Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  She rubbed her forehead. Perhaps she should discuss the problem with Aunt Kate. Her aunt had been married. By all accounts, she’d been faithful to Oxbury, so she must also know how to control these peculiar urges.

  Grace put her last few items in a valise and went to her aunt’s room. Hermes met her at the door, barking and dancing on his hind legs.

  “Sorry, Hermes. I don’t have any treats.”

  Hermes paused, gave her a long look, and then sneezed and trotted over to the hearth to lie down.

  “Are you ready to go, Grace?” Kate stood by her bed, surrounded by portmanteaux. “As soon as Marie makes Lord Dawson comfortable, she’s coming back to help me finish packing.”

  “You look as if you are taking as much as I am.”

  Kate pushed her hair back off her face. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? We will only be gone a short while. I’m sure I am bringing far too many things.” What was the matter with her? She wasn’t usually so indecisive.

  It was nerves, of course. She was hoping Alex would be at this house party.

  No, she was dreading it.

  It made no difference what she felt. If he was there, she would have to tell him about his child.

  Dear God! She sat down quickly. A child. Alex’s child.

  “Aunt Kate, I need to ask you something.”

  Grace was looking down at her skirt, twisting the fabric with her fingers. Something was obviously amiss. “Yes? What is it, Grace?”

  “I’m a little concerned…That is, I should probably tell you…Well, as you know, Lord Dawson will be at this house party…”

  “Of course I know—he’s downstairs waiting. As he was kind enough to offer us his protection on the drive out to Lord Motton’s estate, we should not keep him waiting.”

  “Yes. Well, the thing is…” Grace finally met Kate’s gaze. “I might need protection from him.”

  “What?!” She knew she should never have accepted this invitation. “I will have a word with him immediately. If he thinks—”

  Grace flushed. “Or he might need protection from me.”

  Kate’s jaw dropped. For a moment she couldn’t muster a single sound. “I-I don’t think I understand.”

  “I thought you might know what to do. I mean, you’ve been married. You must know all about the urges one feels.”

  “Ah…” Urges? Grace hadn’t said urges had she? “Er…” What should she answer? Just a short while ago, she would not have known what Grace was talking about, but unfortunately now she was all too familiar with urges—and not very familiar with controlling them. “What you should do—”

  “I’m back.” Marie bustled into the room. Kate could have fallen on her neck and kissed her. It was cowardly of her, she knew. Grace had asked for advice, but she had no advice to give her. She laid her hand over her stomach. Look where her urges had led her.

  “The footmen are on their way up to get these things,” Marie said, putting the last dress into a portmanteau. “Why don’t ye both go down and wait for the carriage?” She looked up and grinned. “Ye can keep his lordship company. He’s wearing a hole in the rug with his pacing.”

  Kate bent and put on Hermes’s leash. “That’s a good idea, Marie. Are you ready, Grace?”

  She bolted out the door before Grace could answer.

  Kate stopped at the stairs. That was not well done of her. Grace deserved an answer—needed an answer if she was going to get through this house party without putting herself in Kate’s position—enceinte, but unwed. That would indeed be horrendous.

  She hoped Grace had more control than she, but the Wilton men were devilishly seductive. And it was Kate’s job as chaperone to see that Grace didn’t go astray.

  “I’m sorry,” Kate said as Grace caught up. “I shouldn’t have hurried away like that.”

  Grace smiled slightly. “That’s all right, Aunt Kate. I’d thought these feelings must be common, but I guess I’m—”

  “They are common, Grace.” Kate wasn’t entirely certain of that, but she suspected it was so—and she couldn’t bear the distress she heard in Grace’s voice. She put her hand on Grace’s arm. “That’s why girls are told to avoid being alone with a gentleman—and why chaperones are there to be sure they follow that rule. I have been sadly remiss, but I promise I will stick to you like a burr at this house party.”

  “Oh, no.” Grace looked completely appalled. “You can’t do that!”

  “But, Grace—”

  “Grr.”

  Kate glanced down. Hermes was literally bristling, his teeth bared.

  “Good heavens, Hermes, what is the matter?”

  Hermes barked vociferously and lunged, jerking Kate’s arm forward. She grabbed for the banister to keep from going head first down the stairs. “Hermes! Will you—oh.”

  She saw what had disturbed Hermes. The Weasel was standing by the front door, handing his hat to Sykes. He looked up at the commotion. Good God, his eyes were going for her stomach. She scooped Hermes up and held him in front of her.

  “Cousin,” he said in his annoying, nasal tones, “how…nice to see you again.”

  Nice? Yes, he probably did think it was nice to see her—just as he must think it nice to see a cockroach right before he heard the crunch of his heel flattening it.

  Hermes gave another low growl. Kate kissed the top of his head and strove to sound polite.

  “I trust you had a pleasant trip, Horace?”

  The Weasel shrugged, his bony shoulders shifting his shabby, cheap coat. He hadn’t yet spent Oxbury’s money on a new wardrobe.

  The man was most unpleasant looking. He had all of Oxbury’s less favorable traits plus a few of his own. He truly did look like a weasel—thin with a narrow face, long pointed nose, and small beady eyes.

  Her Oxbury had not been much to look at, but at least he had not been pompous and obnoxious.

  She descended the stairs, Hermes held shield-like in front of her stomach. When she got within five feet of the Weasel, she stopped. One step closer and Hermes would start barking. Here, he only growled menacingly.

  “Have you met my niece, Horace?”

  Horace smiled in his usual oily fashion. “I don’t believe I’ve had that pleasure.”

  Kate nodded and gritted her teeth. It had to be done.

  “Lady Grace, Lord Oxbury. My lord, as I’m sure you know, Lady Grace is the Earl of Standen’s daughter.”

  “My pleasure, Lady Grace.” Oxbury bowed slightly.

  “Lord Oxbury.” Grace gave the barest curtsy and offset that little politeness by lifting her chin and peering down her nose at Horace—not hard for her to do as Horace was a good four inches shorter than she.

  “I shall check on the carriage.” Sykes, the coward, handed Lord Oxbury’s hat to a footman—one of the many new servants hired in the last few days to support Horace’s substantial self-importance—and dashed out the door.

  Horace sniffed and looked back at Kate. “You are leaving?”

  “Yes.” Hermes wriggled, indicating his wish to be set down. Kate hugged him tighter and stroked his ears. There was no way she was going to expose her torso to Horace’s scrutiny. “We have been invited to a house party at Lakeland, Viscount Motton’s estate. We are on the verge of departure.”

  “I see. I wonder—” Horace’s eyebrows—well, in his case eyebrow was more accurate as there was no demarcation between the two—shot up. He was looking at a spot just behind them. “And who might this gentleman be?”

  Horace’s tone suggested the gentleman might be a pimp or debaucher. Kate turned to see what nefarious blackguard had slipped by Mr. Sykes’s guard.

  Lord Dawson stood scowling in the doorway to the blue salon. “I am Baron Dawson. Who are you?”

  Horace puffed up like an angry cat. Hermes must have thought so, too. He started growling again and struggled to be let down.

  “Shh, Hermes.”

  “I am the Earl of Oxbury, of course—the owner of this magnificent house.”

>   If Horace got any more self-important, he’d explode.

  Kate glanced at Lord Dawson. Oh, dear, it looked as if he was going to say something cutting. Not that Horace didn’t deserve it, but there was no need to brangle. They were leaving momentarily.

  She spoke before the baron could vent his spleen. “We are in Lord Dawson’s debt, Horace, as he has kindly offered to escort Lady Grace and me to Viscount Motton’s house party.”

  Lord Dawson came over to stand next to Grace. Kate had never noticed before—obviously, she had been too focused on the man’s uncle—but the baron was a very large and intimidating man. He clearly could pick Horace up in one hand and break him in two.

  Even Horace seemed to realize this truth. His tone was almost polite. “Ah, I see. Very kind of you, Dawson.”

  “My pleasure, Oxbury.”

  Lord Dawson was still glaring at Horace. Surely he would refrain from baiting the man for a few more minutes? Where in God’s name was the blasted coach?

  Mr. Sykes appeared at the door. “The carriage is ready.”

  Alleluia! “Well, we must go. Don’t want to keep the horses waiting. So glad we had a moment to see you before we departed, Horace.” May God forgive her that lie. “I’m sure you’ll find all to your liking here. Mr. Sykes is very efficient.” Kate grinned like an idiot and edged toward the door. “And here comes our luggage.” A procession of footmen, directed by Marie, streamed down the stairs. “Do have a pleasant time in London.” She paused to let the luggage precede her. “Did you have a particular reason for coming to Town at this moment, Horace?”

  She hadn’t expected a real answer, just a polite—or as polite as Horace cared to manage—platitude. She was halfway out the door when she heard his response.

  “Actually, yes, I did. I’ve come to acquire a wife.”

  “Oh.” Grace and Lord Dawson were gaping at Horace, just as she was certain she was. Even Hermes seemed stunned by this pronouncement—he stopped growling. The Weasel, a man with close to sixty years in his dish, a man she had always assumed was a confirmed bachelor…the skinny, oily, annoying, pompous Weasel was going wife hunting? “Well, good luck to you.”

  Horace chuckled and smoothed back his few stringy gray hairs. “I doubt I’ll have to rely on luck.”

  “Ah, right.” She was going to burst out laughing or cast up her accounts on the marble floor. “Of course. Exactly. Yes, indeed. Good-bye then.”

  “Good-bye.” Horace smiled slightly—at least that was what she thought the twisting of his lips meant, but perhaps he just had a touch of indigestion—and waved. “Don’t hurry back.”

  Poor Lady Oxbury. David rode behind the coaches as they pulled away from Oxbury House. He certainly would not want to have any extended contact with Lord Lobcock. The few minutes he’d been forced to endure the man’s company had been too many. What a bloody coxcomb!

  Zeus took exception to a vegetable cart and tried to bolt. He reined him in, and then had to avoid a cow handed idiot in a high-perch phaeton who was attempting to take a corner too fast. Fortunately the Oxbury carriages were far enough ahead they missed everything. He swallowed his curses and urged Zeus to pick up his pace. He would be very happy to shake London’s dirt from his boots—and his breeches, coat, and hat—for a while.

  Once they got free of Town, he moved up past the baggage carriage to ride alongside the coach carrying Grace and her aunt. He tilted his head from side to side, stretching out the kinks in his neck, and let out a long breath.

  God, he’d forgotten what quiet sounded like. London was never quiet. Even at night, there was constant din—the rattle of wheels against cobbles, the clop of horse hooves, the shouts of drunken, young—and not so young—bucks. He’d got so used to the noise, he hardly noticed it any longer. Until now, that is, when it was absent.

  Now he could hear birdsong and leaves rustling in an errant breeze. And the air! He could take a deep breath again without falling into a coughing fit.

  Mmm. He was looking forward to this house party, to taking Zeus out for a gallop without worrying about carriages or other riders, to strolling along peaceful, tree-shaded lanes—with Grace on his arm, of course—and wandering off into a secluded corner to steal a kiss…or more.

  He had taken the liberty of procuring a special license. It was burning a hole in his pocket, actually. As soon as he persuaded Grace to have him, he need only find a minister, a pair of witnesses, and then, after the vows, a nice, soft bed.

  He shifted in the saddle. Too much musing on that subject would make for a very uncomfortable ride. He’d best direct his thoughts to a less stimulating topic—like Lady Oxbury and Alex.

  He glanced at the carriage. What had happened between them?

  Zeus shook his head, making the bit jingle. David leaned forward and patted him on the neck.

  It must have been something momentous. Alex had looked like hell the morning after Alvord’s ball. David snorted, causing Zeus’s ears to twitch. No, Alex had looked like he was in hell. He’d only seen the man that haggard when they’d found Grandda’s and Grandmamma’s carriage crumpled by the big oak.

  David sighed, shaking his head. He’d expected his uncle to be disgustingly cocky at breakfast that morning, if he put in an appearance at all. He’d assumed the man had been frolicking all night in Lady Oxbury’s bed—it had been close to daybreak when he’d heard him come in.

  So what had happened? Had Lady Oxbury refused to see him? But then where had Alex been—walking the streets of London all night?

  Damn it, Alex deserved some happiness. Not that he ever appeared unhappy—he was not a man to wear his heart on his sleeve—but there was always a slight air of melancholy about him, as if he saw the world’s colors dimmed by a thin layer of gray, a thin covering of London’s soot, if you will.

  When he’d seen Alex that morning, he’d decided Lady Oxbury must be a cold-hearted bitch, but now that he saw how much she was suffering…well, he didn’t know what to think.

  “Lord Dawson!”

  He snapped his attention back to the coach. Grace had opened the window and was leaning out. “What is it, Lady Grace?”

  “It’s my aunt. She is feeling most unwell. Can you ask John Coachman to stop, please?”

  “Of course.”

  The coachman had heard Lady Grace and was already pulling back on the reins.

  “And if you could come help her down.” Grace glanced back at her aunt, and then looked up at him. “It’s rather an emergency.”

  “Certainly.” He vaulted from his saddle and jerked open the carriage door. Grace had not overstated the case. Lady Oxbury’s face was as white as a sheet—the parts that didn’t have a pronounced greenish tinge, that is.

  “Would you like to get down, Lady Oxbury?”

  She nodded frantically, her hand pressed tightly to her mouth.

  He half lifted her out. She leaned against the side of the carriage while he helped Grace and Marie. Then he grabbed Hermes while the women hurried away from the road. Lady Oxbury made it only a few steps into the grass before she cast up her accounts.

  Grace braced her while she finished. “Are you feeling more the thing now, Aunt Kate?”

  “Ooh.” Lady Oxbury shook her head. “I still feel…I still think…”

  Grace wrapped her arm around her aunt’s waist and urged her toward a sturdy tree. The three women disappeared behind the trunk.

  David heard the sound of retching.

  John Coachman pushed his hat back with his whip and scratched his forehead. “Shall we bide here a while, yer lordship?”

  “I think that would be wise.” He should offer his assistance, but he didn’t wish to intrude on Lady Oxbury’s privacy. He took a few steps into the grass toward the tree—being careful to avoid one particular spot—and cleared his throat. “Lady Grace?”

  Marie emerged from behind the trunk first. “My lord, could ye get the wicker basket from the carriage? I packed a few things that might help, but a woman in my lady’s co
ndition…well, I think we’ll be stopping a few more times afore journey’s end.”

  “I see.” There went his hope of making good time. At least Lakeland was not far—they should arrive by dark, even with frequent stops. “I will fetch it immediately.”

  He handed Hermes to John Coachman. Fortunately, the basket was in plain sight. He gave it to Marie and watched her hurry off behind the tree. In a moment Lady Grace appeared.

  “How is your aunt?”

  “Better, I think.” Grace frowned. “I wish I knew what was wrong.”

  “Marie mentioned a condition…?”

  “A condition?” Grace’s brow wrinkled. “Aunt Kate isn’t prone to carriage sickness, if that’s what you mean.”

  “No. But her maid said—” His jaw dropped.

  Good God. Alex…Lady Oxbury…

  Was it possible? Had Alex spent the night in Lady Oxbury’s bed with interesting results? And now it was imperative the lady see his uncle because the man was about to be a father?

  David snickered.

  Grace frowned. “What’s so funny?”

  “Oh, nothing.” He pressed his lips together, but that didn’t quite contain his mirth. “N-nothing at all.”

  “You should not be laughing. Aunt Kate is very sick.”

  He nodded. “I’m n-not l-laughing.”

  Grace gave him a very nasty look and went back to help Lady Oxbury. Thank God.

  He walked carefully to the other side of the carriage and then collapsed against it, howling with laughter—as quietly as he could—until tears ran down his cheeks.

  He could hardly wait to see Alex.

  Chapter 13

  Alex let Lear choose his own path up the drive to Lakeland, Motton’s manor house.

  He was tired, but satisfied. It had been worth leaving home before daybreak; he’d already had time to take a preliminary look at Motton’s cultivation techniques and chat with Watkins, Motton’s estate manager. The man was a genius. There were definitely a number of improvements he’d seen that he could implement at Clifton Hall. Hopefully he would have time during this house party for some rational conversation with Motton on the topic.