Yet they had been married three weeks, and there had not been even a whisper of seduction from John. Of course, he’d been sick at first, too sick to do anything involving a bed besides sleep. And then he’d been busy with his plants and estate business. She had been busy as well, helping Jane and Mrs. Parker-Roth with the new baby. There hadn’t been much time…
There had been three weeks.
She bit her lip. She’d hardly seen John since they’d arrived at the Priory; they’d exchanged a handful of words—and nothing else.
To be brutally honest, he was avoiding her.
The wind tried to rip her bonnet from her head; she untied its strings and let the cool air rush over her heated face, drying her tears.
She should be happy. She had acres of land to explore and a dizzying wealth of plants to examine.
She wasn’t happy. The sad—the alarming—truth was, for the first time in her memory, she truly did not care what grew under her feet.
She was interested in babies. In Jane’s tiny son. In having a child of her own.
Surely John would get around to doing his duty eventually. She need only be patient.
Or would he? He didn’t need an heir. He hadn’t married her because he wanted to, but to avoid a horrific scandal—a scandal she had caused. He must hate her.
And then there was Lady Grace Dawson. Mrs. Parker-Roth assured her John no longer pined for his former betrothed. That his primary feeling was—had always been—embarrassment. That he had never loved the woman.
How did Mrs. Parker-Roth know? She’d admitted John had not told her. She’d merely cited mother’s intuition.
But then why had John never married until now, when he was forced to do so?
She wiped her eyes. What was the matter with her? Love had not been part of her plans. She’d wanted a home of her own, which she now had. She’d been willing to have a child, but not anxious to do so.
Now she was anxious.
She started walking again, the motion helping marshal her thoughts.
Surely John must understand Lady Dawson was beyond his reach. She was married, happily by all accounts. His love was destined to be unrequited.
And love wasn’t necessary to accomplish the procreative procedure anyway. He’d been able to manage the deed with his mistress; surely he could accomplish it with her. Really, it would be vastly more convenient for him. Instead of going into the village, perhaps in the rain and cold, he need only step through a door into her room. Or she would step into his room. He would not have to leave the comfort of his own home.
With luck, he wouldn’t have to exert himself too many times before her goal was accomplished.
It was a simple plan. What could he object to?
Unless he hated her for trapping him into marriage. Lack of love should not be an issue, but hate? That might indeed be a problem.
She turned away from the sea and shoved her bonnet back on. The indecision and uncertainty had gone on long enough. She would approach John tonight. She would ask him for a child.
If she didn’t puke first.
“Are ye ever gonna visit yer wife’s bed, Johnny?”
“MacGill!” Bloody hell. First his head gardener, now his valet. He should get rid of them both. “My marriage is none of your affair.”
“Of course it is. Ye’ve been fashing about it ever since ye got home.”
“I have not.”
MacGill just lifted an eyebrow, damn him.
“I have been sick.”
“Johnny, ye’ve been well fer at least two weeks—and ye were not that sick to begin with.”
“Not that sick? I felt like I was dying.”
MacGill snorted. “Aye, I’m sure ye did—fer a day or two. Yer appetite”—MacGill waggled his eyebrows—“is fine now, isn’t it?”
He chose to ignore his valet’s insinuation. “No, actually. I’ve not been very hungry at all.”
“Because ye’ve been tying yer stomach in knots over yer marriage—or non-marriage. Ye’ve got to bed the lass, Johnny.”
Bed Meg? Part of him leapt at the thought.
But how was he going to accomplish that feat? Just knock on her door and present himself? He should have done that two weeks—or more—ago. It was rather late now. He would feel like a fool.
“Hand me a new cravat, will you? I’ve ruined this one.”
MacGill gave him more linen. “Go to her tonight, Johnny. There’s no point in putting it off any longer.”
Damn. He’d ruined another cravat.
“I don’t…the thing is…well, as you know, the circumstances of our marriage were rather…unusual.”
“What difference does that make? Ye’re wed now, aren’t ye?”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts, Johnny. Ye’re bound by yer vows—both of ye.”
MacGill was right—neither of them had a choice any longer. If Meg would have preferred to have married a title, well, it was unfortunate, but she would have to resign herself to her situation.
“It’s only gentlemanly to visit her bed, ye know. Ye can visit yer mistress—”
“No, I can’t. I would not dishonor my vows—and even if I would, she is marrying the blacksmith.”
“Is she?” MacGill grinned. “Ye do know she was seeing him on the side?”
“I didn’t know.” He’d suspected he wasn’t Cat’s only customer. It stood to reason, since he’d visited her so infrequently, that she wouldn’t be lying in bed waiting for him. Well, the lying in bed—yes; the waiting—no.
The blacksmith was welcome to her.
“As I was saying, it’s only gentlemanly ye visit yer wife’s bed. She has needs, too, which she can satisfy only with ye.”
“Needs?”
“Aye.”
“What kind of needs?”
“Ack, Johnny, surely ye know women crave men just as men crave women?”
They did?
“I hadn’t really thought about it.” Was that why Meg had been luring men into the shrubbery? She certainly had been exceedingly passionate in his arms.
“Well, think on it. The poor lassie is likely half out of her mind with lust.”
A jolt of lust—no, shock, definitely shock—shot through him to lodge in his most sensitive organ.
“MacGill! Meg is a gently bred young woman.”
“She’s a woman, Johnny, gently bred or no. I’ve seen the way she looks at ye. She’s burning, man. Burning for ye.”
Parks snorted. Damn, but he had been more than halfway to believing the Scottish bastard. He had wanted to believe him.
“Nice try, MacGill, but you got a little too dramatic at the end there. Next time stop before you get so carried away.”
MacGill laughed. “I almost had ye though, didn’t I?”
Parks was not going to answer that question. “Help me into my coat. It’s time to go down to dinner.”
MacGill held up his dark blue coat. “I wasn’t completely joking, Johnny. Ye need to do something about yer marriage.”
“I know.” He slipped the coat on and straightened his cuffs. “I will attend to it.”
“Tonight, Johnny. That’s another thing I wasna joking about. I’ve seen yer wife watching ye. She wants—she needs—ye in her bed.”
If only MacGill were right. Could he be?
No. He must be mistaken.
MacGill was not usually mistaken about anything.
Well, there was only one way to find out. He would visit Meg’s bed tonight. Then he would know.
A mix of dread and anticipation twisted his gut.
He went downstairs to try to consume some dinner.
Chapter 21
That had been the most uncomfortable dinner of her life.
Meg dropped her head into her hands and swallowed a groan. Thank God she was finally safe in her bedchamber. She should lock the door and never come out.
Every time she’d looked at her father-in-law, she’d seen the partially finished painting in Mrs. Par
ker-Roth’s studio—and the red and gold chaise-longue nearby. If she averted her eyes to her mother-in-law, she found herself wondering how such an ordinary looking matron could engage in such wild—
No. She pulled on her hair and squeezed her eyes tightly shut in an attempt to expunge the thought.
And then there was John. Mrs. Parker-Roth had seated them together, of course. Well, that was to be expected. Lord Motton had eaten upstairs with Jane and the baby, so there were only Mr. and Mrs. Parker-Roth, John, and herself at table. And Miss Witherspoon. Thank God for Miss Witherspoon. The woman had prosed on and on about her trip to the Amazon. Meg had hung on every word.
All right, she had pretended to hang on every word. She had really been thinking about how to raise the question of children with her husband.
She had not come up with an answer. In fact, she had been so despairing of ever mentioning the topic that she’d considered—just for a moment, of course—running off to the Amazon with Miss Witherspoon.
She was still despairing.
She got up from her dressing table to examine her figure in the cheval glass. Mrs. Parker-Roth’s maid—at some point she should acquire a maid of her own, she supposed—had helped her into her nightclothes—her very virginal nightclothes. The gown was white flannel and buttoned up to her chin.
It was not at all the thing to wear to a seduction.
She needed something very different, something that would make John mindless with lust. She wanted him to forget all his reservations and just do…it.
Surely once he’d done it the first time, he wouldn’t be so shy about doing it again.
Unless he found the activity unpleasant.
She let out a long breath. Would he find it unpleasant? She couldn’t say, obviously. She might well be clumsy and inept. It would be no surprise if she were—she had no experience. But she was a quick learner. If John were disappointed, he need only tell her what she must do differently. And if he wouldn’t tell her, she must ask.
Though now that she considered the issue, he had not appeared bored or dissatisfied in Lady Palmerson’s parlor or Lord Easthaven’s garden—or on the street in front of Lord Fonsby’s townhouse. Surely the activities he’d engaged in at those locations must be related to the procreative act.
Enough. Worrying about it served no purpose. She could only do her best.
She turned away from the looking glass to the wardrobe and pulled open a drawer. Her first step on her path to seduction must be to shed this voluminous gown. Fortunately, Emma had given her something more appropriate as a wedding gift.
She opened a small, insubstantial package. This nightgown was white also, but the similarity ended there. She held it up and blushed. It could not be as scandalous as it looked.
She very much feared it was. She pulled off her flannel nightgown and slipped the new gown over her head. The silky fabric slid over her body, caressing her skin. She went back to examine the effect in the looking glass.
Yes, indeed, it was very, very scandalous. Two thin straps attached to a tiny bodice that barely skimmed the tops of her breasts. The skirt flowed over her hips and around her legs—and was slit up to her thigh on one side. The fabric itself was almost transparent, revealing far more than it hid.
She could not walk into John’s room like this. She grabbed a heavy woolen dressing gown, yanking it on before opening the connecting door.
Mr. MacGill spilled his cup of tea onto his lap. He leapt out of his chair.
“Oh dear. Are you all right?” Meg rushed forward.
“Yes, yes.” The man mopped his pantaloons with a towel he’d grabbed from the washstand. “Don’t fash yerself. The tea had cooled. No damage done.” He paused with the towel pressed to his knee, looked up, and grinned. “And is there a reason ye’re here, lassie?”
Meg flushed. “No. Well, that is, I was looking for my husband.”
Mr. MacGill’s grin widened. “I’m verra happy to hear it. Why don’t ye wait for him? I’m sure he’ll be along shortly. Or I could fetch him—”
“No!” She most certainly didn’t want John dragged away from whatever he was doing. “No, thank you. Please don’t do that. There’s no hurry. I can wait.” She glanced back at her room. She didn’t want to sit here making small talk with John’s valet. “I’ll just go back—”
“Ah, don’t do that. I’m sure Johnny would want ye to wait here. Please, make yerself comfortable. If ye’re tired, ye can stretch out on the bed.” Mr. MacGill looked as if he were hiding a smirk. “I was just going anyway.”
“Well, if you’re sure?”
“Lass, I was never surer of a thing in my life.”
Mr. MacGill bowed and headed, whistling, for the door.
John hid in his study. His mother was trying to get his father to discuss his marital duty with him. Fortunately, Father was resisting.
He poured a glass of brandy, listening to the rain pelt the windows. The storm had come up after dinner. It would be good for the new plantings—the weather had been too dry recently.
The door opened and his father stuck his head in.
John put down his glass. “You aren’t going to talk to me about what I think you are, are you?”
Father looked over his shoulder, nodded to someone in the hall, and slipped inside the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. “Pour me some brandy, Johnny.”
“All right, but I won’t listen to a lecture.”
His father settled into the seat closest to the fire—and farthest from the door.
“I suspect your mother has her ear to the keyhole.”
“I suspect she does, too.” John handed his father his brandy, and then went over and opened the door. His mother fell into the room.
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable sitting in here, Mother?”
“Oh, no. I was just going up to bed.”
John raised an eyebrow. His study was not on Mother’s way to her room—nor was hanging at keyholes a normal pre-bedtime activity. “You’re certain you wouldn’t like to join us?”
“Yes.” She sent Father a very glaring look. “You must have all sorts of male things to discuss. I would be very much in the way.”
Well, he certainly had no desire for her company. His father had the good sense not to carp at him, but his mother did not. “Good night, then.”
Mother smiled at him. “Good night, Johnny. Don’t let your father keep you down here too long. Meg has already gone up to bed, you know.”
He didn’t know. He nodded to his mother and then watched her walk down the corridor to the stairs. He turned back to the study. Father was pouring more brandy.
“That was quick.”
“Nerves.” Father took another gulp. “She’ll ask me what happened when I get upstairs.”
“Tell her you told me to do my duty and I said that I would.”
Father smiled broadly. “I will—and will you?”
“Will I what?”
“Do your duty?”
“Father! That is none of your business.” John eyed the brandy decanter, but resisted its lure for the moment. “You can’t even complain you need me to carry on the line. You don’t have a title and you do have two other sons. The Parker-Roth name is certain to survive another generation.”
Father shrugged. “I know. It’s just, well, the way things are now…it’s not natural. You are wed and not wed. It disturbs your mother, and so it disturbs me.”
“My marriage happened under unusual circumstances.”
“Perhaps, but it did happen. Or, part of it happened. The consummation is still waiting.”
“Father, please!”
“I imagine you know all about the mechanics, Johnny. You do—or did—have a mistress, but if you have questions—”
“I do not have any bloody questions.” So his father—and of course his mother, damn it—knew about Cat. He should move to America. Maybe then he would have some privacy, though he wouldn’t be surprised if Mother had spies in the New World,
too.
“Didn’t see how you could have.” His father took another swallow of brandy. “We just want you to be happy, you know.”
John sighed. It wasn’t his father’s fault things were in such a damnable coil. “I know. Rest assured that I am perfectly capable of doing my duty. I promise I shall resolve the issue shortly.”
“Tonight?”
“Father!”
“Sorry. You know how your mother is when she gets the bit between her teeth.”
“This is not her bit, for God’s sake.” He took a deep breath. “You can reassure Mother that I will—in my own time—attend to matters.”
His father grunted. “Just don’t make ‘your own time’ too long. I can stave her off for a day or two, but you know she’ll start to meddle again if she thinks you still haven’t—”
“Yes! Yes, I know.” Mother wouldn’t actually lock him naked in Meg’s room until he displayed the bloodstained sheet—at least, he hoped she wouldn’t—but she’d do just about anything else to see that matters were resolved to her satisfaction.
Father nodded and put down his half-empty brandy glass. “Very well. I’m for bed, then. I can tell your mother with a clear conscience that I did my best.”
“Indeed you can.”
John let out a long pent-up breath as soon as the door closed behind his father. First the MacGill brothers, now his parents. He would have no peace until he settled things with Meg.
He poured himself some more brandy and sprawled into the chair his father had vacated. It was not as if he were being forced to do something against his will. He had decided before dinner that he would seek Meg out tonight. It was, indeed, past time to resolve the issue.
What the hell was he going to say?
He took a large mouthful of brandy, holding it on his tongue, letting the fumes warm his mouth.
In a perfect world, he would have already wooed Meg in small stages. A drive in the park; a waltz; an accidental touch; a stolen kiss. In a perfect world, she would have chosen him, not been forced by scandal to save him from his social suicide.
In a perfect world, he would not have to negotiate his way into his wife’s bed.
Sally MacKenzie Bundle Page 59