Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  But he was not one of them. He let his gaze travel slowly over Miss Peterson’s hips and waist, her lovely breasts and shoulders and neck. The jolt of lust he felt was reassuring. The world had not really gone mad. He was a man, with proper male thoughts. Well, not proper, precisely…natural. He had a very natural, male reaction to an attractive female body. His malest organ was quite healthy, strong and thick and ready to be about its business—

  Anger. That was the emotion he needed today.

  He focused on Miss Peterson’s face. Here she was not looking well. She was too pale, and she had dark circles under her eyes. She looked tired and tense.

  This could not have been the wedding she’d hoped for.

  Well, it was her own fault. If she hadn’t behaved like such a hoyden, she wouldn’t be facing a hurried wedding. He wouldn’t be facing it. His name wouldn’t be whispered about in every London drawing room, gossiped about over every tea cup—even every brandy glass. He wouldn’t be blackballed from White’s, barred from the Horticultural Society.

  He wouldn’t have Reverend Atrocity brushing up against his breeches. He glared at the man again while the minister mumbled some pious platitudes to Miss Peterson. Talk about whited sepulchers! This perverted parson took the prize.

  The worst part of this social disaster, though, was its effect on his mother. Many of the ton had given her the cut direct, though she’d said that was better than the snide comments others had felt compelled to share with her.

  Rage boiled up in him with the memory. He glanced over to where his mother stood talking to Lady Knightsdale. She caught him looking at her and beamed back at him.

  Perhaps she saw her social standing as a minor loss if it brought her a bigger prize—his marriage.

  Knightsdale came over then. “Shall we begin?”

  Miss Peterson’s head came up. “Couldn’t we wait a moment or two more? I’m so hoping Papa might arrive.”

  Her voice was strained. Instinctively, Parks took her hand in his, and she smiled fleetingly up at him. He squeezed her fingers. “I don’t mind waiting,” he said.

  Knightsdale sighed. “We agreed you should leave London today. If you don’t—”

  “Are we in time?”

  Miss Peterson whirled around. “Papa!”

  She ran to the door and threw her arms around a thin, scholarly-looking man standing next to a short, gray-haired woman. The man hugged her back.

  Parks looked at Reverend Sodom and bared his teeth in an expression that might resemble a smile but most certainly wasn’t. “I guess we won’t be needing your services—any of your services—after all.”

  “I’m glad—”

  “—to leave.” His voice must have risen in volume, because he felt Knightsdale’s hand on his shoulder. Thank God, he didn’t try to stroke him.

  “But—”

  “Thank you, Reverend Phillips,” Knightsdale said, “but I do believe you can safely leave now. As you can see, Miss Peterson would much rather her father officiate.” He smiled. “Of course you will be compensated for your time.”

  “Well.” The man cleared his throat. “If you are quite certain—”

  “Quite.” Parks must have sounded rather menacing since both Knightsdale and the minister gave him a startled look.

  “That’s decided then.” The marquis took the minister’s arm. “If you’ll just come this way, Reverend Phillips, we’ll get everything settled in a trice and you can be on your way.”

  “What was that about?” Westbrooke came up to stand beside Parks. They watched Knightsdale usher Reverend Phillips out of the room.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “All right. I hope you don’t have an aversion to all men of the cloth, though.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of your soon-to-be father-in-law, of course.” Westbrooke nodded to someone behind Parks. “Reverend Peterson, so good to see you again.”

  Good God. Parks turned slowly to face Miss Peterson’s father. His mouth felt dry as dust. The man must hate him. He didn’t look angry, though. Perhaps Miss Peterson had explained—but how could she explain anything so bizarre?

  “Papa, this is Mr. Parker-Roth, my…my…” Miss Peterson smiled slightly and shrugged.

  “Good morning, sir.” Parks extended his hand. Reverend Peterson took it. That was a relief—at least he wasn’t going to cut him. Surely he knew he was not…he did not…that he was a normal male. “I’m sorry about the unusual circumstances. Has your daughter explained…?” If Miss Peterson hadn’t clarified matters, Parks was certain he could not.

  “Not completely. Let me introduce my wife.”

  Mrs. Peterson smiled and offered Parks her hand. He didn’t see any anger in her warm, brown eyes either. Caution, yes, but no condemnation.

  “My pleasure, Mrs. Peterson.”

  “I am happy to finally meet you, Mr. Parker-Roth.”

  Finally? What did she mean by that?

  “I am sorry…” Parks tried again, but stopped. What could he say?

  Reverend Peterson shook his head. “Do not apologize. Meg is a grown woman. She is quite capable of making her own decisions.” He smiled. “You have the support of the duke, the marquis, and the earl—and, more importantly, their wives. I am not too worried about Meg’s future.” He opened his prayer book and adjusted his spectacles. “Now, I understand there’s need for haste.” He smiled again. “Though not, I’m happy to say, for the usual reason.”

  Parks felt a damned blush heat his ears. He glanced at Miss Peterson. Her color, too, was heightened.

  “Shall we begin?” her father said.

  She was married. Her head throbbed; her stomach twisted. She was married, permanently bound to this unsmiling man at her side. Had she just made the biggest mistake of her life?

  Her father kissed her. “You know you can always come home if you need to.”

  “Uh, yes, Papa.”

  He turned to Parks. “And you know I will kill you if you make her unhappy.”

  Parks nodded. Meg gaped. Scholarly Papa threatening violence? He must have been reading the Iliad before he left home.

  “Don’t worry.” Lizzie hugged her while Robbie shook Parks’s hand. “Everything will be fine.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because I know you. You are very sensible—and Robbie says Parks is a good man. You just have some rocky ground to get over first, just as I did.”

  “But that was different.”

  “Only because it was me and not you.” Lizzie hugged her again. “Don’t worry. I know you’ll be happy.”

  She wished she shared Lizzie’s optimism, but she’d already found one error in Lizzie’s thinking—she felt anything but sensible.

  Emma grabbed her next. “Oh, Meg,” she sobbed. “I’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll only be in Devon.” Emma’s hold was almost strangling her. “I’m not going to the Amazon, remember.”

  “Thank God for that.” Emma smiled. “I hope we’ll be coming to the christening of your first child next year this time.”

  “Uh.” Babies? They did often follow after marriage. She slanted a glance at Parks. He was talking to Miss Witherspoon. Well, to be more precise, Miss Witherspoon was talking to him. He looked as stiff and unyielding as a fireplace poker. He did not look as if he ever wanted to have babies.

  “Welcome to our family, dear.” Mrs. Parker-Roth smiled widely and hugged her. “I’m so happy you wed Johnny.” She sighed and shook her head. “I’ve been worried about him, you know. He’s too serious—I’m afraid he’s forgotten how to laugh.” She leaned closer. “And I don’t believe he’s ever gotten over Grace jilting him. It is past time for him to get on with his life.”

  Meg smiled as brightly as she could. Splendid. She really hadn’t needed to be reminded that her new husband was pining for another woman.

  Charles’s butler appeared at the door. “The wedding breakfast is ready, my lord.”

  “Thank you, Blake.�
� Charles addressed the room. “We would be delighted if you would all join us for a brief celebration before the newlyweds depart.”

  Lud! Meg’s stomach clenched again. She was leaving within the hour, traveling all the way to Devon with this solemn man at her side. The Amazon might be considerably farther, but it suddenly seemed much less frightening.

  “If you are not happy, Meg”—Charles had come to stand beside her—“you know you have only to send word and we will have you back home in an instant.”

  Her head was throbbing again. She looked up at Emma’s husband. Poor man, to have married into the uncomfortable role of being her brother-in-law. “I’m sorry to be such a bother—”

  “You are not a bother, Meg. Emma and I and the children care for you deeply. We want only what is best for you.”

  She sniffed. “I know.”

  Charles turned to glare at Parks. “Be certain you make my sister-in-law happy, sir.” He was not smiling, and his voice had a distinct edge. “Or I shall happily kill you myself if my father-in-law does not.”

  Parks did not smile either. “I will do my best, Knightsdale.”

  “See that you do. You owe Meg some degree of gratitude, you know. She could have refused to marry you, leaving you in a very uncomfortable position.”

  “I am completely aware of my debt to Miss—to my wife.”

  They looked like two dogs, snarling at each other. Thankfully, everyone else had left the room.

  “Please, Charles, don’t be ridiculous. Of course I married Mr. Parker-Roth. The situation was all my fault—”

  “It was not all your fault.” Now Parks was glaring at her! What was the matter with the man? She knew her responsibility all too clearly.

  “I don’t believe you came to my bedchamber and forced me to don men’s clothing, did you?”

  “No.” The man sounded as if he were speaking through clenched teeth. “And I don’t believe you forced me to kiss you in front of Lord Fonsby’s townhouse just as the evening’s entertainment was ending.”

  Her temperature, which had been fluctuating wildly all morning, shot up again. “No, but…”

  Parks nodded. “No. The answer is no, you did not. As Knightsdale says, the fault is mine. I am completely in your debt.”

  “I really don’t think…” This was all too confusing. She knew she was to blame—he was just being chivalrous. Yet he genuinely seemed to believe he was culpable. She didn’t want a husband who resented her for ruining his life, but neither did she want one whose main emotion was grudging gratitude.

  It made no difference what she wanted—she now had a husband, resentful, grateful, or furious.

  She rubbed her forehead. It would be much easier to think if her head didn’t hurt so much.

  “Come.” He took her arm. Charles had left at the beginning of their argument—if it was an argument. “We’ll have something to eat and be on our way.”

  Her stomach tightened further into a hard knot.

  Eating did not sound like an inspired notion.

  He was married. The deed was done. He was committed.

  He sat by Miss Peterson—he couldn’t keep calling her that—at the wedding breakfast.

  At least Knightsdale hadn’t flattened him. Actually, it had been a relief to see some anger. He would be furious if any man treated his sisters the way he had treated Miss—Meg. He had been furious on Jane’s behalf last year, but that had all turned out well. Perhaps. He smiled slightly. Lord Motton had better get home before his heir was born or Jane might sell the baby to the highest bidder—or just the first bidder. Hell, she might give the child away.

  Meg was pushing the paper thin slices of ham around her plate.

  “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “No.” She pressed her lips together. “I don’t feel quite the thing.”

  She was pale—actually a little green.

  “Would you prefer to leave now?”

  She nodded. “If you—and your mother and Miss Witherspoon—don’t mind.”

  “Of course not. Mother and Miss Witherspoon are traveling in a separate carriage in any event, so you and I can leave whenever it suits you. Are your bags ready? Do you have anything left to pack?”

  She pressed her lips together again and shook her head. He stood.

  “If you will excuse us, Mis—my wife would like to leave.”

  “What, before the toasts?” Westbrooke grinned. “I have an excellent one prepared especially for you, Parks.”

  That was definitely a treat to be missed. He took Meg’s arm and helped her to stand. “So sorry. We really must get on the road.”

  “I’ve already had Meg’s luggage loaded onto the carriage, Parker-Roth.” Knightsdale grinned. “And I’ve sent the announcement off to all the papers.”

  “My thanks.” Parks looked at Meg as she hugged her father, her step-mother, her sister, Knightsdale’s nieces, and Lady Westbrooke goodbye. Her color was definitely not good. Perhaps once she was in the quiet of the carriage, she would improve.

  “Take care of my daughter, sir.”

  He took Reverend Peterson’s hand. “I will try my best.”

  “That’s all we can ask.” Reverend Peterson smiled. “Meg does have a mind of her own, you know.”

  That was an understatement. “I’ve noticed.”

  Reverend Peterson laughed.

  All the ladies were crying as Parks led his wife down the front stairs to the waiting coach.

  “Be sure to write, Meg,” Lady Knightsdale said.

  “Often,” Lady Westbrooke said.

  Miss Peterson—Meg—just waved and let him help her into the carriage. Once he saw she was settled, he knocked on the roof, and Ned gave the horses their office to start. The carriage pulled away.

  They were alone.

  Miss Peterson stared at her hands clasped tightly in her lap. He shifted in his seat. It was going to be a very long trip to the Priory, but at least there was one subject he could address immediately.

  “You know, I cannot keep calling you Miss Peterson.”

  She nodded.

  “Should I call you Margaret? Or would you prefer Meg? I noticed your family calls you Meg.” He was chattering. He stopped.

  “M-Meg is fine.”

  Well, at least she’d said something.

  “And you must call me John.”

  She nodded. “J-John…”

  “Yes?” Her voice was so low and strained.

  “John, I think…I’m…” She swallowed. “I’m g-going to be sic—”

  Unfortunately he had not packed a chamber pot. He offered her the only receptacle he could think of—his best high-crowned beaver. He snatched it off his head and handed it to her just in time to spare the carriage floor.

  Chapter 19

  “Welcome to the Priory, Miss—um…” Mr. Park—John’s father grinned. “Well, you’re Mrs. Parker-Roth now, but that’s going to get dashed confusing—and as you’ll soon learn, this house is confusing enough. What do you want me to call you?”

  “Everyone calls me Meg, sir.” She felt as if she were looking at her Mr. Parker-Roth, just thirty years older. Except for the eye color—this man had blue eyes while his son had green—the gray hair, and the lines around the eyes and mouth, the two men could have been twins.

  Physically twins. Their temperaments appeared to be as different as night and day. She glanced around the small, cramped office. She could not picture her Mr. Parker-Roth in such a disordered environment. Books were shoved every which way on the shelves and stacked in piles on the floor. Some—victims of gravity or an incautious foot—cascaded under chairs. Papers littered every horizontal surface, and she feared she saw a corner of toast peeking out from a mound of used blotting paper.

  Her eyes came back to her host. He wore a dark, loose garment that might once have been blue, but was now mostly gray with an ancient ink stain on the breast. His fingers, long and well-manicured, were also ink stained, much like Papa’s.

  “What sho
uld I call you?”

  He shrugged. “Whatever you like. John calls me Father; the rest call me Da”—he grinned again, his eyes behind his spectacles crinkling with amusement—“when they aren’t calling me something worse.”

  “I see.” He was much too informal to fit “Father.” It would have to be “Da.” “I suppose I’ll—”

  “Damn and blast!” A very pregnant woman shoved open the door. She stopped abruptly on the threshold. “Oh, sorry.” She grinned. “You must be John’s new wife.”

  “Yes. I’m Meg Pe—” No, she wasn’t Meg Peterson any longer. She repressed a sigh. This would take some getting used to. “I’m Meg.”

  The woman stuck out her hand and Meg grasped it. “I’m John’s sister, Jane.” She patted her belly. “The married one.”

  “The very short-tempered one,” Mr. Parker-Roth said.

  Jane laughed and pushed a pile of papers off a chair so she could sit.

  “You’d be short-tempered, too, Da, if you looked like a snake that’s swallowed a goat.”

  “I would be more than short-tempered. I would be dumbfounded—and that doesn’t begin to describe what your mother’s reaction would be.”

  Jane snorted. “Very funny.” She turned to Meg. “Men! Trust me, if they were the ones condemned to carry babies in their bellies for nine months”—she shifted in the chair—“most of the time on their bladders, they’d keep their breeches buttoned.”

  Mr. Parker-Roth held up an ink-stained hand. “Jane, please, let’s not send Meg screaming from the house yet.”

  Jane shrugged. “She’s married, isn’t she?”

  “Barely.”

  “That’s right.” Jane grinned at Meg. “Shot the cat, didn’t you? And now John’s upstairs puking his guts out, and Mama and Agatha have collapsed in their beds.” She frowned. “I’d better not get sick. To be retching and breeding at this stage would be beyond terrible.”

  “Yes. I hope you don’t fall ill.” Meg looked at Mr. Parker-Roth. “I am very sorry. My nephews were sick when I left. I must have gotten it from them.”

  He chuckled. “Puked in John’s hat, MacGill said.”