“I see. Well, you’d best hurry on, then. They look quite parched.”
“Gammon. You’re sneaking off somewhere, aren’t you?” Westbrooke grinned. “I wager you are heading for the garden, hoping to find Meg out in the shrubbery again.”
Westbrooke’s appearance would be much improved by a liberal application of lemonade to his head.
“Of course not. I merely wish to inspect Lord Easthaven’s plantings.”
“Right.” The earl grimaced. “I hope you’re kidding, but I suspect you’re not.” He raised his lemonades again in mock toast. “Well then, enjoy the foliage—and any females you find lurking there.”
There was no point in replying. Westbrooke found his own humor very entertaining—he did not care if the rest of the world shared his amusement.
Parks watched the earl walk off, and then slipped out into the cool night air. A few couples were chatting on the terrace. He avoided them and strode down the steps into the garden. In a moment he’d put the light and noise of the ballroom behind him.
He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly, letting the quiet and the comforting smells of dirt and vegetation calm him. He was losing perspective. He always grew tense in London, but this was much worse. He rubbed his forehead. He really needed a cup of MacGill’s soothing tea.
He’d felt distinctly short-tempered with Westbrooke just now. That was not normal. He rarely lost his patience with his friends. What was the matter with him?
Miss Peterson’s countenance flashed into his mind.
He took another deep breath. Of course he was thinking about her. He’d come out here to find her, hadn’t he? To keep her from making more of a mess of things than she’d already done. To keep her from finding herself in exactly the situation she had been in the last time she’d ventured into a garden—tussling with a man in the bushes.
He clasped his hands behind his back. And why exactly was he involving himself? She had declined his offer. She was not his responsibility. She would not thank him for meddling in her affairs.
Affairs…
Bloody hell! He did not want Miss Margaret Peterson engaging in affairs with other men. He did not want other men doing to her what he had done to her in Lady Palmerson’s parlor. He did not want another male touching…kissing…
Confound it! Insidious thoughts of milky white breasts and rose-tipped nipples belonged to his salad days. He was far too mature to allow lecherous musings to distract him.
He would visit Cat the moment he arrived at the Priory, perhaps even before he attended to the new plant shipment.
He paced deeper into the garden.
It was all a certain hoydenish female’s fault. If she had behaved like a proper young lady, he would not be in his current predicament. Lady Easthaven would not have taken the slightest note of his arrival; Mother would not be prosing on and on so relentlessly about marriage; and, most importantly, he would not be tortured by shocking dreams that left him waking in a most uncomfortable state.
The entire situation was highly annoying.
And where the hell was Miss Peterson now? He eyed the surrounding vegetation. Was she engaged in some salacious behavior in the shrubbery? Had she lured some poor buck into the bushes?
There was plenty of leafage to hide any lascivious activities Miss Peterson might wish to engage in. Lord Easthaven had allowed his plantings to become sadly overgrown. Did the man have incompetent gardeners or was he purposely encouraging his guests to engage in wanton assignations? He should have a word with the earl at the next Horticultural Society meeting. The man was certainly not in evidence at this gathering.
He heard muffled giggling and a lower, male murmur. Another giggle, a rustling of leaves, and silence.
Damn it to hell, she was out here. Whom was she frolicking with now? Surely not Bennington? Devil take it, she had no need to repeat herself. There was a long line of peers who’d be more than happy to oblige her in the bushes. It was none of his business. He was well quit of her.
So why were his feet carrying him toward a panting yew tree? He should turn around and go back to the ballroom. Miss Peterson was not in need of rescuing this time—from the sounds of it, she was enjoying herself immensely.
His feet refused to listen to reason. He charged around a branch and drew breath to inform Miss Peterson exactly what he thought of her conduct.
He choked.
Good God.
He would die of embarrassment here in Lord Easthaven’s very untidy garden.
Meg reached the ladies’ withdrawing room without disgracing herself—any more than she was already disgraced, that is. Lud! Thank God the room was empty. She took a deep, sustaining breath and felt her stomach begin to settle.
How could she ever go back out there and face the ton, the sneering, whispering, sniggering ton? She covered her face with her hands.
She would stay here until it was time to leave. She—
“Hiding?”
“Eep!” Meg snapped her head up so quickly her neck hurt. Her stomach rebelled again. Lady Felicity Brook-ton stood in the doorway.
Could the evening get any worse?
“I’m not hiding.”
Felicity snorted. “Liar.”
“I assure you, I was just…that is, I wished to…I felt—” Oh, why bother to dissemble? It was patently clear Felicity did not believe a word she was saying. “All right, I suppose I am hiding.”
“Couldn’t take the old cats sharpening their claws on you, hmm? They do so like a tasty tidbit of gossip, and you’ve presented them with a plate full. Aging spinster, marquis’s sister-in-law, disappearing into the bushes with a procession of men. Luring the reticent Mr. Parker-Roth into misbehavior.” Felicity grinned. “Delicious.”
“I—” Meg put her hand over her mouth. “I feel sick.”
Felicity pushed a chamber pot toward her with her foot. “I cast up my accounts the first time, too. It gets easier.”
“It does?” Meg sat down and drew in another deep breath. She avoided looking at the chamber pot. It was within easy reach if necessary.
Felicity took the chair next to her. “Yes. Of course, I was only ten the first—and only—time I let the ton upset me.” She looked away, jiggling her foot, her mouth pulled tight.
Meg had a sudden urge to touch the other girl’s knee in sympathy. “What happened?”
Felicity shrugged. “Nothing, really. I’d only been in London two days. Before then, I’d been living in the country with my mother. But she died, so the servants shipped me up to the evil earl.” She smiled briefly. “My father was rather appalled to see me standing on his doorstep.”
“Would no one else take you in?” Meg tried to keep the horror out of her voice, but a ten-year-old girl in Needham’s care…?
“No. I suppose the earl could have sent me back to the country for the servants to mind, but he didn’t. I think he forgot about me almost immediately. And it wasn’t so bad, once I adjusted.”
“Oh.” Meg could not imagine it, but then, she had grown up with Papa. He might be forgetful, especially when he was deep in a Greek translation, but there was no question he loved her.
“Anyway,” Felicity said, “the second day I was in London, I wandered over to the garden in the center of the square. I heard a girl laughing, and then I saw Lady Mary Cleveland playing by the fountain.” She glanced at Meg. “I thought I’d found a friend—until her mother rushed up to save her from my evil influence.”
“Lady Cleveland is a bit of a high stickler.”
Felicity snorted. “That is an understatement. She looked at me as though I were the devil incarnate. She grabbed Lady Mary and pulled her away, all the while screaming at the nursemaid”—Felicity’s voice took on a mocking tone—“Didn’t you know she was Needham’s daughter?”
“That’s awful.”
Lady Felicity shrugged again. “Actually it was an excellent introduction to the ton. I learned an important lesson that day which I will now share with you. T
he only way to survive in Town is to not give a damn what anyone thinks.” She shook her head. “I did try to conform when I made my come-out, but I soon realized it was hopeless. So now I do what I want. As long as I’m moderately discreet, I am received most places. Not by the Lady Clevelands of the ton, of course, but since I find them colossally boring, I don’t mind having their doors shut in my face.”
“I see.” Meg swallowed. A ten year old subjected to such venom…Poor Felicity. But she was right. Meg straightened her shoulders. She had long thought the ton silly and vain, yet here she was, falling into the trap of caring about their judgment. She would not continue to do so.
“Well, I didn’t follow you in here to give you advice,” Felicity said.
“You followed me?”
“Yes. I have a question for you. Charlotte—Baroness Tynweith, the former Duchess of Hartford—said she saw you at Lady Palmerson’s the night of the…incident with Mr. Parker-Roth.”
Meg stiffened. She definitely did not wish to discuss that night.
Felicity leaned forward. “Charlotte said you went into the garden with Lord Bennington, not Mr. Parker-Roth. So why isn’t the viscount’s name the one being linked to yours?”
Meg cleared her throat. “It’s slightly complicated.”
“How complicated?”
“Really, Lady Felicity, I don’t believe—”
Felicity held up her hand. “I’ll make it simple for you. I don’t need to—or care to—know the details. Just answer me this—do you have an interest in Lord Bennington?”
“No!” What a revolting thought. To be subjected to that man’s mauling again…perhaps she would have need of that chamber pot. “Definitely not.”
“Good.” Felicity grinned. “I asked because I do have an interest in him.”
“I see.” Should she warn Felicity that Bennington’s lips bore a close resemblance to slugs? Ridiculous. Felicity was quite capable of making her own judgment on that subject. “You are more than welcome to him.”
“Thank you. Now, shall we return to the ballroom?”
The ballroom? Face the tittering, staring, gossiping ton?
“I’m not certain that would be a good idea.” Meg’s stomach twisted again. She might not care what society thought, but she certainly did not wish to subject herself to its nasty scrutiny.
“Well, you can’t spend all evening lurking in here. Or did you come especially to admire Lady Easthaven’s rather garish taste in furniture?”
Meg dropped her gaze to the gilded, winged sphinxes supporting her chair’s arms, sphinxes with rather prominent breasts—
“No, of course not.”
“Then come.” Lady Felicity stood. “Show some courage.”
Was Lady Felicity intimating she was a coward? Meg stood up quickly—and remembered the whispering she’d fled. Perhaps cowardice wasn’t completely despicable. It was more…prudence. If she stayed here—
She heard giggling approaching. Oh, no. She closed her eyes briefly. Please let whoever was approaching be headed somewhere else—but where else could they be headed?
She heard the sharp intake of breath and looked to the doorway. Two little debutantes stood frozen on the threshold, identical looks of horror on their faces as they glanced from Meg to Felicity and back.
“Don’t worry, girls,” Felicity said. “We were just leaving.” She turned and offered her arm to Meg, a slight smile twisting her lips. “Coming, Miss Peterson?”
Meg hesitated for one heartbeat only.
“Yes, Lady Felicity, I am.”
She linked arms with evil Lord Needham’s daughter and swept past the cowering young girls.
Chapter 9
“My abject apologies. I mistook you for someone else.” Parks would have withdrawn without comment if he could have, but Lord Dawson had seen him.
Grace turned in her husband’s arms. It was too dark to see if her cheeks were the same shade as the hair that now tumbled over her shoulders.
“Did you?” Dawson grinned. “I wonder whom you were looking for?”
“I wasn’t looking for anyone.” A small mistruth. “I came out for the air—it is exceedingly stuffy inside. When I saw there was someone here, I assumed—” He was not going to say what he assumed. “Well, I have already apologized for intruding.” Damn, he was blushing now. Thank God for the dim light. “I’ll just be on my way. Please, carry on with what you were doing.” Ack. He hadn’t actually said that, had he? Dim light or no, if he kept on this way, his face would illuminate this entire section of London.
Dawson had the most annoyingly white, perfect teeth.
“Right. I’ll be delighted to resume my activities. Where were we, love?”
“Oh, stop it, David.” Grace adjusted her bodice and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Your levity will be your undoing.” She smiled. “How are you, John?”
“I’m well.” He’d be better if he could escape this little scene. He got along fine with Grace and Dawson. There were no hard feelings on his part. Hell, the two had been wed for years now; he’d had more than enough time to come to terms with…things. But that still did not mean he wished to stand here chatting with them. Especially given what they had been doing—and were going to resume doing as soon as he left. He could tell Dawson was anxious to get back to making love to his wife.
Really, couldn’t the man wait until they returned home? It was unfortunate that he’d stumbled upon them, but Dawson should have anticipated such an occurrence. It was a crowded social gathering.
“Were you touring Lord Easthaven’s garden, John?” Grace sounded amused. She’d always thought his fascination with botany odd. It hadn’t mattered. She’d been beautiful and charming and her father’s land abutted his own. They’d known each other since childhood.
“Hardly. Easthaven has a most plebian selection of plantings, and his gardeners should be reprimanded for neglecting to take proper care of them. This yew, for example, is in serious need of pruning.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Dawson said, “I rather like its bushiness. It was serving as an admirable screen.” He laughed. “Did you ever think Easthaven might wish to give his guests a variety of opportunities to enjoy themselves in the foliage?”
“David! I’m certain John does not know what you mean.”
Not know what he meant? Did Grace think him a eunuch? True, he’d never tried to get her alone in the shrubbery, but that did not mean he wasn’t completely aware of the possibilities overgrown vegetation afforded.
Dawson sent him a commiserating look. “If the rumors flying through the ballroom are true, Grace, Parker-Roth knows exactly what I mean.”
Grace frowned. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that, John. Who is this Miss Peterson?”
“She’s the sister of the Marchioness of Knightsdale. Her father is a vicar, I believe.” There was something stuck in his throat. He attempted to clear it. His mouth was infernally dry as well. “You really cannot listen to rumors, Lady Dawson.”
“Really, John, you are being absurd. We grew up together, after all. If it hadn’t been for that unfortunate misunderstanding—”
“Misunderstanding!” He bit his lip. He’d promised himself he would not discuss the matter with her. “Yes, right. The misunderstanding.”
Grace put her hand on his arm. “I’ve tried to apologize. You know I have. It was all my fault. I should have stood up to Father sooner. And I did love you—I do love you—just more as a sister than a wife.”
Good God. Could this evening get more embarrassing? “Yes, well, that really is neither here nor there. I mean, water over the dam, don’t you know. Ancient history and all that. Say no more. Please.”
“But I must, John.”
Dawson put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Grace, I think Parker-Roth would rather you spoke of something else.” He laughed. “Actually I think the man would prefer you held your tongue and let him escape back to the ballroom.”
“Well, I can’t,
David.” Grace squeezed Parks’s arm. “John, I want you to be happy. It has plagued me all these years that I caused you pain. It was not well done of me—not well done at all.”
“Please, Lady Dawson—”
She shook his arm. “I should have come to church and stood in front of your family and all your friends and explained. I should never have left you to face them alone. I have wanted to beg your pardon ever since—I am begging it now.”
“There’s no need to apologize. It was—” It was the most painful moment of his life. But Grace was clearly contrite. And he—he just wanted to have this conversation over. “It was four years ago. Do not give it another thought.”
“But it is not fair. I’ve been so happy.” She leaned her head on Dawson’s chest. “And I think you’ve not been.”
“Lady Dawson, please.” Damn. He’d thought he’d always feel unrequited love for Grace, but at the moment all he felt was annoyance. Couldn’t she understand he truly did not wish to discuss this topic? He glanced at Dawson. The man smiled sympathetically and shrugged.
He didn’t need sympathy, he needed action. Lord Dawson should haul Grace back inside—or back into the bushes. Anything to distract her from her current focus—him.
“Is this Miss Peterson someone who can make you happy, John?”
Parks looked hopefully into the sky. Perhaps a sudden storm would come up and put a period to this uncomfortable conversation. No, not conversation—monologue.
There was not a cloud in sight.
“You must not marry her if she will make your life miserable, John—and I’m afraid she may do just that. She does not have the best reputation. It’s rumored she’s been vanishing into the shrubbery with men all Season.”
Anger surged in his gut.
“Lady Dawson, you must not speak ill of Miss Peterson.” Damn, where had that come from? Well, any emotion was better than his current paralyzing embarrassment. He took a steadying breath. “I am sorry to say it, but I must ask you not to concern yourself with my affairs any longer.”
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