Sally MacKenzie Bundle (242 page)

“Why not?” Mr. Parker-Roth asked again. “You aren’t lame or disabled; quite the contrary. You have natural grace. You’re a beautiful woman. You must be very popular at home.”

The man was incredibly persistent. “I was very popular with the hostesses. They counted on me to keep the older guests company.”

“So you were nursemaid to the ancients? Did you enjoy hob-nobbing with the deaf and toothless?”

“No. I mean yes.” She laughed. “You are being intentionally difficult. No, I wasn’t a nursemaid at all. I was happy to be helpful—and, yes, I did enjoy the rational conversation of the more mature members of our society.”

“Hmm.” His eyes captured hers—she had never before appreciated how much eye contact was involved in the waltz. “That still doesn’t answer the question of why you weren’t waltzing. Surely no hostess would expect you to stay the whole time amongst the elderly, or, even if she did, the men of the neighborhood wouldn’t let you languish there.”

“But everyone at home knows I don’t dance.”

“You do dance. You’re dancing now.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Only to avoid an awkward, likely quite unpleasant, conversation with Lord and Lady Knightsdale.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment of her point. “I grant you, it did seem an excellent time to retreat. Emma can be a dashed terrier if she scents a bit of mystery.”

Ha! He could give Lady Knightsdale a few lessons on doggedness himself. “Then I will try to avoid her in the future.”

He snorted. “Good luck with that. There’s no dodging Emma if she’s determined to get to the bottom of something.”

Nerves twisted in Anne’s gut. The Season was going to be torture with everyone pulling at her. She looked longingly at the chaperone’s corner—and noticed all the chaperones were looking back at her and whispering. Was her hem torn? She glanced down to be sure all was in order.

“Emma can be annoying,” Mr. Parker-Roth was saying, “but her heart’s in the right place, so I generally forgive her.” He grinned. “Or leave the country. That’s one of the splendid things about my expeditions—I can get away from an overzealous family. If you think Emma is bad, wait until you meet my mother.”

Mother?
Her nerves exploded into full-blown alarm, crashing up from her stomach to her head and producing a sudden throbbing ache. She hadn’t considered his mother.

“Your mother isn’t planning to come to Town for the Season, is she?” If she were, Anne swore she’d find some way to flee back to the country. Clorinda would just have to step up and fulfill her duties, or Georgiana and Papa would have to drag themselves back from their blasted antiquities.

“I doubt it, not with a new grandson to dote on. I suspect even her artist friends won’t be enough of an attraction to lure her to London this Season. She likely commissioned Nick to purchase all her brushes and paints. He’s a bit of an artist, too, so she can trust him to get exactly what she wants.”

“Really? I will have to ask him which shops he favors.” Dear Lord, it wasn’t just the chaperones staring at her, it was everyone. She’d assumed—obviously naïvely—that once the dancing started, people would lose interest in her.

“Do you paint?” Mr. Parker-Roth asked.

“Yes.” She would just try to ignore them. “I’ve no great skill, but I find it relaxing. I particularly enjoy painting flowers and plants.”

“Ah. So you have an interest in botany?”

“I do, though I can’t say I’m a scholar of the subject.” It was hard to ignore the number of females glaring at her as if they’d like to do her an injury. “I’ve even read some of your travel accounts in
The Gentleman’s Magazine
. I think it’s a shame—more than a shame—women can’t organize their own expeditions.”

He laughed. “My mother’s friend Agatha Witherspoon and her companion Prudence Doddington-Prinz do—they often go off on foreign jaunts, not that I would recommend it. When we’re married, you can come with me, at least until our first child is born.” His blue eyes held an oddly possessive, protective look. Her stomach shivered with . . . what?

Not with anticipation of traveling to foreign climes and painting exotic vegetation. Oh, no. It was something else entirely she looked forward to—

Children. His children and hers . . .

But he would be gone, searching for plants all over the world, leaving her in England to raise those children herself. She knew first hand the pain of having parents who were always somewhere else.

The orchestra played the last note. They were near the windows to the gardens. A cool breeze slid over her arms.

“Would you care to stroll outside for a little while, Anne? You look a bit flushed.”

She was flushed both from the exertion of the dance and the turmoil of her thoughts. “I shouldn’t.”

“But will you?” He leaned closer. “We are betrothed.”

“No, we’re not.”

He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “We are. The announcement will be in all the papers tomorrow.”

Damn. How had her life got so out of control so suddenly ? “I should look for Evie.” She glanced around for her sister and encountered a particularly acid glare coming from a beautiful, raven-haired woman in a dress even redder than her own. The lady looked as if she were deciding how best to separate Anne’s head from her shoulders. Heavens! Who was she?

“Evie is fine. There, see? She’s talking to Nick; it looks like he’s introduced her to one of his Oxford friends.” Mr. Parker-Roth put her hand on his arm. “Come, Anne. A stroll in the foliage won’t hurt you. It’s stuffy in here.”

“I already have a heaping serving of scandal on my plate.”

“It’s not scandalous to go for a stroll outside during a ball. It wouldn’t be even if we weren’t betrothed.”

True, if a stroll was all Mr. Parker-Roth intended, but something about the look—the heat—in his eyes made her think he had other activities planned.

“No, I—” She glanced over at the nasty, dark-haired beauty again. Good. The woman had found another male to interest her. She was talking to—

Brentwood. Oh, dear God.

She grabbed Mr. Parker-Roth’s arm and dragged him into the darkness.

Stephen didn’t know why Anne had changed her mind about the garden, but he wasn’t arguing. He stepped onto the terrace, and relief slid over him with the night breeze. Damn, he’d swear he had a target painted on his back tonight. He’d half expected to feel a knife slice between his shoulder blades during that waltz. He stretched his neck and rolled his shoulders slightly. Even women he hardly knew had been looking daggers at him.

“How refreshing,” Anne said. She glanced at the two other couples who’d sought the evening air and almost ran toward the farthest, darkest part of the terrace. Interesting. He followed along in her wake. When she reached the steps to the garden, she hurried down them. Even better.

“Take my arm, Anne. The path can be a bit uneven.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you.” She looked over her shoulder. Did she fear a stab in the back, too? He’d hoped she hadn’t noticed, but she’d been getting any number of killing looks as well.

He covered her hand with his as they strolled down the gravel path. It was quiet here in the garden. Damian had ordered lanterns hung from the trees so his guests wouldn’t stumble, but fortunately no one else had yet decided to go exploring. They would be the first—and he knew exactly where he was headed.

The music faded and the garden grew darker the farther they walked from the house.

Anne looked back again and stumbled. He caught her. “Careful.”

“Yes, of course. I’m not usually so clumsy. I”—she started to look again, but stopped herself—“I should pay more attention to where I’m putting my feet.”

“I won’t let any harm come to you, my love.” He wouldn’t let her fall—and he wouldn’t let the harpies hurt her either.

Maria had been the worst. Damn it, she couldn’t have expected him to dance attendance on her; he’d ended their connection two months ago, when she’d tried to trap him into marrying her at Baron Greyham’s house party.

He still couldn’t believe she’d had the effrontery to try such a trick. She’d been a widow for five years. She knew very well how the game was played. She was a complete lunatic if she’d actually thought he’d marry her. Even if he’d had an interest—which he most certainly hadn’t—he’d have wagered his yearly income she’d have rejected him. He’d always thought she meant to move up the peerage ladder—poor dead Noughton had been a mere baron. And her newest flame bore that theory out. Why else would she have taken up with the Marquis of Brentwood?

Now
there
was a match made in hell. Maria was beautiful, but spoiled and demanding; Brentwood was a nasty bully, balding, portly, and sneaky. Maria must have brought him—Damian would never have invited the blackguard. In fact, Damian would not have invited Maria—it was thanks to him and Jo Stephen had escaped her clutches in February. She and Brentwood must have sneaked in.

Damian had let the vegetation grow a little wilder here at the far reaches of his garden. The trees crowded the path so Stephen and Anne had to walk very close together. He grinned as he slipped his arm around her to guide her. He might be the King of Hearts, but Damian was the Prince. The earl knew to a nicety how to create an atmosphere conducive to seduction.

“It was very generous of Lord and Lady Kenderly to include us at the last minute,” Anne said. She looked over her shoulder once more.

“They were happy to do so.” He directed her down a side path to a delightfully concealing willow tree. “Why do you keep looking behind us?”

“What?” Anne started to look again, but stopped herself. “Oh, er, I was admiring the earl’s house. It’s so beautiful all lit up with candles, it’s almost magical.”

He laughed. “You’re a terrible liar.”

If there’d been enough light, he was certain he’d see a bright flush spread over Anne’s face. “I’m not . . . that is, I’m . . . well, it’s . . . it
is
very pretty.” She turned around to show him and finally realized the view of the house was completely obscured by vegetation. “Oh.”

He drew her under the willow. No one could see them now, but enough moonlight filtered through the branches that he could make out her expression. “Are you anxious, dear heart?” He brushed a strand of hair off her forehead. “Don’t be. I said I wouldn’t let anyone harm you.”

She made a noise, something between a gasp and a giggle, and shook her head. She took a quick step back.

“Eep!” She wobbled and started to fall, grabbing for him at the same time he caught her around the waist, hauling her up against his chest.

“Are you all right?”

She clung to him. “Yes,” she whispered. “I stepped on my hem.” She looked up at him.

Her lips were so close. Her body was plastered up against his, and her light, lemon scent clouded his thoughts. His hands slipped over her satin dress, over her back, her waist, her rounded hips, urging her even closer, settling her against his most insistent ache.

Celeste was a witch. She’d meant to drive him mad with lust when she’d made this garment. She was probably laughing right now, imagining him battling his male urges.

Let Celeste laugh. He had better things to think about.

“Anne,” he murmured, brushing her cheek with his lips.

“Ah.” He heard her breath catch as he traveled on to her jaw. Her hands slid up his chest to his neck; her body, all soft and feminine, collapsed bonelessly into him. “Oh.”

He smiled against her skin, a surge of lust and protectiveness flooding him. She had given up fighting and had put herself in his hands, literally. His heart—and another organ—swelled. He would not betray her trust. He would love her and care for her; wed her and keep her safe; give her children . . .

He buried his face in her hair and inhaled. Mmm. She smelled so good.

He’d always given more thought to
not
having children than having them. He’d taken scrupulous care that none of his pleasant liaisons led to progeny. But when he joined with Anne . . .

The obvious part of him throbbed at that thought, eager to get to the joining immediately.

He nuzzled the warm place where her jaw ended right below her ear, reveling in the drugging scent of her skin and hair, listening to her small, breathy gasps. She moved against him, pressing her hips more tightly against his erection. He was going to explode.

He couldn’t lay her down here in Damian’s garden, but, Zeus, he wanted to. If they were already married, he’d slip out the back gate and hurry home to bed with her. But they weren’t married, not yet. He needed to show some patience—he needed to find some control.

He moved down her throat to where her neck met her shoulder. She tilted her head to give him room and moaned.

Blast! His store of patience was severely depleted and his control was almost nonexistent; waiting until the Season’s end to marry was likely going to be physically impossible. He’d die of priapism long before then.

He outlined the neck of her gown slowly with his finger and watched her bite her lower lip. She arched a little, as if to encourage his explorations. He smiled.

He’d persuade Anne to wed by special license. People might talk, but they would talk anyway. Both Jane and John had married under scandalous circumstances; he’d just be carrying on the Parker-Roth tradition.

He dipped his finger a little lower so now he was tracing the line of Anne’s delightfully low cut stays. She sucked in her breath and arched a little more.

Celeste was a master seamstress. Of all the dresses he’d encountered over the years, her designs best combined an elegant appearance with a multitude of seductive details. He slid his finger just a little lower and grazed Anne’s delightfully pointed nipple.

He kissed her mouth to muffle her moan.

And really there was nothing wrong with anticipating their vows a little . . . just not on the ground in Damian’s garden. There would be other opportunities. He
was
the King of Hearts, though in the past he’d had little need to find private corners at public places for his rendezvous; his widows usually just invited him into their beds. But once in a while they wanted a little variety to flirt with danger, perhaps, or just to feel the sun on their naked skin.