Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  Her stomach knotted. She was going to be sick. She’d better get the chamber pot out from under the—

  Ping !

  She froze. Dear God! Was that . . . ?

  Ping! Ping!

  It was. Pebbles, bouncing off her window. Stephen must be out there.

  She was tempted for just a moment to pretend she didn’t hear him, but then she thought of Lady Dunlee and shot out of bed.

  She jerked the window open—and dodged as a pebble flew past her.

  “Sorry,” Stephen called.

  “Shh!” She leaned out and peered between the tree branches. He was standing in a pool of moonlight. “Come up before someone sees you.”

  “Don’t worry, Lady Dunlee’s at the Palmerson ball.”

  That was a relief, but still, Lady Dunlee was not the only person in London with sharp eyes and a ready tongue. And it was quite possible one of the Crane House servants might see Stephen and, thinking him a thief, attack him. There was more to worry about than mere gossip.

  “Just hurry and come up.”

  He grinned. “Eager to see me, are you?”

  Did the man have no sense? “Stop talking and start climbing.”

  He bowed. “Your wish is my command.” He slipped out of his coat, waistcoat, and shoes and then jumped to catch the lowest tree branch. He pulled himself up and reached for the next, moving quickly and confidently.

  She leaned farther out to see if anyone was watching. No, thank God, but the ground was a long way down. What if Stephen fell?

  She had a sudden vision of him lying broken and bleeding on the grass. “Be careful.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve climbed many trees in my life.” He wasn’t even breathless.

  “When you were a child.” He was obviously in splendid condition, but he was thirty.

  “No, recently as well.”

  “In London?” What kind of a fool did he take her for?

  Well, he was the King of Hearts . . . perhaps he had visited other bedrooms this way.

  “Of course not in London.” He was finally level with the window. “I sometimes take to the trees when I’m hunting plants.” He grinned again. The man was amazingly lighthearted. “When I’m pursued by wild animals, angry natives, or competing plant hunters.”

  She gaped at him. “I had no idea plant hunting could be so dangerous.”

  He shrugged. “It can be.” He grabbed the branch above his head and lifted a brow. “Now did you want me to come in, or were you intending to keep me hanging out here all night?”

  What was the matter with him? “Come in, of course. I cannot imagine why you haven’t done so already.”

  “Because you are standing in the window, and I don’t want to knock you over. If you’ll step aside?”

  She jumped back as he swung himself over the windowsill. Then he turned to slide the window shut and draw the curtains. His shirt pulled tight across his shoulders.

  Mmm. He had a lovely back. It tapered down to his narrow waist and hips. And his arse—what would it look like naked?

  His chest and arms had been wonderful to see—and touch—when he’d taken off his shirt before. What if he shed every stitch of clothing and stood here completely as God made him? She moistened her lips. She was feeling quite . . . hot. She—

  She jerked her wayward thoughts back to the subject at hand, which was not Mr. Parker-Roth’s attractive arse.

  She had to tell him her secret. Once she did so, he’d fling open that window and scramble back down the tree as quickly as he could manage.

  He’d turned and was regarding her intently. “Is it hot in here? You look very flushed.”

  “Yes, I—” Damn it, she was hot, not the room, as he’d clearly surmised. She cast around for a different subject. “When is your next expedition?”

  He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “Perhaps in a month or so. Nothing has been firmly decided.”

  Her stomach dropped. So soon?

  No, the sooner the better. Once he knew her shameful secret, he’d want nothing more to do with her. She couldn’t abandon Evie; she had to stay in London until the end of the Season or until Papa and Georgiana returned. It would be easier if she didn’t have to encounter Stephen at every social gathering. And if he left without ending their betrothal—at least publicly—she’d be spared much social embarrassment. She would ask him if he’d do that. After all, he had kissed her on the street. If he hadn’t done something so outrageous . . .

  Well, and she had kissed him.

  She would never make that mistake again. If there were ever a next time, she’d know to scream and fight the man off . . . which she would have done this time if it had been any other man than Stephen.

  She closed her eyes briefly. She was not blameless, but neither had she been the one to initiate the disaster. Surely Stephen would admit his culpability and be willing to grant her this small request. Then she would tell Evie and warn her to have nothing to do with Brentwood. Not that Evie would want to. If the marquis had been attractive ten years ago, he certainly wasn’t any longer.

  To give the marquis his due, Anne had gone with him willingly. She had, in a manner of speaking, asked for her ruination. Evie would never be so stupid—especially once Anne related her story.

  So all she had to do now was tell Stephen the truth. She frowned at him—and noticed his eyes were examining her nightgown. She looked down.

  Good God! She could see her nipples clearly through the worn cloth—

  She ran to one of the chairs by the fire and threw herself into its concealing embrace, covering as much of herself as she could with a shawl she’d left draped over its back. She poked her hand out of the fabric to point at the other chair.

  “Come sit down. I’m sorry I don’t have any brandy to offer you. I didn’t think to—”

  “Anne,” he said, walking toward her, “this isn’t a social call.”

  “N-no.” Why wouldn’t the man sit down? His current position put her eyes on level with the organ that was making a very interesting bulge in his breeches. She could see its outline distinctly. She opened her eyes wider. Was it growing?

  She glanced up. Stephen’s eyes were hooded and his lips curved slightly. The man knew exactly what he was doing to her. Well, he was the King of Hearts; what else could she expect? He’d probably perfected every method of seduction there was.

  “Sit down!” She spoke sharply, mostly out of desperation. If he didn’t move immediately, she might give into temptation and unbutton his breeches. She must be the only fallen woman in the world who’d never seen the instrument of her ruination.

  Ugh. Thinking of Brentwood and Stephen at the same time was obscene.

  He sat. “You seem somewhat agitated.”

  Somewhat? That was the understatement of the year. She wished she had thought to secrete some brandy in her room. She could use a good swallow at the moment. “Why do you say that?”

  He grinned. “There are almost too many reasons to enumerate, but, for one, you’re clutching your shawl tightly around you when your face is almost as red as your hair.”

  Her face promptly grew two shades redder.

  “I grant you it does seem very warm in here.” He touched his cravat. “Would you mind very much if I got comfortable?”

  “N-no. Of course not.” Anne’s eyes were glued to his fingers. “P-please, take off—I mean, do what you like. As you say, this isn’t a social call. We should be comfortable.”

  She watched his hands as he slowly unwound his cravat.

  It wasn’t good of him to tease her, but he couldn’t resist. Her eyes held such innocent passion.

  He should forget Maria’s nasty words. Anne’s expression didn’t lie. No matter what her past, she wasn’t a light skirt. She didn’t welcome men indiscriminately to her bed. And if she had known a man before him . . . Did he really care?

  His cock was telling him emphatically he did not.

  Being in Anne’s bedroom with her temptingly
rumpled sheets nearby made his desire almost unbearable. She was in her nightclothes, for God’s sake—her worn, thin, translucent nightgown. When she’d stood there in front of him, he’d seen the curve of her breasts, the outline of her nipples and delicate waist, and, most maddening of all, the shadow of her nether curls.

  He could get her to come willingly to bed with no effort. The way she’d stared at his crotch and now studied his bare throat almost pleaded with him to do so. He would be doing them both a favor.

  But he would not seduce her. This wasn’t one of the many widows he’d taken to bed in the past. This was Anne, the woman he intended to marry and to build a family with.

  Seduction had its place, but this first time, she needed to choose freely.

  And then there was her secret. She must tell him that before they went to bed. There should be only truth between them from now on.

  “Anne, you said in the park this afternoon there was something you needed to tell me that required privacy. What is it?”

  She turned as white as a sheet. Was she going to faint? He moved to kneel by her chair and grasp her hands—they were ice cold.

  “Anne.”

  She bit her lip, shook her head. She would not look at him.

  “Tell me, Anne. I’ve come here so you can do so. There is no point in putting it off.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “I . . . oh.” She sniffed and pulled her hands free, swiping at a tear. “You will hate me once I tell you. You will be disgusted by me.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Yes, you will. You must.”

  “Anne, you can’t know how I will react until you tell me what you have to say.” He captured her hands again and shook them a little. “And I can’t help you unless I know what the problem is.”

  “You can’t help me—no one can.”

  “Anne, nothing is that bad.”

  “This is.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “So is Lady Noughton correct ? You’ve lifted your skirts for too many gentlemen to count?”

  “What?” The shock of Stephen’s words almost took her breath away. “No! It was only once, and I didn’t lift my skirts at all—Brentwood did that.”

  Stephen frowned, but he didn’t recoil in horror. He didn’t even let go of her hands; his warm grip was a comforting anchor.

  “Ah.” His voice was hard, even if his grip was not. “Brentwood raped you.”

  She almost wished she could claim it was rape. “No. I . . . I wanted . . . Well, I didn’t want . . . I didn’t know . . . I thought he only meant to kiss me.”

  She looked down at their clasped hands. Stephen’s were so much larger and stronger than hers.

  Would she have gone into the garden with Brentwood if she’d known what he intended to do? She’d thought she’d loved him—just as she thought she loved Stephen.

  Was she on the verge of making the same mistake?

  No. She tightened her grip on Stephen’s fingers. She was older now. Wiser. She didn’t expect marriage or anything else. She just needed to know for her own sake if the ... deed would be better with a kinder man. Doing the thing with Stephen would either wipe away an unpleasant memory, like drinking chocolate after taking medicine, or would show her it hadn’t been Brentwood so much as the action itself that was embarrassing and uncomfortable.

  Oh, she should not lie to herself. It was more than that. She did love Stephen. This feeling was far stronger than the weak emotion she’d entertained for Brentwood.

  But first she had to give him the truth.

  “When Lord Brentwood took me out to Baron Gedding’s garden, I did want to go.” She should give herself some credit, not that it forgave her stupidity. She met Stephen’s eyes. He looked very angry—no more than she deserved. “I truly thought he only meant to kiss me again—and it wasn’t that I’d liked his kisses”—she’d never felt the need for Brentwood that she did for Stephen—“but he’d liked kissing me.” She looked down. She’d been so naïve. “Even though Georgiana had warned me not to be alone with a man, I thought she only meant I risked being kissed. I didn’t know anything else could occur.”

  “Anne.” Stephen cupped her cheek. His voice and touch were gentle, even though his expression wasn’t. “You don’t have to say any more.”

  “But I do.” She had to say it all. Maybe if she confessed every horrible detail, she’d finally feel at peace. “He took me to the back of the garden where no one could see us. I was a little nervous—we were quite alone—but I didn’t say anything. It was exciting, too. I thought he wanted privacy to profess his love. I even thought he meant to propose.” She cringed. She had been so stupid.

  “Anne.”

  She pulled back from Stephen’s touch, and he let her go. She forced herself to look him in the eye once more. “Brentwood didn’t want to tell me he loved me. He wanted to . . .” God, she almost gagged at the memory. “He backed me up to the garden wall, lifted my skirts, and—”

  She was a coward. She couldn’t meet Stephen’s gaze while she said it. She dropped her eyes to his shirt. “At least he did it quickly. I imagine it hurt less that way.” She raised her eyes to his chin. “I went home the next day and was very glad to discover a week later I wasn’t increasing.”

  “Anne.” He tilted her face up so she had to look at him again. She couldn’t hide.

  Amazingly, he didn’t look disgusted. He looked regretful and sad.

  He was going to tell her how sorry he was, but she was correct. He couldn’t marry her. She steeled herself to accept it calmly. She would try very hard not to cry.

  “Anne, you were raped. You are not to blame for what happened.”

  What? Had he not understood her words? She jerked back, but this time he wouldn’t let her go. “Didn’t you hear me?” she said. “I wanted to go with him.”

  “Of course you did. You were young, at your first house party. Brentwood was older and experienced. You wanted to go, but you didn’t want what happened.”

  “No, I didn’t, but that doesn’t excuse the fact I chose to walk alone with a man in a secluded location. I should never have done so; I knew it was wrong. And the moment he lifted my skirts, I should have screamed and struggled.” She sniffed; tears were threatening to fall again. Helplessness and, yes, a bit of self-pity flooded her. “But it all happened so quickly. I didn’t understand what he was doing until I felt . . . something”—she blushed furiously—“there. And then almost immediately I felt a burning pain when he . . . did what he did.”

  “Oh, Anne.” Stephen pulled her gently toward him, so her cheek lay on his chest. She didn’t have the energy or determination to resist.

  “I didn’t even slap him,” she said in a small voice.

  “You were too shocked to do so.”

  “And afterward, he smiled and said, ‘Thank you, that was very pleasant.’ But it wasn’t pleasant—not for me. It was horrible.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, but that didn’t help. The ugly scenes—and feelings—were burned into her memory.

  “He escorted me back to the drawing room. I tried to talk to the other guests, but I couldn’t pay attention to anything they said. And then I-I felt something wet dripping down my leg. I ran up to my room to discover blood and Brentwood’s seed on my thighs.”

  She took a deep, shuddery breath and inhaled Stephen’s warm, clean scent. His hands held her securely and stroked her hair. She heard his heart beat calmly, steadily under her ear.

  She exhaled and felt some of her tension leave with her breath. “And you want to know the funniest thing? I still don’t know exactly what he did to me.”

  She felt Stephen’s lips brush the top of her head.

  “Let me show you,” he said.

  Chapter 18

  Stephen wanted to castrate Brentwood. To take an innocent girl’s virginity was bad enough, but to do so in such a callous manner was despicable. The man had given no thought to Anne. He obviously hadn’t cared whether she understood his intentions, and h
e’d certainly not tried to make the experience pleasurable for her.

  Anne leaned back to look at him. She was blushing again. “Would you show me? I’d decided to ask you to, so you saved me the struggle to get the words out.” She dropped her gaze back to his chest. “I imagine you can do a better job of it than Brentwood did.”

  Bloody hell. He’d cut off Brentwood’s testicles slowly with a very blunt knife. “Anne.”

  She glanced up briefly, but almost immediately went back to studying his shirt.

  “Anne, look at me.” He put the edge of his hand under her chin. She resisted at first, but then, with a small sigh, let him raise her face to his. He caught her gaze and held it.

  “What Brentwood did to you was indeed rape, no matter that you willingly went with him. You did not invite him to take those liberties, and even if you had, he should not have accepted unless he intended to wed you.”

  She started to open her mouth, but he would not let her blame herself again. He put his fingers on her lips to stop her.

  “What we shall do in your bed will have nothing in common with that. We are betrothed. This is not some furtive coupling.”

  God, that was true. An odd warmth spread through him. Anne would be his wife; they would have a life and a family together.

  He’d spent his adult years guarding against by-blows, but now, here, with Anne, he needn’t worry—he could even hope—that he’d give her a child.

  She jerked out of his hold and stood, turning away from him. “No.”

  “Yes. I will get a special license tomorrow and—”

  “No. You don’t have to marry me.” Dear God, she wanted what he offered so much—but what was he offering? Pity? He must be disgusted with her—she was disgusted with herself.

  She didn’t want his pity; she wanted his love.

  Oh, blast it, why must she be so greedy? She could have a life with him, children, all the things she’d thought she’d never have—but she wanted more. Not duty, not even lust—but love. If she had his love, she might even be able to bear his leaving her again and again to go off on his expeditions.

  “Of course I have to marry you,” he said.