?”

  “Lady Dawson.” The woman said each word separately, as if her name should be significant. She raised both her eyebrows.

  Meg raised hers right back. Did Lady Dawson think she’d swoon with delight, a mere “miss” meeting so august a personage? Probably. Since coming to London, she’d had the misfortune to meet many people who thought their titles granted them godhood.

  She wasn’t an American like the Duchess of Alvord. She did not think the only title a man should have was “mister,” but she did believe nobility of character outweighed nobility of rank.

  “Surely you’ve heard of me?” Lady Dawson said.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t.” Meg tried to emulate Lady Easthaven who’d been the picture of condescension when she’d greeted Meg at her ball. She permitted herself a small smile and shrug. “We must travel in different circles. My sister is the Marchioness of Knightsdale, you know, and my good friend is the Countess of Westbrooke.” There. She could be disdainful, too.

  Lady Dawson’s eyebrows snapped down in a deep frown. So, she didn’t care for a dose of her own medicine, did she?

  “I know your connections. Your father is a vicar, is he not?”

  “He is.” She would not stoop so low as to point out Papa was the son of an earl. Granted, the fourth son of an earl, but still connected to the peerage. But perhaps Lady Dawson already knew Papa’s pedigree. Had the woman been researchi
ng her background? Not that it would take much effort to uncover the information, but still it was extremely odd. Why would she be interested?

  Lady Dawson was nodding. “And this is only your second Season, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yet you are well past the age when a girl usually enters society.”

  Was the woman saying she was old? Lud! That was the outside of enough.

  “Lady Dawson, I don’t mean to be rude”—at least no ruder than you—“but do you have a point?”

  “I do, in fact.” The woman straightened to her full height.

  Meg straightened too, raising her chin and looking Lady Dawson in the eye. She would not be intimidated.

  “Miss Peterson, you are obviously not aware of my friendship with Mr. Parker-Roth.”

  A hollowness opened in the pit of Meg’s stomach.

  “Why should I be aware of it?” She cleared her throat, willing her voice to remain steady. “Mr. Parker-Roth is merely a passing acquaintance.”

  There went Lady Dawson’s eyebrows again.

  “Really? That is not what the tittle-tattle says.”

  “Lady Dawson, certainly you don’t listen to gossip?”

  “I would say this is more than gossip, miss. How can you be surprised? You’ve been luring men into the shrubbery all Season.” Lady Dawson shook her head. “It’s a wonder you are still accepted by polite society. If your brother-in-law were not the Marquis of Knightsdale, I sincerely doubt that you would be.”

  Meg doubted it, too, and after the disparaging looks she’d been receiving at this gathering, she’d dispute how accepted she really was. She cleared her throat again and hoped her face wasn’t as red as it felt. “I do have an avid interest in horticulture and botany, you know.”

  Lady Dawson snorted. “Botany?” She said the word as if it tasted of vinegar. “I’ll wager you were studying biology, not botany, in the bushes.”

  Meg knew she was red now. The woman was incredibly insulting. Who gave her the right to castigate her?

  “Lady Dawson—”

  “Miss Peterson, listen to me. I cannot sit idly by while you toy with Mr. Parker-Roth’s affections.”