Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  She just stared at him, so he came over to tug her bodice back into place for her. “I’ve always tried to be discreet.” He grinned. “Kissing you on the square was the one notable exception to that practice.”

  “Oh.” He was so matter-of-fact. Had she imagined his passion? She looked down at his breeches.

  She hadn’t imagined it. Part of him was still very enthusiastic.

  “Stop that,” he said.

  “Stop what?”

  “Looking at me that way.” He grabbed her upper arms and hauled her to her feet. “You need to go to bed, Anne—alone—and I need to leave.” He pushed her toward the door. “Now.”

  “Oh, very well.” She walked, his hand on the small of her back, urging her out of the room and down the corridor. When they finally reached the front door, she paused. “Do I get a good night kiss?”

  “No.” Stephen grabbed his hat from the side table and jammed it on his head. “Definitely not.” He opened the door and stepped out so quickly she wondered if he was afraid she’d tackle him. Probably. She felt a bit desperate.

  “Lock up behind me,” he said before he slammed the door closed.

  She sighed, turned the key, and headed up the stairs, hoping she’d be able to fall asleep before dawn.

  Chapter 13

  There was no chance in hell he was going to be able to get to sleep any time soon. Stephen paused outside Crane House to adjust his breeches. The ache in his groin was damned uncomfortable. He was amazed he could walk.

  Hell, he deserved a medal for self-control. When he’d seen Anne, half naked, replete with sexual satisfaction, reach to touch him where he most wanted to be touched, it had taken all his willpower to pull back. If he’d stayed in that little room one more moment, he’d have had his breeches off and his cock buried in her sweet body in record time. Not a good way to introduce a woman to physical love.

  He started down the pavement. Blast, his damned cock still throbbed and his bollocks felt like rocks. He could not think about Anne on that chaise-longue any longer or his private parts would explode.

  He should find out why she had such a strong reaction to Brentwood. After her emotional performance at Damian’s ball this evening, every last member of the ton must be speculating about her relationship with the marquis. There were probably a dozen theories circulating already. He’d meant to ask her tonight, after he’d finished castigating her for not hiding her feelings better—or at all—during that cursed waltz, but he’d got . . . distracted and hadn’t managed to attain either of those goals.

  He’d seek out Gedding, that’s what he’d do. Chances were the fellow was too far in his cups to have anything of interest to say—not that a sober Gedding would be much more informative—but it was worth a try. He had to do something—sleep was definitely not in the cards for at least an hour or two.

  He found Gedding at White’s in his usual spot, nursing a brandy bottle.

  “Mind if I join you?” Stephen lowered himself into the chair next to the baron. The man blinked at him.

  “Parker-Roth.” Gedding hiccupped and shrugged. “Want some brandy?”

  “Thank you.” Damn, Gedding had obviously been imbibing all evening. He was more than likely wasting his time talking to him, but then he had time to waste. He took a sip from the glass Gedding handed him and pondered how to raise the topic of that long ago house party.

  “Heard you’re betrothed to Crazy Crane’s chit.”

  Stephen almost sprayed brandy over his lap. Perhaps this wouldn’t be wasted time after all. “Yes, I am.”

  Gedding nodded drunkenly. “Glad to hear it.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  The baron shrugged. “Always felt a little bad about the girl. Invited her to a house party as a favor to Crane, you know. She was only seventeen, needed a little polish before her come-out.”

  Stephen waited, but Gedding fell silent, staring into his brandy glass. Perhaps he needed a slight prod. “And?”

  The man startled as if he’d forgotten Stephen was there. “And what?”

  Thankfully, White’s was sparsely populated tonight; no one was sitting close enough to overhear. “You said you felt bad about Lady Anne. Why?”

  Gedding frowned. “No reason, really.” He took another swallow of brandy and sighed somewhat drunkenly. “Though I probably should have kept more of an eye on her. I’d told Crane my cousin Olivia would chaperone the girl, so he’d sent her along with only a maid in attendance, but damned if Olivia didn’t come down with a dreadful cold at the last minute. She had to stay home, so Crane’s daughter spent the house party without a proper duenna. Didn’t think it would be a problem, though. The chit seemed the quiet, biddable sort.”

  Anne—quiet and biddable? Were they talking about the same woman? “Was it a problem?”

  “Hmm?” Gedding pursed his lips, then shook his head. “No, no I don’t think so. Not really.”

  Gedding didn’t sound so certain. Stephen clasped his hands to keep from grabbing the baron by the shoulders and shaking the information out of him. “Was Lord Brentwood there as well?”

  Gedding nodded. “Yes. Bit of a dirty dish, that one. I didn’t invite him—he came with Heddington—but I couldn’t very well turn him away when he showed up on my doorstep. He is a marquis.”

  “Right.” Stephen kept his voice neutral. “You couldn’t turn him away.”

  “But I did worry. He was a womanizer even back then, you know, and he started flirting with Lady Anne. Didn’t mean anything by it—he never does—but I’m afraid she was a bit taken in. Stands to reason she would be, her being so young and green.”

  “Yes.” It was hard to keep his voice even. Poor Anne. Supposedly, Brentwood had been something of an Adonis ten years ago. “He didn’t do anything besides flirt, did he?”

  “I don’t think so. You know the way of it. Some meaningful looks, a bunch of silly compliments, a walk or two in the garden, and then once he’s caught a woman’s interest, he moves on to his next conquest.” Gedding sighed. “Lady Anne seemed to take it hard. She left early, saying her stepmother needed her at home, but I never believed that excuse. And then not to see her in society again . . . It’s been weighing on my mind a bit.”

  Gedding met Stephen’s gaze. “I’ll tell you, sir, I’m glad it looks as if she’s found some happiness. I wish you both well.”

  “Thank you.”

  Gedding poured himself some more brandy. “You’re a good sort. They may call you the King of Hearts, but you ain’t like Brentwood. You don’t go collecting ladies’ love like snuffboxes just because you can.” Gedding snorted. “Though I’ll wager he has fewer successes these days. Man’s got rather stout, hasn’t he?”

  “Rather.”

  “But he’s still a marquis. Some ladies don’t care what a man looks like, if he’s got a lofty title.” Gedding waved his hand at Stephen. “Oh, not Lady Anne, obviously, but others.” He snorted. “I’d like to see Brentwood taken down a peg. The man’s too full of himself.”

  Stephen stood and bowed slightly. “And I’d be delighted to oblige you and the rest of the ton by teaching the marquis a little humility.”

  “Splendid. I look forward to seeing it.”

  Stephen nodded at a few friends as he made his way through White’s, but he didn’t take up any of their invitations to join them in a bottle or a game of cards. He wasn’t feeling particularly sociable.

  What had Brentwood done to Anne? It must have been more than an aborted flirtation. Yes, Anne had been young and impressionable then—and maybe she’d even been quiet and biddable as Gedding had said, though he had a hard time believing that of his fiery fiancée—but she’d never been an idiot. She might have been disappointed when Brentwood lost interest in her, but she’d have learned from the experience and moved on. She wouldn’t have hidden herself away for a decade nor would she have such a strong reaction to Brentwood now.

  The only thing he could imagine that would provoke such a response was . . .
/>   Bloody hell, if what he suspected was true, he’d castrate the bastard with a blunt knife.

  He reached White’s front door. Good. He had a lot of thinking to do, thinking better done alone in the dark. He would just—damnation.

  The door swung open to admit the Marquis of Knightsdale followed by the Duke of Alvord and the Earl of Westbrooke.

  “Parker-Roth, just the man I’m looking for,” Knightsdale said. He turned to Alvord and Westbrooke. “You go ahead; I’ll join you shortly.”

  Westbrooke laughed. “Lucky you, Parker-Roth. I suspect you’re in for one of Charles’s bear-garden jaws.” He clapped Stephen on the back. “Don’t worry. Charles won’t run you through—he left his sword at home.”

  “Robbie, you are not helping matters.” Knightsdale looked at Alvord. “Will you take this idiot away, James?”

  Alvord grinned. “With pleasure. Come along, Robbie. Let’s start on a bottle while we wait for Charles.”

  “An excellent idea. Take your time, Charles,” Westbrooke said. “No need to hurry on our account.”

  “Right,” Knightsdale said. He turned to Stephen. “If you’ll follow me? We should be able to be private in here.” He led the way into a small antechamber.

  “Is there a problem, Knightsdale?” May as well take the bull by the horns.

  Knightsdale closed the door firmly behind him. “With Emma, there is always a problem.”

  Damn, damn, damn. He was trapped, he knew it, but he wouldn’t give up without a fight. “No offense, Knightsdale, but your charming wife’s interest in my affairs is not welcome. Nor appropriate. I’m not married to her sister.”

  Knightsdale just looked at him.

  Blast it, he knew it was a weak argument—no, in truth it was a perfectly good argument, if one were arguing with a reasonable person. But Emma was not reasonable. She was a damned officious busybody. The mere possibility that his activities might affect her sister in any way was enough in her demented mind for her to meddle. And if Emma was involved, Knightsdale would be involved. He obviously loved his wife completely, even though they’d been married almost five years and had two sons as well as charge of Knightsdale’s two nieces.

  Knightsdale clasped his hands behind his back. “Emma wishes to know if this is a sham engagement you are involved in.”

  How the hell had she guessed that? Stephen crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I publicly announced my betrothal at dinner this evening—you and Emma both heard me. I cannot honorably withdraw now, even if I wanted to, which I do not.”

  Knightsdale nodded slightly, never breaking eye contact. He must have been a damnably intimidating officer when he served on the Peninsula.

  “Lady Anne’s waltz with Lord Brentwood was quite a spectacle. Society is buzzing over it, though no one seems to know quite what to make of it.” Knightsdale’s gaze sharpened, if that were possible.

  Stephen shrugged. “Society loves to speculate about everything.”

  “True. But if I were to speculate, I would say your betrothed has a pronounced dislike for Lord Brentwood.”

  “Does anyone of good sense like the marquis?”

  Knightsdale inclined his head. “No. However, Brentwood doesn’t always return the dislike. My guess is the bastard means to cause Lady Anne problems, and any problems Brentwood causes are usually markedly unpleasant.”

  Stephen could be intimidating, too. “I invite him to try.”

  Knightsdale relaxed slightly. He was still standing straight as a board, but he didn’t look dangerous any longer. “If you need any assistance in dealing with him, I shall be delighted to help.”

  “Thank you, but I think I can handle the man on my own.”

  “Still, the offer stands, and I know Westbrooke and Alvord would lend their support as well.” Knightsdale grinned suddenly. “You might be interested to know Brentwood is far up River Tick. It’s not common knowledge, but the cent-per-centers will soon be camping on his doorstep unless he finds a way to come about.”

  So Brentwood was in dun territory, was he? That was interesting. Men drowning in debt were usually willing to grasp at anything to keep their head above water, taking all manner of ill-advised risks. Stephen smiled. He would very much enjoy manipulating some of those risks to his advantage. He would begin by buying up the bastard’s vowels. “Thank you. That does open up a number of attractive options, doesn’t it?”

  Knightsdale laughed. “I thought you’d see it that way.”

  “What have you been doing, miss?” Clorinda snorted. “Not that I need to ask.”

  “Eep!” Anne jumped and almost dropped her candle. She did drop her hold on her bodice which drooped guiltily. Clorinda was standing in the doorway to her bedroom, attired in a rather alarming puce dressing gown and frilly white nightcap. “I thought you’d gone to bed.”

  Clorinda looked her up and down from her pin-less, wild hair to her sadly crumpled skirt. “Obviously.”

  She could say that things weren’t as bad as they looked, but they were almost that bad and she didn’t at all wish to debate the matter. “I’m so sorry if I kept you up.” She stepped toward her own bedroom door. “I’ll be going to bed now. Do sleep well.”

  Evie poked her head around Clorinda’s body. “Anne!” The poor girl’s eyes almost popped out of her head. Her expression was a mix of horror and fascination.

  Anne flushed an even brighter red, she was sure. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

  “We were waiting for you”—Evie turned red, too—“and talking about the ball. I was too excited to go to bed right away. And then when you didn’t come up . . . I was on the verge of going downstairs a number of times, but Clorinda stopped me.”

  “I didn’t want poor Evie to get too advanced an education,” Clorinda said. “Thank God the boys are asleep.”

  Anne covered her face with her left hand, her right still being occupied with the candle. She was finally unmasked as the jezebel she was, except this time she didn’t feel at all like a jezebel. Yes, it was embarrassing to have Clorinda and Evie guess what she’d been doing—though she hadn’t been doing that, not exactly—but she wasn’t truly sorry she’d done it. Worse, she’d like to do it—and more—again. Soon.

  “Oh, Anne, what a beautiful ring!” Evie’s voice had more than a touch of awe in it. “Did Mr. Parker-Roth give it to you?”

  Anne held out her hand. Her gloves had been misplaced somewhere—she’d best check the green sitting room in the morning before the boys were up—so Stephen’s ring was very evident.

  “He must have, Evie. Where else would she have got it?” Even Clorinda sounded impressed. “Come into my room so we can look at it more closely.”

  Anne hadn’t seen it properly herself; the garden had been too dark and she’d had her gloves on in the ballroom. She sat on Clorinda’s love seat and turned her hand this way and that. The ring was beautiful—a single ruby in a simple gold setting, exactly what she would have chosen if she’d been the one making the selection. The candlelight made the ruby glow as if there were a fire burning in its heart.

  If only she were truly betrothed. Though after what had just transpired downstairs . . .

  “Here, have some brandy.” Clorinda handed Anne a glass, and then poured more into her own and Evie’s.

  “You two are going to be tipsy if you aren’t careful,” Anne said, taking a sip. The brandy burned a path down her throat and started a pleasant, warm glow in her stomach.

  Clorinda grunted and reached for Anne’s hand to examine the ring. “Exquisite. The man has taste, and obviously spared no expense. Perhaps he does mean to go forward with this marriage.” She glanced at Anne’s drooping bodice. “You’d best hope so.”

  Anne flushed and took another sip of brandy.

  “Of course Mr. Parker-Roth means to marry Anne,” Evie said. “How can you think otherwise? I imagine that’s what they were doing downstairs all this time. He gave her the ring, and they discussed their wedding.”

  Clorinda g
runted. “That and other things.”

  Anne smiled and drank more brandy. There was no need to explain exactly when Stephen had presented her with the ring.

  Clorinda leaned forward, gesturing with her glass so a drop of brandy splashed onto the carpet. “If you do mean to wait until after the Season to wed,” she said, “you’d better wait until then to do other things as well. A few weeks one way or the other make no difference, but a few months . . .” Clorinda raised her eyebrows significantly. “The ton may be a great collection of idiots, but they can count—at least as high as nine.”

  Anne’s face felt as if it were aflame.

  “What do you mean?” Evie looked from Clorinda to Anne and back again. “What has counting got to do with anything?”

  “Babies, Evie.” Clorinda took another swallow of brandy. She’d obviously had a swallow or two too many to be talking so freely with Evie. Anne should stop her, but she was too embarrassed to speak.

  Embarrassed and something else, something hot and yearning. The thought of having Stephen’s child, a baby they’d made together . . .

  “Babies?” Evie said. “You mean . . .” She looked at Anne. “But Anne would never do that before she was married.” She blushed. “Not that I know what that is, of course. And Anne mustn’t know either. Mama will tell her the night before her wedding.”

  Anne examined her ring very closely.

  Clorinda had definitely had too much brandy. “Evie, my dear, I expect while we were up here waiting, Mr. Parker-Roth was busy giving Anne a very thorough idea of exactly what that entails.”

  “Oh.” Evie looked at Anne.

  “No.” Anne cleared her throat. “No, he wasn’t.” Not completely at least. “But, Evie, Clorinda makes a very good point; young women—debutantes like you—need to be very careful.” She certainly did not want Evie following in her disreputable footsteps. “Men can all too easily lead you into trouble and ruin your reputation. Since I’m older and betrothed, I’m allowed a little more leeway.”