Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  Marie grinned. “Happen I might. The poor wee doggie has been so sad with ye gone all evening, I thought he needed a treat.”

  “Ha! You know he is an accomplished actor, Marie,” Kate said. “His skills rival those of Mr. Kean.”

  “But look at that face.” Marie put the tea tray down, and they all turned to look at Hermes.

  Hermes barked and lifted his lips in what appeared to be a smile. Then he tilted his head to one side and waved his front paws in the air.

  “Oh, give him the cheese, Marie,” Kate said, laughing again and sitting down.

  “Here then, sir.” Marie tossed the treat toward Hermes who snatched it out of the air and swallowed it in two bites. He dropped back to all fours, trotted over to Kate, and lay down by her skirts.

  “You know Marie doesn’t have any more cheese, don’t you, you little beggar?” Kate said, scratching Hermes’s ears. The dog merely yawned and put his head down on his paws.

  “It’s clear what the path is to his heart,” Grace said, smiling.

  “Aye, and it’s the same path to many a man’s heart, my lady. Keep them fed”—Marie winked—“all their appetites, and they’re content. Now let me help ye into yer night things, and then ye can have a nice cup of tea and a biscuit or two. It’ll settle yer stomach.”

  Kate poured the tea while Grace went back to her room to change. She inhaled the fragrant steam. The peppermint was soothing. She felt some of the tension leave her neck and shoulders. As soon as Marie was finished with Grace, she’d have her loosen her blasted stays and help her into her nightdress. Then she could finally relax.

  Unless Alex came.

  A hot flush swept up her chest to her neck and on to her cheeks. She should never have asked him—what had possessed her? He’d been so shocked at her brazenness.

  He’d said he would come, but surely he’d changed his mind. Alex had never been one to flout conventions. If he had, perhaps they would have run for Gretna and she would have been married to him all these years instead of to Oxbury. Perhaps they would have had children—

  No, they would not have had children.

  The thought still sent a sharp pain lancing through her heart.

  She was forty years old now, so, of course, she should not be thinking of children. But when she’d been young…when she was first married…

  Each month she had hoped, and each month her hope had leaked from her in red despair. By the end of her second year of marriage, she had finally accepted she was barren.

  Oxbury, bless him, had accustomed himself to the truth long before she had. He’d never held it against her, though it had meant his title and all his entailed property would pass to the Weasel—the short, fat, greasy, annoying cousin who’d visited twice a year, always looking first at her stomach when he arrived and smiling when he saw it was still as flat as on her wedding day.

  She took a large mouthful of tea, but it was too hot to swallow. She spat it back out and put the cup carefully down on the table.

  It was a good thing now that she was barren. If she…if Alex ever…well, there’d be no awkward consequences if Alex…if any man…ever visited her bed.

  But Alex wouldn’t come. The risk of scandal was just too great. If he wanted bed sport, he could easily pick from any of the countless young and beautiful London courtesans.

  And if he did come, he’d find the servants’ door locked. He’d leave and never seek her out again. Which would be a good thing. Very good. Excellent. She exhaled a long, shuddery breath.

  She could relax now. She would relax. She’d get these blasted stays off and she’d put on her oldest, her most threadbare, most comfortable night clothes.

  Marie and Grace came back into the room. “Shall I help ye now, too, my lady?” Marie asked.

  “Please.” She could hardly wait to be comfortable at last.

  This was wrong. He should turn around, go back to Dawson House, go up to his room, have a glass of brandy, and read…something.

  He’d just finished Byron’s Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. He didn’t feel like starting a new book.

  So he was going to screw Kate because he had nothing good to read?

  No. He kicked a stone and sent it clattering across the pavement. He was not going to…do that to Kate. The word—the thought—was obscene. He was going to…going to…

  He didn’t know what he was going to do. He would wait until he arrived at Oxbury House to decide. And he was going to Oxbury House. He couldn’t help himself. He needed to see Kate. God, he’d spent so many years dreaming of her, wanting her, missing her…How could he not go to her now?

  He crossed the street. It was early for London—the roads were relatively quiet in this part of town. Most of the ton were still out at their chosen entertainments—balls, routs, the theater.

  It wasn’t far to Oxbury House—only a few blocks. It had been farther to Blantrope House. That was where he’d gone the morning after Alvord’s ball twenty-three years ago. Lady Blantrope had been acting as Kate’s chaperone since Standen’s wife was increasing, and Standen had been visiting.

  Damn, every detail of that morning was burned into his memory. Thoughts of it bubbled up at odd times—in the middle of the night or the midst of a dinner party—to haunt him. He cringed every time some recollection of it surfaced. He cringed now.

  He’d wanted to look precise to a pin, so he’d spent an inordinate amount of time dressing. Sleeping a few hours would have been a good idea, too, but he’d been too nervous to lie still. He’d waited until nine o’clock—an obscenely early hour—and then he’d gone.

  It had still been too late. Standen had packed Kate off to the country at first light. Not that it mattered. She was already engaged to Oxbury.

  Damn, damn, damn. He kicked another stone, sent it ricocheting off someone’s front steps. His meeting with Standen had been the most embarrassing, demeaning interview of his life.

  When he’d grasped the knocker on Blantrope House’s front door, he’d been thinking about Luke and Lady Harriet and the disaster at Gretna Green. He’d worried Standen might still harbor a grudge—and he’d been right, of course. But he hadn’t realized Kate had not been honest with him—that she’d been as good as wed when she’d gone with him into the garden.

  Why hadn’t she told him about Oxbury? More, why had she let him kiss her? Her lack of candor had hurt as much as—or more than—Standen’s scathing dismissal.

  Alex stopped in front of Oxbury House. He stared at its orderly façade, but in his mind he saw a different building.

  The Blantrope butler had left him to cool his heels in a small, dismal antechamber. He could still see the room’s hideous red-patterned wallpaper and the disgruntled-looking china cat on the mantel. After waiting almost an hour, he’d been seriously considering flinging the bloody feline into the fireplace.

  Or hurling the porcelain beast at Standen’s head.

  “What are you doing here?” Standen had said when he’d finally stepped into the room. He’d sounded as if he were addressing a cockroach. Still, this was Kate’s brother, her guardian. Alex couldn’t say exactly what he wanted to to the horse’s arse.

  “Lord Standen, I came about your sis—”

  “My sister has returned to the country.”

  “I see.” Standen’s tone had not been at all encouraging, but Alex had been young and stupid. “I came to ask for her hand—”

  “Her hand has been given to the Earl of Oxbury. They will wed in a matter of weeks.”

  “Ah.” Alex had felt as if he’d taken a punch to the gut. “But—”

  Standen cut him off. “You will have no more to do with her. Do I make myself clear?”

  Could the bloody bastard be any clearer? “Yes, but—”

  “Good.” Standen’s lip curled; his nose wrinkled as if he smelled something foul. “I’d drag my sister naked down St. James’s Street before I’d see her married to you.”

  Damn it all to hell. He’d left, not really believing Sta
nden. He’d entertained all manner of crazy thoughts on the way home—and then he’d seen the announcement in the Post.

  He’d been numb at first; once he’d been able to feel again, he’d been overwhelmed by an almost physical pain, as if he’d had an arm or a leg cut off. And in the back of his mind was always the nagging question—if he’d been more decisive, if he’d pressed Kate that night in Alvord’s garden to fly with him to Gretna, would she have given up Oxbury and gone?

  The man had been thirty years her senior—but he’d also been an earl.

  He blew out a long breath. So he was in London again, and outside Oxbury House. Kate was inside waiting for him.

  Perhaps tonight he would finally find some peace. That was why he was going to visit Kate. To finish what had not been finished before. To see if he could finally heal this damn wound.

  He slipped around the side of the house to the servants’ entrance, grabbed the door handle, turned it—

  It didn’t move.

  He frowned and tried again. The knob didn’t budge. He took off his gloves and put both hands to the task. Nothing.

  The bloody door was locked.

  David stretched his long legs toward the fire and wiggled his stocking-clad toes. Mmm. The heat felt good. He took a sip of brandy and savored the liquid’s slow slide over his tongue and down his throat. That heat felt good, too. And the heat that would feel the best…

  He rested his head against the back of his chair, closed his eyes, and finally let his mind go where it wanted. Like a hunting dog slipped from its leash, it flew straight to its quarry.

  Lady Grace Belmont.

  She was perfect. He would never have guessed he was enamored of red hair—he’d always thought he preferred his women blonde. But he’d never seen hair like Grace’s. It wasn’t red; it was copper and gold, fire and light. He wanted to bury his fingers in it, let it slide like silk over his palms. Over his chest. Over…

  He slid lower in his chair, spreading his legs wide so an important part of him could swell with admiration. That part was generating a bit too much heat—his breeches were in danger of spontaneously combusting.

  If only Lady Grace Belmont were here.

  If Grace were here…He took another sip of brandy, rolling it on his tongue. If Lady Grace were here…

  What would he do if Grace were in this room right now?

  What wouldn’t he do?

  He’d start with her hairpins. Yes. Slowly, one by one, he’d pull each pin out, watching Grace’s glorious hair slowly tumble down over her shoulders. Copper over cream—beautiful. Then he’d comb his fingers through it, bury his face in it, inhale its sweet, clean scent. He’d lift a silky handful off her neck, brushing it back so he could kiss the sensitive spot by her ear.

  And then? Then he’d explore her face. He’d kiss her jaw, her cheekbones, her eyelids; he’d brush over her lips—he’d not want to get waylaid there so soon—and move down kiss by nip by lick to the pulse at the base of her throat and to her shoulder…and then he would loosen her gown.

  He shifted in his chair. Could his breeches get any tighter? Doubtful.

  Where was he? Ah, yes. Grace’s gown. He’d slip it off her shoulders slowly, savoring each inch of perfect skin revealed. Off her shoulders, over her breasts to her waist, her hips, pushing the cloth down to pool at her feet, leaving her in only her stays and shift.

  And then he would turn her, push her hair forward so he could kiss the back of her neck, the top of her spine…

  Would he have the patience to untie her laces?

  He snorted. He’d not advise anyone to wager on it. His fingers felt as thick as the organ begging to be released from his breeches. Heh. No, not that thick, but still he was certain he would not be able to battle small, knotted laces. He would have to use his knife. Surely Grace wouldn’t mind? If he were doing his job correctly, she would be as desperate to be free of her clothing as he was to free her.

  He grinned at the fire. Ah, yes, free her—and her lovely, lovely breasts. He would reach around, pull her body against his, and cradle her heavy, round breasts in his hands.

  And then he would turn her to face him again. He would trace the delicate curve of her ribcage, of her waist, the generous flare of her hips, her long, long legs down to the hem of her shift. He would kneel so he could better watch his hands move back up, better see them slide up her ankles, her calves, her knees, taking the thin shift with them. He might stop at her thighs, just a little above her knees, to kiss her tender, white skin. Then he would let his lips move upward with his hands, until he cupped her sweet bottom and buried his face in the soft hair at the top of her legs. Would it be red, too?

  God, he was panting. He was going to have to open the fall of his breeches. Hell, he wasn’t going to be able to walk upstairs unless he took steps to relieve his discomfort. He hadn’t had to do that since he was little more than a stripling.

  He needed to think about something other than Grace.

  Alex. He grimaced. Probably a bad choice. Alex was likely in Lady Oxbury’s bedchamber right now, getting to do with his lady everything David had been imagining with Grace. Alex, the cautious, proper Wilton, was participating in what could become a colossal scandal if word of it ever leaked out.

  No one who knew Alex would believe it—he wouldn’t believe it if he hadn’t walked home from Alvord’s ball with the man.

  Or perhaps Alex was just taking an evening stroll through London.

  David got up to pour himself another glass of brandy. If he drank enough, he’d not dream of Grace when he managed to drag himself upstairs and fall into bed. He’d not dream at all.

  He filled his glass and looked around the library. His great grandfather had been the last Wilton to use this room. Grandda had hated London. Luke, his father, had been only twenty when he’d eloped with Lady Harriet. So young.

  Would his parents’ love have lasted if they’d lived?

  The stories Grandmamma had told him when he was little said yes. She’d created a couple whose devotion would have withstood all tests but death. The tales he’d heard from the innkeepers, stable hands, local gentry, and peers who’d known his father, however…well, Grandmamma had always loved fairy tales.

  Luke Wilton had not had a reputation that bespoke steadiness and commitment.

  He ran his hand along the bookcase. Tomes in Greek and Latin, books on agriculture and horticulture—it was clear the volumes had been purchased solely for appearance.

  It had been very easy to make Lord Wordham, his mother’s father, the villain of Grandmamma’s fairy tales. If the man hadn’t tried to force Lady Harriet to marry Standen, his parents wouldn’t have run to Gretna and his father wouldn’t have opened his head on a rock in the stable yard. But now that he thought about it—well, if he were honest, he would not have wanted his daughter, if he had one, to marry someone like his father.

  But not wanting a thatch-gallows for a son-in-law didn’t justify Wordham’s deserting Lady Harriet at the inn nor did it forgive his shunning her deathbed and ignoring her son.

  David took a deep breath and another mouthful of brandy. The spirit’s warmth was steadying.

  Lord Wordham was dead, but Lady Wordham was still alive and in London.

  He snorted. Why even note that fact? The woman had never expressed any interest in him either.

  He turned back to the fire and poked it, sending sparks flying.

  Alex had been just fourteen when Luke died. Had he been a model of propriety even then or had he become one in reaction to his older brother’s blatant impropriety? No matter. Now Alex was finally misbehaving.

  David grinned at the fire. If Alex distracted Lady Oxbury—and she had acted very distracted this evening—that would give David many opportunities to do many lovely, scandalous things with Lady Grace.

  He would steal her away from this clod in the country.

  Just as his father had stolen his mother from Standen.

  No. The situations were not similar
at all. Luke had been a niffy-naffy fellow, a scoundrel. David was responsible, like Alex.

  Except—also like Alex—perhaps not so responsible in present circumstances.

  Damn it, Grace was meant to be his, not Parker-Roth’s. The man had had years to woo her and had obviously failed miserably.

  David would court her. If he did not win her heart, then he would withdraw and let Parker-Roth have her.

  But he would succeed. He would work very hard to do so—and enjoy every moment of his toil.

  He tossed off the last of his brandy and headed for the stairs and bed.

  Alex stared at the door. He tugged on the handle again. Nothing happened. It was definitely locked.

  Kate had changed her mind.

  Bloody hell! He’d walked all this way, struggled with his conscience, and for what? To find the door locked.

  She’d been teasing him again, just as she had twenty-three years ago. Was she in her bedroom, laughing?

  He wanted to hit something, but he was no longer young and stupid—well, not completely stupid. He certainly wasn’t going to pound his fist on a stone wall or a tree trunk. He’d only hurt his hand and call attention to his presence—

  Tree trunk. Hmm. Should he…?

  No, he should go back to Dawson House. If he were lucky, David could be persuaded he’d merely gone for a long walk. Hell, if he left now and walked briskly, he’d be back in time to join his nephew in the library for a glass of brandy before he headed off to bed.

  He was very tired.

  He was not that tired.

  Kate had seemed so sincere in Alvord’s garden. Yes, his judgment had been colored by lust, but he’d swear it hadn’t been completely obfuscated by his animal instincts.

  Perhaps when she’d got home, she’d simply awoken to the scandal his presence in Oxbury House could provoke were it discovered. She’d lost her courage.

  He should go home.

  He turned and started for the street.

  Or perhaps she’d forgotten about the door. Or the butler had come round later and locked up for the night.

  He stopped. He couldn’t go without knowing.

  He was at the northwest corner. She’d said there was a tree. Yes, there it was—a solid tree with plenty of sturdy branches. Very climbable, even for a man of his advanced years. And there was a light in her room.