Sally MacKenzie Bundle (239 page)

“Anne’s dress is beautiful, Cousin Clorinda.” Evie sounded most indignant on her behalf. “And it looks beautiful on her.”

“It certainly will attract a lot of attention. Are you sure you want that, Anne?” Clorinda’s tone left no doubt that Anne should definitely not want it.

Anne shrugged—and felt the satin slip over her nipples. “I can’t control what the silly
ton
chooses to look at. I like the dress.” The only attention she wanted was Mr. Parker-Roth’s, and she was getting a lot of it at the moment. He’d taken her hand and was raising it to his lips.

Damn the fashion for wearing gloves. His mouth touched the soft kid on the back of her hand—no kissing the air above for him—but kidskin was not as expert at transferring sensation as bare skin. Still, the pressure of his lips on her hand quite took her breath—and any coherent thought that had managed to form in the puddle that was her brain—away.

She studied his bowed head. What
did
she want him for? He was hers, in a manner of speaking, until the end of the Season.

Her blush must now be as bright as her dress.

“Anne’s gown is exquisite,” Mr. Parker-Roth said, “though nowhere near as lovely as the lady who wears it.”

Hobbes presented their coats, and Mr. Parker-Roth left her to assist Clorinda, who looked a bit like she’d bitten into a lemon, and Evie.

When he returned to help her, he somehow made the simple task of putting on her cape tantalizing. He stood a little closer to her than quite proper and extended his hands farther, bringing the cloth all the way to her throat instead of merely settling it over her. Then his fingers smoothed the fabric over her shoulders, causing her heart—and another part of her anatomy—to throb.

Her head told her to ignore these hot feelings; her body told her to enjoy them—and look for more.

He put her hand on his arm and covered her fingers with his. His touch felt both protective and possessive.

“Shall we go?” he said, turning to look at Clorinda and Evie. Anne had to swallow a giggle. The other ladies were gaping at him. Evie appeared delighted; Clorinda, incredulous.

“Mr. Parker-Roth,” Clorinda said, “I thought we understood each other.”

Mr. Parker-Roth inclined his head. “I believe I understand you, Miss Strange, but I sincerely doubt you understand me.”

“Well!” Clorinda looked at Anne. “I warn you, miss. Be careful of wolves in sheep’s clothing.”

“Of course, Clorinda,” Anne said, though the way she was feeling at the moment, perhaps Mr. Parker-Roth was the one who should take care.

The man laughed. “No one has ever accused me of resembling a sheep, Miss Strange.”

Clorinda drew in a sharp breath, her nostrils quivering with offended sensibility. “You are impertinent, sir.” She straightened her turban and sniffed. “Come, we should be going. We don’t want to keep Lord and Lady Kenderly waiting.” She turned on her heel and sailed out the door Hobbes was holding open.

Evie gave Anne a significant look—not that Anne could decipher its significance—and followed Clorinda, leaving her alone in the entryway with Hobbes and Mr. Parker-Roth.

She came back to earth with a proverbial thud. What was she thinking? She was furious with Clorinda, but she had to admit her cousin had a point. Much as she might try to play at being a seductress, she was at heart a country mouse—currently with her fingers on a wolf’s arm. If she didn’t take care, she’d be an appetizer for his next meal.

She jerked her hand back. No luck. His grasp was gentle, but unbreakable.

“Will you let me go?” she hissed, trying to free herself again while throwing a furtive glance at Hobbes. The butler was doing an excellent impression of a deaf and dumb doorpost.

The annoying Mr. Parker-Roth smiled. “No,” he said. His smile widened to a grin. “Never.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. I . . . You . . .” She wanted to expound on his duplicity in pretending to care for her when they both knew this betrothal was a hoax, but she restrained herself.

“I’m not being ridiculous, Anne. I would be delighted to explain to you in detail”—he treated her to an especially heated look—“here and now how I feel about you, but I don’t believe Clorinda’s patience or Hobbes’s very proper stoicism can survive that conversation.”

She glanced back at Hobbes. The tips of his ears were bright red.

“We will just have to have that discussion later, in a more private setting. Don’t you agree, Hobbes?”

Hobbes’s cheeks bloomed to match his ears, but he smiled and nodded nonetheless. “Indeed, sir. An excellent notion.”

“Hobbes!”

“Now, Lady Anne, don’t be silly,” Hobbes said. “And don’t listen to Miss Strange.”

“See? Hobbes is a very wise man.”

Anne knew her jaw had dropped again. If she kept up this way, she could hire herself out as a fly trap. “But—”

Clorinda’s voice came wafting in from the carriage, “Will you two hurry up? We don’t have all night.”

“Very true.” Mr. Parker-Roth urged her forward. “I’ll bring the ladies home safely, Hobbes.”

“Very good, sir.”

Mr. Parker-Roth waved off the footman as they approached the carriage and offered Anne his own hand to mount the steps. She took it, but stopped when she looked inside the coach. Damn. Now she realized the significance of Evie’s look. The traitor had taken the seat next to Clorinda, leaving the opposite bench—the very narrow bench—free for Anne and Mr. Parker-Roth.

“Have you grown roots, my love?” she heard Mr. Parker-Roth say from behind and then she felt his large male hand on her derriere. His palm, four fingers, and thumb burned straight through to her skin.

“In you go.” He gave her a little push. “Clorinda wishes to be on her way.”

She scrambled over to the far corner, squeezing herself into it to leave Mr. Parker-Roth the lion’s—or, in this case, wolf’s—share of the bench.

It was a wasted effort. Mr. Parker-Roth sat as close as possible to her. Any closer and he’d be sitting in her lap.

“Are you making room for someone else?” she muttered as the carriage lurched into motion.

He leaned even closer. “Pardon?”

She gave him a little nudge with her elbow. “You are crowding me, sir.”

He gave her a lazy smile and placed her fingers on his thigh! She would have snatched them right back, but they were, once again, trapped under the warm weight of his hand.

She’d never touched a man’s thigh before, even Brentwood’s.

There had been very little touching with Brentwood. A brush of hands, a stolen kiss—and then that disastrous morning, when, with barely a greeting and no kiss at all, he’d tossed her skirts up and done
that
to her. Thank God no one had come upon them.

She wouldn’t think of it. She
couldn’t
think of it. All her attention was focused on the muscular male thigh under her fingers. It was so hard and warm.

Evie grinned, arching her brows as if to say
I told you so
.

Cousin Clorinda glared, first at their hands and then at Mr. Parker-Roth’s face. The gentleman gazed blandly back.

“Sir, I am not accustomed to such scandalous behavior.”

“There is nothing scandalous about our behavior, Miss Strange. Anne is my betrothed, and we are in the privacy of my carriage. I am merely holding her hand, not making wild, passionate love to her.”

Anne could not be the only one to blush furiously at that statement, though to give Cousin Clorinda her due, the woman seemed more annoyed than embarrassed.

Mr. Parker-Roth shrugged; he was so close, she felt his shoulders move. “And who is to spread the unremarkable tale? You?”

“Of course not.” Clorinda favored them with another glare and then sniffed, turning her attention to the window.

Anne stared out the window, too, and tried to ignore the man next to her.

She failed miserably. He was now drawing lazy circles with his thumb on her palm. She closed her eyes to better concentrate on the sensation. Mmm. She shivered.

He leaned closer again, his weight pressing her against the carriage wall. “Cold, sweetheart?” His whisper teased her ear.

“N-no.” She cleared her throat. “No.” She was not cold; she was hot—very, very hot. And embarrassingly damp.

The carriage hit a bump, and the seductive devil braced himself—totally unnecessarily, she was sure—against the wall on her side of the carriage. She had a very close look at his waistcoat and cravat. His scent—shaving soap and linen and man—filled the air around her. She shivered again.

“Are you sure you aren’t cold?” He righted himself, a task that for some odd reason required him to slide his hand over her lap. “I could put my arm around you, if you like.” His eyes—his very blue eyes that were only inches away—laughed at her.

“Will you sit back? You are smothering me.”

“My apologies.”

He did sit back then, but his thigh was still touching hers. It rubbed and pressed against her with every bump—and there were countless bumps. She’d not noted before how uneven the London streets were.

The odd, hot feeling was growing in her again. Her nipples were hard; her breasts, sensitive; and the place between her thighs was damp and achy. She needed his—

No ! She drew in a sharp breath. She never wanted anyone to touch her
there
again. Once had been more than enough. It had been painful and messy and embarrassing.

“Are we almost there?” She suspected Mr. Seducer Parker-Roth had instructed his coachman to take the long way to Kenderly House—most likely by way of Yorkshire.

He smiled at her, a private, sly smile that only increased the annoying need in her. She’d wager all her pin money the fellow knew exactly how she felt.

“Yes. In fact, I believe the coach is slowing now.”

Thank God!
Anne tried to keep her relief from showing on her face.

“Well, it’s about time.” Clorinda didn’t bother to hide
her
relief. “I thought we would never arrive.” She fixed Mr. Parker-Roth with a penetrating gaze as the footman opened the carriage door and let down the steps. “I hope you know what you are about, sir.”

“Oh, I do.” Mr. Parker-Roth’s voice was cool and firm. He stepped out to help the ladies.

Anne took her first deep breath since she’d entered the coach. She hadn’t been this agitated since the damn house party. When she’d come home from that devastating visit, she’d felt so stupid and so . . . dirty. She’d felt as if everyone had been laughing at her, Brentwood included. All the other girls had seen what Brentwood was; they’d avoided him. But she hadn’t. She’d been the only silly idiot—

No, she wouldn’t berate herself. That was one of the terms of the peace she’d made. There could be no looking back. She’d accepted her . . . mistake and its consequences. She’d stopped dreaming of a husband and children.

Except, apparently, she hadn’t.

“Anne, love,” Mr. Parker-Roth said from the carriage door, “are you going to sit in my coach all night?” He grinned—she could see the whiteness of his teeth in the darkness. “I could climb back in and show you all the lovely things we could do there, if you like. It would surely scandalize your sister and cousin and it would most likely be outside even a liberal interpretation of acceptable conduct between betrothed, but I’m game if you are.”

She repressed the tiny voice that suggested she call his bluff and propelled herself toward the door. “Oh, no. We don’t want to keep Lord and Lady Kenderly waiting.”

He took her hand and held it, looking directly into her eyes, his face surprisingly serious. “Anne, I don’t give a damn about Lord and Lady Kenderly’s convenience, and their party can go on without us with my blessing.”

“Oh.” Her heart thudded in her chest. He really wouldn’t take her back inside the carriage and show her all those . . . things, would he?

He looked like he definitely would.

Chapter 9

Anne’s hand trembled in his grasp. She looked both horrified . . . and tempted. He was a beast to tease her, but he couldn’t help himself. He was too damn happy.

He’d been attracted to her even in her ugly dress and bonnet, and he’d certainly admired her mind and personality, but it was a great pleasure—and relief—to feel consuming lust for the woman he was compelled to wed.

He turned her hand over and pressed a kiss to her palm, grinning when he heard her quick intake of breath. She was so unspoiled and responsive—such a change from the experienced widows he was used to. “That is just the first of many kisses I plan to give you tonight,” he whispered.

Her eyes widened.

“Will you two hurry up?” Clorinda’s voice came from Kenderly’s doorstep. “We can’t be announced until you join us.”

“But unfortunately,” he murmured, “it appears I shall not be allowed to give them to you in my oh-so-comfortable carriage.”

“Of course not!” Anne was sputtering again, full of delightful outrage.

He’d best not tell her now about Damian’s garden. It had a number of splendidly leafy, dark bowers, perfect for private . . . conversations. He’d taken several widows out to explore the secluded spots over the years, but this time would be different. This time he’d be taking his betrothed. He would kiss her thoroughly, and then give her the ring that was currently burning a hole in his pocket.

“Mr. Parker-Roth, please,” Clorinda said. “We are waiting.”

“And not very patiently, eh?” he said to Anne. She choked on what might have been a giggle as he helped her down the steps and placed her hand firmly on his arm. “Here we are. You may knock, Fredrick,” he told his footman.

Fredrick, the impudent fellow, grinned before plying the brass knocker.

Huntington, Damian’s butler, opened the door almost immediately—he’d likely been waiting on the other side, wondering what was taking them so long—and bowed. “Mr. Parker-Roth, ladies, please come in.”

Huntington handed their things to a footman and preceded them to Damian’s drawing room. Lady Kenderly—Jo—came over the moment they were announced, towing along a mustachioed, bespectacled, white-haired man.

“How lovely to see you again, Stephen,” she said. “I’m so glad you could come.”