Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  “Exactly.” Grace beamed up at him and then turned to her aunt. “I’m ready, too, Aunt Kate—aren’t you?”

  “Well…”

  If Lady Oxbury was hesitating, they had won the field. David allowed himself to relax slightly.

  “Wouldn’t you like to be back in the country for a week or two, Aunt Kate? Breathe clean air, take long walks, admire the scenery…”

  David admired Grace’s scenery while she continued to try to persuade her aunt. She had the loveliest breasts he’d ever had the pleasure to see. Not that he had seen enough of them. He could only imagine how they would look freed of dress and stays.

  And he had imagined it. He’d spent hours last night picturing Grace’s breasts—how they would look when she stood naked in his bedchamber or lay on his sheets or sat astride him. He’d imagined how they’d feel in his hands, how her nipples would taste…

  He’d spent the night tossing and turning, aching to see how accurate his imagination was.

  It had certainly been a pleasant surprise when Grace had collided with him just a few minutes ago. How fortunate he had come upon Hermes in a relatively private location. The greenery had shielded them admirably. The foliage wasn’t dense enough for a longer, more thorough interlude, but it had been completely adequate for the abbreviated encounter they’d just enjoyed.

  In the country though…He’d never been to Motton’s estate, but the man must have plenty of land—and trees and leafage. House parties provided a multitude of opportunities for amorous explorations. He was looking forward to exploring more of Lady Grace Belmont’s glorious person. It would be beyond wonderful.

  “Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, definitely. Without a doubt. I’ve never…ah, what?” He looked blankly at Lady Oxbury. Surely she hadn’t been asking if he would enjoy fondling—well, rather more than fondling—her niece? “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I wasn’t attending.”

  He would not look down at his breeches to determine if an astute observer could tell to what he had been attending.

  “Don’t you agree Grace should not miss any part of the Season?”

  “Oh, no, indeed. If you’ve been to one ball or Venetian breakfast or rout, you’ve been to them all. You see the same people over and over.” It was true. He’d been disappointed, when he’d decided, at the time that, he could not marry Grace, to find he’d already met all the other eligible ladies.

  Lady Oxbury sighed. “Very true.”

  “Exactly true,” Grace said. “And it’s not as if I’m in the market for a husband, is it, Aunt Kate?”

  “Well, as I believe I’ve said, I did hope you would look around you, Grace.”

  “I have looked around me.”

  Was Grace flushing? She had glanced very briefly his way, hadn’t she?

  “And I can look more at this house party.”

  Oh, sweetheart, I’m hoping to keep you too busy to look anywhere but at me.

  “And you don’t want to have to share Oxbury House with the Weasel, do you?”

  “Very true.” Lady Oxbury looked at him again. “Does Lord Motton have a suitable hostess?”

  “I believe he said his Aunt Winifred would fill that role.” What Motton had actually said was Crazy old Winifred will come if I let her bring her damn menagerie. David looked down at Hermes who, apparently having had his fill of squirrel chasing, was resting on the grass. “I’m certain you can bring Hermes as well.”

  Hermes, hearing David say his name, immediately rolled over and presented his stomach for scratching.

  Lady Oxbury sighed. “Very well, then, I guess we will go.”

  Chapter 11

  “Ah, Lady Grace. This came for you in today’s post.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sykes.” Grace took the letter and examined it.

  “Who’s it from, Grace?” Aunt Kate removed her bonnet and unfastened Hermes’s leash.

  “Papa.”

  “Oh? I’m amazed your father could find paper and pen—he is not a correspondent. Thank you, Mr. Sykes.” Aunt Kate took the rest of the letters from the butler. “I don’t believe I got a single missive from him in all the years of my marriage.”

  “Hmm.” Grace stuffed the letter in her pocket. She had a bad feeling about this. “Papa hates to waste time or money on things he views as unnecessary.” So why would he write to her?

  “You are his daughter; I am merely his sister. I’m sure he wants to know how you are enjoying your Season. Have you written him yet?”

  “No.” The thought had not occurred to her. As far as she knew, all correspondence went directly to Papa’s estate manager; Mr. Boothe hated London almost as much as Papa. He would not be amused by her stories of Town. “I can’t imagine Papa would like an account of the balls and parties we’ve attended or the sights we’ve taken in. Perhaps he is looking for some household item.” Though then he would have just asked Mrs. Drexel, their housekeeper. Her stomach twisted. “Or perhaps he is summoning me home, but I would have thought he’d have written you. Do you have a letter from him?”

  “No.” Aunt Kate leafed through her pile. “Ah, but here is something from Viscount Motton.”

  “It must be the invitation to the house party.”

  “Yes, it is.” Aunt Kate skimmed the sheet of paper and then looked up and frowned. “It’s in two days’ time. Do you really think we should go?”

  “Yes.” Grace would wager a hefty sum that if she could only get Aunt Kate and Mr. Wilton together, give them some privacy, and allow them to talk, the two would resolve whatever issue was troubling them. “Definitely.”

  “But I’ve already accepted the Palmerson invitation for next week.”

  “Send our regrets. I can’t imagine Lady Palmerson will be devastated by our absence.”

  “Well, no, of course not, but it will be one of the bigger events of the Season. You’d be able to meet so many eligible men.”

  “The men will still be here when we return, Aunt Kate. We will not be gone that long.”

  Aunt Kate bit her lip. “And this excursion will put you much in the way of Lord Dawson. I cannot like that.”

  Anticipation shivered up Grace’s spine. Nothing could come of her time with Lord Dawson—she knew that—but she wanted it anyway. It was simply one more adventure, one more taste of freedom and excitement before she had to return to her normal life.

  “That will not be a problem. You know I’ve already explained matters to the baron. And he won’t be the only man attending the house party. The viscount must be inviting a dozen or more people, don’t you think?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “So there is no need to decline Lord Motton’s kind invitation. In fact, I would like to attend. I miss the country—and I’ve never been to a real house party. It should be entertaining.”

  “Well…”

  “And frankly, Aunt Kate, you are looking a trifle out of curl. A few days in the country would do you good.”

  “I don’t—”

  Hermes, apparently of the opinion that he was being ignored, stood on his hind legs and waved his front paws.

  “Hermes, do you think we should go to Lord Motton’s country estate?” Grace asked.

  The little dog barked enthusiastically.

  “See, Hermes agrees with me.”

  Aunt Kate laughed. “Oh, very well, I suppose it can’t do any great harm. And you are right. I could stand to get away from Town for a while.”

  “Exactly.” And Aunt Kate could stand to see Mr. Wilton again. She hadn’t mentioned him as a reason not to attend, and surely she would have if she was determined never to encounter him again. “You should send word now, shouldn’t you?” No point in delaying and letting her aunt come up with more arguments against the trip.

  Aunt Kate nodded. “Yes. I’ll pen our acceptance and ask Mr. Sykes to have one of the footmen take it over—and I’ll send our regrets to Lady Palmerson. And then I think I’ll take a little nap.” She blushed. “I’m, er, uncommonly tired the
se days for some, ah, reason.”

  Why was Aunt Kate embarrassed by being tired? “You just need to visit the country. London is so noisy; you probably aren’t sleeping well at night.”

  Aunt Kate turned even redder, if that were possible. “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “I, ah…Yes, you are p-probably right. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go up to my room now, write these notes, and lie down for a while. Come, Hermes.”

  Grace watched Kate and Hermes climb the stairs. Why did it feel as though her aunt was running away? Well, no matter. At least she had convinced her to accept the house party invitation. Hopefully Lord Dawson would be as successful getting his uncle to attend.

  How was he going to persuade Mr. Wilton, given the man had already left London? She was not certain a simple letter would be enough. Hmm. She had best discuss it with him tonight. He should be at Lord Fonsby’s soiree. They could step into the garden, find a secluded spot, and…

  Talk. Nothing else. There would be only talking with Lord Dawson from now on.

  She could stand to take a turn about the garden—she was feeling markedly overheated. A breath of cooler air would be just the thing.

  The Oxbury House garden was sadly overgrown; a caretaker had been in charge for far too long. Certainly Aunt Kate had never lived here when Oxbury was alive, and she’d said Oxbury had only come up to Town when Parliament was in session—and not even then the last few years when his health had been failing. The big tree by Aunt Kate’s room was in desperate need of pruning. Its branches almost touched the window.

  Grace sat on a bench by a bush with small white flowers. She should know what it was called—John certainly would. Whenever she’d made the mistake of admiring some foliage at the Priory, John’s home, he’d given her a long, boring discourse on its history and variations. She’d soon learned not to comment on anything vegetative. But this specimen must be as common as any weed if it was flourishing in this poor, neglected patch of earth.

  It was rather pretty, but unfortunately it seemed to make her sneeze. She reached for her handkerchief—and found something in her pocket…ah, Papa’s letter. She’d forgotten. She pulled it out and broke the seal.

  You will be happy to learn—Papa didn’t bother with a salutation—why should he? The letter was addressed to her—that Parker-Roth and I have reached an agreement. An agreement? Her heart started to pound. The wedding is set for next month. You may inform your aunt. Plan to return shortly to prepare for the occasion. He signed it “Standen.”

  She gulped air. Black specks danced before her eyes. She fisted her hands, crushing the letter in her fingers. She would not faint.

  The wedding was to be next month?!

  She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t draw in enough air. She wanted to hit something—someone.

  Papa and John—how could they do this to her?

  Yes, she had expected to wed John some day—but not next bloody month. And it would have been nice if he had bothered to propose.

  She uncrumpled the letter. Perhaps she had missed something…No, she’d read all her father had written, but there was a short note from John, scribbled at the bottom of Papa’s sheet.

  Lady Grace, I hope you are enjoying London. As you know, I do not see the attraction besides the periodicmeetings of the Horticultural Society. Mother and Father send their regards.

  Your obedient servant,

  John Parker-Roth

  Bah! She wadded the paper up once more and threw it on the ground. Such passion! If she were an exotic rose, now, or a…a…oh, damnation. She didn’t even know a proper plant, but if she were an unusual bit of greenery, John would be in raptures. Common, boring, known-her-forever Lady Grace Belmont, however, certainly couldn’t get his heart to race.

  Well, she very much doubted he could get her heart to race, not like Baron Dawson could. It was racing now, just thinking of their heated encounter in the park.

  She pressed her hands to her cheeks. What had she been thinking, to allow the man such intimacies? It was completely shocking—but it had felt completely right.

  Was Lord Dawson a wizard? She had never before experienced the urge to get so close to a man, to touch him or be touched by him.

  Most males were slightly repulsive. She’d discovered that as soon as she’d grown from girlhood—as soon as she’d grown breasts. That was when every male of her acquaintance had become incapable of directing his attention to her face. John had been one of the least afflicted; she had caught him studying her chest surreptitiously, but at least he’d had the courtesy to look her in the eye when he spoke to her.

  But Lord Dawson was different. Oh, he noticed her breasts, all right—and, they, to her extreme mortification, noticed him. They felt swollen and sensitive now, just thinking about him. As if they would gladly leap from her stays…

  She was losing her mind. Or perhaps the man had put a spell on her. Why else would she be wondering how his hands would feel on her naked skin? What sensations his mouth, his tongue, his teeth would evoke if they encountered her nipples, which were now hard, pointed, and aching.

  She pressed her hands against her bodice.

  She should be incapable of imagining such bizarre activities, and yet, here she was, in the Oxbury garden, imagining all kinds of salacious things and causing various areas of her body to throb. If only Lord Dawson were here—

  No! Having Lord Dawson here would be a disaster. Her malady was all his fault.

  She bent over to pick up her discarded letter.

  At least the baron didn’t focus solely on her breasts. Oh, no. She could still feel the imprint of his hands on her derriere, the heat of his mouth on her lips, the wet fullness of his tongue…

  Heavens, she was panting! She had to get control of her thoughts. She needed to lock this new hoydenish side of herself away for good; prim and proper, that’s what she should be.

  She smoothed out the letter and looked at John’s addendum once more. There wasn’t a single thing in it to make anything but her head throb.

  Lord Dawson had mentioned marriage, more than once. Surely sharing a marriage bed with him would be much more interesting than climbing into one with John…

  What was she thinking? She couldn’t marry Lord Dawson. John would make an adequate husband. He was just more restrained than Lord Dawson, and restraint was a very good thing. Much more restful. All this throbbing and aching must be tiring after a while.

  She stuffed the letter back in her pocket. It was time to go in. She would write a few lines to John. She could tell him about the Wainwright ball.

  No, he wouldn’t be interested in that at all.

  Hmm. Would he be intrigued by the gossip swirling through the ton that the Duke of Alvord might wed Lord Westbrooke’s American cousin if the duke’s cousin, Richard Runyon, didn’t kill him first?

  No. John didn’t approve of gossip, and she had to agree that all the tittle-tattle concerning the duke was rather farfetched, almost like a bad gothic romance. This was London in the nineteenth century, after all.

  She could write about their plans to attend Viscount Motton’s house party. He might have heard of the viscount—Lord Dawson did say Motton was employing some new cultivation theories. Cultivation theories sounded like something John could get very excited about. Perhaps he would even be moved to visit…

  She did not care to have John attend this gathering. If—when—she married him, she would be stuck—well, compelled—delighted—to spend the rest of her days with him. She just was not ready to do so now—especially now that she knew her wedding was so soon. She very much needed her few more weeks of freedom.

  Lord Dawson’s face and figure popped into her mind. Damn. She could not be entertaining thoughts of the baron.

  But she wanted to. She wanted to entertain much more than thoughts.

  Perhaps she could strike a bargain with herself. She would be a little daring at this house party. It would be her last opportunity before she became Mrs. Parker-Roth. She wouldn’t
do anything too dreadful—just steal a kiss or two. Get this out of her system.

  Didn’t men sow their wild oats? Well, this would be her one very minor scattering.

  John should be pleased—she was actually thinking in vegetative terms.

  She stepped through the garden door into the library.

  “Is it warm outside, Lady Grace?”

  “Eek!” She pressed her hand to her heart. “Don’t sneak up on me like that, Mr. Sykes.”

  Sykes raised an eyebrow. “My apologies. Next time I shall be certain to drop something when you enter a room I am already occupying; however, I do think it is a good thing I did not do so today.”

  “What?” She looked around. Sykes had a bottle of brandy in his hand. “Are you…?”

  “Imbibing? No. I am ascertaining that Lord Oxbury will have a sufficient quantity of spirits should he wish to imbibe when he arrives.”

  “Oh. Of course.” Lord Oxbury was coming. His arrival was reason enough for their departure.

  “Is it warm out, Lady Grace? You look a trifle flushed.”

  “Warm? No, actually, it’s cool.” As long as she didn’t think about a certain baron.

  She would be spending days in the man’s company, days with hours of free time and acres of secluded places.

  She shivered.

  “I see. You aren’t ill, are you?”

  “Of course not, Mr. Sykes. I am feeling fine. Wonderful.” Especially when she considered all the interesting things Lord Dawson could do in the secluded spots of Lord Motton’s estate.

  She felt herself flush again. She should not be considering such a subject. But she was. Given the opportunity—and she suspected the baron would give her plenty of opportunities—she was going to do far more than consider the subject.

  Mr. Sykes was observing her closely. “Are you certain you don’t have a touch of the ague, Lady Grace?”

  “No, I am perfectly healthy.” Mr. Sykes did not look convinced. Well, she could stand a few moments of privacy. “But maybe I should go lie down as a precaution. If you’ll excuse me?” She hurried out the door before he could make any more observations.