“What do you mean, ‘those women’?”
“Let’s just say Agatha Witherspoon and Prudence Doddington-Prinz are extremely—extremely—close.”
“Oh.”
“Ladies.” Charles held up his hands. “This is all beside the point. It is Parker-Roth, not Meg, who needs extricating from this scandal and he cannot simply flee. He has an estate to manage.”
Emma nodded. “And leaving the country wouldn’t solve his problems in any event. A scandal of this nature will reflect on his entire family. Perhaps his parents and his married sister can weather the storm, but his brothers and his other sisters will not be so fortunate. Certainly it will ruin the younger ones’ matrimonial prospects.”
“It won’t.” Meg felt ill. Emma must be overstating the case.
“It will, and it will make it impossible for Mr. Parker-Roth ever to marry.” Emma put a hand on Meg’s arm. “This is not a small scandal, Meg. It is on everyone’s lips now—everyone ’s. It will not be forgotten. Even I know the ton has a very long memory.”
“Especially for something of this nature,” Charles said. “Parker-Roth was not merely caught with someone’s wife. In the eyes of society, he’s a sodomite. Men as well as women will avoid him.”
“No.”
“Yes, Meg. Think about it. He was clearly seen passionately kissing what looked to be another man by twenty or thirty people. What is society to think?”
Meg covered her face with her hands.
“The only solution to his problem is for him to marry immediately, and you are the logical choice. I’d say you were honor bound to wed him.”
Charles was right. She couldn’t let Parks face this alone. Meg dropped her hands and looked up.
“All right,” she said. “I will do it. I will marry Mr. Parker-Roth.”
Damn, damn, damn.
He hated being coerced, but even he recognized he had no choice in this matter. If he didn’t wed Miss Peterson, he and his family would be shunned. Hell, it had started already. The parade of footmen sent to withdraw invitations had filled the Pulteney’s lobby the morning after his ill-timed embrace of Miss Peterson.
He was getting an excellent notion of how a leper must feel. When he ventured out of the hotel, people not only gave him the cut direct, they crossed the street to avoid him. He’d been told he was no longer welcome at White’s, and even the Horticultural Society had sent a letter withdrawing his membership. No one in London wanted anything to do with him.
Except for a few. He flushed and turned to look out the coach window, hoping his mother would not notice his heightened color.
Who would have guessed Lord Easthaven had such unusual predilections? He’d crossed paths with the earl after he’d been turned away from White’s. He’d been so happy to have someone speak to him that he hadn’t given much thought to stepping into that alley with the man. He understood Easthaven might not wish to be seen with him, but when the earl had put his hand on his arm and explained exactly why that section of his garden was so overgrown, he’d made a hasty excuse and bolted for the thoroughfare.
It was a hard call which was worse—that experience or his encounter later that day. He’d been sitting on a bench in an out-of-the way part of Hyde Park, contemplating the bleakness of his existence, when a servant had approached and gestured to him. He’d recognized the silver and green livery as Baron Cinter’s, so he’d followed the man to a leafy glade. Lady Cinter was there waiting for him. He’d greeted her cautiously, but she’d had no designs on his virtue. She’d merely wished to watch him engage in carnal play al fresco with the footman.
He closed his eyes. The servant had dropped his breeches in record time, a tactical error. Parks hadn’t waited to explain the misunderstanding—he’d left at a run. The man gave chase, but fell, tripped up by his own clothing.
No, he had no alternative to marriage.
“I’m so sorry your wedding has to be under such unpleasant circumstances,” his mother said. They were on their way to Knightsdale House so he could tie the knot and end the storm of gossip.
He shrugged. “You should be happy. You’ve accomplished your goal. Are you going to turn your attention to Stephen now and get him a leg-shackle?”
Pain flashed over her face. He wished he could take the words back, but he was too angry to apologize.
“Johnny, you know I only want you to be happy.”
He nodded and looked out the window again. He did know it, but that didn’t help him feel better about his predicament. And yes, he realized his troubles were largely his own fault. If he hadn’t succumbed to his urges and kissed Miss Peterson, he’d be traveling home to the Priory now instead of to Knightsdale House. But Miss Peterson was equally to blame. If she’d been a proper female, if she’d stayed out of the bushes, if she’d stayed in her skirts, he also wouldn’t be heading toward this meeting. He had only been chivalrous. He had only tried to save her from her own folly.
All right, so the folly wasn’t only hers. Kissing her in front of Fonsby’s townhouse had been the height of lunacy. He’d experienced an atypical loss of control…
Bloody hell. Losing control was all too typical around Miss Margaret Peterson.
“We’re here.” Mother turned and hugged him. He patted her shoulder weakly.
“I think you can be happy with Miss Peterson, Johnny, if you will only try.”
He nodded. What did she expect him to say? She knew he did not want to step into parson’s mousetrap, and yet that was what he was going to do within the hour.
Bloody hell.
He helped his mother down from the coach. The carriage he’d hired for Miss Witherspoon was just pulling up. He’d not trusted himself to ride with the woman who’d been, in effect, the author of this farce. If she hadn’t suggested Miss Peterson travel with her to the Amazon, if she hadn’t told her about Miss Doddington-Prinz’s bizarre masquerade—
To put it nicely, he was not feeling charitable toward the woman at the moment.
“I wish your father and the rest of the family were here,” Mother said as they waited for the Knightsdale butler to open the door. “But you and the marquis are quite right. The sooner you wed Miss Peterson and the notice appears in the papers, the better.”
He grunted. He was beyond coherent speech. He wasn’t certain which emotion was strongest—anger, dread…or, yes, lust.
He decided anger was most likely to get him safely through the next hour.
Chapter 18
“I need to speak with you, Meg.”
“Hmm?” Meg looked out on the square. Was that Mr. Parker-Roth’s coach pulling up? Her stomach clenched into a tight knot and she felt a wave of heat sweep up her neck. She bit her lip. She both longed to see him and dreaded it. What was the matter with her?
The footman was opening the door and letting down the steps—
“Meg!”
“What?” She pulled her attention away from the window. Emma stood just inside her bedroom door, dressed for the wedding but holding Henry—a very, very quiet Henry.
“Oh, dear.” Meg hurried over and put her hand on Henry’s forehead. He didn’t move, just kept his head on Emma’s shoulder and sucked his fingers. He was burning up. “Henry’s sick now, too?”
Emma nodded and kissed Henry’s sweat-dampened hair. “I meant to come talk to you last night, but Charlie was still throwing up, and Henry started this morning. At least Charlie seems through the worst of it. He’s in the nursery with Nanny, sleeping.”
“Poor Charlie.” Meg rubbed Henry’s cheek and he smiled weakly. “Poor Henry.” She looked at Emma. Her sister’s eyes were bloodshot, and lines creased her forehead. “Poor Emma.”
Emma smiled slightly. “I hate it when the boys are sick. I worry so.”
“Of course you do. You love them.”
Emma pressed another kiss to Henry’s head. “I love you, too, Meg.”
Meg flushed again. It really was overly warm in the room. “I know.” She looked away, cleare
d her throat. “I’m sorry I gave you such cause to worry, Emma. I never meant for you to drag the boys and Isabelle and Claire to London.”
“I know.” Emma sighed. “And I’m sorry you have to wed in this helter-skelter fashion, but it can’t be helped. If you could have moved about in society yesterday and today”—she looked pointedly at Meg’s hair. Emma’s abigail had trimmed and shaped it, but there was no escaping the fact that it was woefully short—“you’d have seen how awful it is. People are saying terrible things about Mr. Parker-Roth.”
Meg closed her eyes. Another wave of heat surged through her, and tears gathered behind her lids. It wouldn’t do to start crying now and go down to her wedding with a dripping nose and blotchy face. “I’m sorry Mr. Parker-Roth is compelled to marry me to extricate himself from the mess I created.”
Emma snorted. “Well, that is one thing you don’t have to regret. The man is obviously besotted. I don’t know why he didn’t persuade you to have him sooner.” She frowned. “Unless…have you taken a dislike to him, Meg? Is that the problem? Charles and I didn’t think it was, but…” She sighed. “I’m very sorry if that’s the case, because there’s really nothing to be done now.”
Meg put her hands on her heated cheeks. “No, I haven’t taken a dislike to him, precisely. I just…” She shrugged. Her head was beginning to ache. “It’s too hard to explain.”
Henry fussed a little and Emma rubbed his back, rocking from side to side. “Shh, baby. Shh.”
Would she have her own baby to comfort this time next year—hers and Parks’s?
Her stomach twisted. She couldn’t think about that now.
“Is it time to go down?” Suddenly, she just wanted to get it over with.
“Yes, but first we need to have a little talk.”
“We do?” What could Emma wish to discuss now? They’d already had a little talk. Parks was downstairs waiting.
“Yes. As I said, I’d meant to come last night, but Charlie was sick.”
“I see.” Meg waited. Emma kept patting Henry. She made no move to break the silence. Perhaps her sister needed some encouragement. “So, what did you wish to say?”
Emma flushed. “It’s a matter of some delicacy.”
“It is?” What could she be getting at? “I don’t underst—oh.”
Emma’s color deepened. “Yes—oh. I…well…” She cleared her throat. “Perhaps the best way to proceed is simply to ask if you have any questions about…about marriage and what happens”—Emma pointed with her chin at Meg’s bed—“you know.”
She didn’t know. She was terribly curious—and terribly embarrassed. Ridiculous! This was no time to be missish. Women should discuss such things—an unmarried woman such as herself should know exactly what to expect when she climbed into her marriage bed. Unmarried men certainly knew—most had already experienced the…event. Parks certainly had no questions.
Her stomach twisted. He was waiting for her downstairs.
She wet her lips. She would ask now. Just a moment of courage, a few words, and she would know.
How could she ask? She had a rudimentary understanding of the procreative procedure from stumbling upon various animals engaged in the act. To think Emma and Charles had actually performed that bizarre exercise…yet Emma was holding the irrefutable evidence that they had.
“Are you certain you don’t have any questions?”
She would know all too well what was involved by this time tomorrow.
Panic closed her throat. She swallowed.
“Well, if you are quite sure you have no questions.” Emma sounded relieved. She turned to go. “I’ll see you downstairs. I just have to put Henry in the nursery.”
Meg found her voice. “Does it, um, well…does it hurt?”
Her sister paused, her hand on the doorknob. She flushed again, but she answered. “Perhaps a little the first time, but even then, most of it is quite…pleasant. I hope…I mean…I’m certain Mr. Parker-Roth will be an attentive husband. He is very good to his mother, after all.”
Somehow that thought was not reassuring.
Emma turned to look directly at Meg. “And you did not appear to be complaining in Lady Palmerson’s parlor or in front of Lord Fonsby’s townhouse.” She smiled. “I would guess you have nothing to worry about.”
Someone knocked on the door. “My lady, my lord asks you and Miss Peterson to come down to the blue drawing room. Mr. Parker-Roth and his mother have arrived.”
“Thank you, Albert. We’ll be right there.” Emma looked back at Meg. “You go along. Tell Charles I’m putting Henry in the nursery, will you?”
“All right.”
“Don’t sound so nervous. Everything will be fine.”
Easy for Emma to say—she wasn’t minutes from wedding a virtual stranger. It would help if her head wasn’t pounding so much. She rubbed her forehead. Her stomach was still clenched into a tight knot as well. She felt ill.
She took a few deep breaths. She needed to get her nerves under control. She’d managed to create enough of a scandal without throwing up on her bridegroom.
Meg made her way slowly down the stairs, holding tightly to the banister. This was not how she’d imagined her wedding—not that she’d spent much time imagining it. She’d assumed it would be just like Emma’s—in the parish church she’d known all her life with Papa officiating. Instead she was marrying in London, in her brother-in-law’s drawing room, in haste, in scandal.
“Meg!” Lizzie stood at the bottom of the stairs, smiling up at her. “You look beautiful.”
Lizzie was being kind. She knew what she looked like—she’d seen herself in the mirror. Her skin was colorless; she had dark circles under her eyes. She looked dreadful.
“I wish Papa were here.”
Lizzie hugged her. “Charles sent his fastest carriage. Your father might still arrive in time.”
She sniffed. Tears were pooling in her eyes again. She wasn’t usually such a watering pot. “I wish we could w-wait.”
Lizzie hugged her again. “You have to be on the road within the hour so you can get to the inn before sunset.”
Meg nodded. She knew that. They had all decided, given the nature of the scandal, that it would be best for her and Parks to leave London immediately. She’d agreed. The thought of being newly married and having to face Lady Dunlee and the other gossips made her stomach churn even more.
Adjusting to married life would be difficult enough—she didn’t need the ton observing her every breath.
Emma clattered down the stairs behind her.
“How’s Henry?”
“Sleeping.” Emma smiled. “Good morning, Lizzie. I’m sorry I’m late. Charlie and Henry have been sick.”
Lizzie frowned. “Nothing serious, I hope?”
“No. Charlie is already on the mend, but Henry just got sick this morning.” Emma pushed a stray lock of hair off her forehead and turned to Meg. “Are you ready?”
She tried to speak, but her voice had deserted her. She nodded. She was as ready as she would ever be.
She followed Lizzie and Emma into the blue drawing room. Charles was there with Robbie as were the Duke and Duchess of Alvord, Mrs. Parker-Roth, Miss Witherspoon, and Isabelle and Claire.
Mr. Parker-Roth was glaring at the minister. She walked toward him, and his attention dropped to her attire. She’d had no time to get a suitable wedding dress, so she was wearing the ball gown she’d worn at Easthaven’s party. Obviously it was not one of his favorites for his scowl, already quite pronounced, grew darker.
Lovely, she thought as she greeted the minister. What else can go wrong?
Parks was not usually given to fits of temper, but today was an exception. He would dearly love to hit something.
The minister, standing next to him, cleared his throat. Perhaps he would be a good target. The man had been trying to make conversation with him since he’d arrived—the sanctimonious little twiddlepoop. Couldn’t he see Parks was not in the mood for bibble-babble?
At least no one was blaming him for this disaster, though perhaps anger and condemnation would be better than the embarrassment and pity he was currently being met with. Lord Knightsdale and Westbrooke were far too understanding. Yes, Miss Peterson should not have been traipsing around London in men’s clothing, but he should not have kissed her, especially in such a shockingly public location. And it had not been a little buss upon the cheek. He’d had his tongue halfway down her throat and his hands all over her arse. Really, he had earned a little condemnation.
He closed his eyes, remembering all too clearly the feel of her—both the wet warmth of her mouth and the soft curves of her bottom. Heat flooded him, causing a particular appendage to swell to an all-too-obvious size. Damn. Anger was definitely the safest emotion to get him through this day.
“Here is your bride.” Reverend Twiddlepoop touched him on the arm…and then ran his palm down his sleeve.
What the hell? He jerked his arm away.
“When you are back in London, come see me.” The damn minister kept his voice low so no one could overhear. “I know many discreet men with similar interests.”
He was definitely going to hit something. Someone. Now.
“You mistake the matter, sirrah!” The words came out in a hiss.
Reverend Bugger stepped back. “My pardon. I assumed…”
His jaw was clenched too tightly to reply, but the minister appeared to get his message nonetheless. He would love to see Reverend Abomination’s damn body on the floor of the drawing room; unfortunately, a dead clergyman would be unable to perform the ceremony. And the ladies would not care to witness his temper applied to this miserable—
He forced himself to turn away. Miss Peterson was approaching. Unless he missed his guess, she was wearing the same gown she’d worn at Easthaven’s ball. Easthaven who had tried to lure him into his bloody overgrown bushes. London was crawling with sodomites.
Sally MacKenzie Bundle Page 55