Sally MacKenzie Bundle (253 page)

“But how did you persuade your oldest three children to wed? There was no title at stake, and, in any event, your husband is obviously very much alive.”

Da laughed. “Thank you, Lady Brentwood, for that astute observation.”

Mama laughed, too. “I must tell you, when he gets lost in creating one of his sonnets, I sometimes wonder whether he is still breathing.”

“And what about when you are in your studio painting?” Da said.

Oh, God. Stephen saw the expression in his mother’s eyes. He feared he knew what was coming.

“You are quite aware that I’m alive, sir. You are usually there with me, are you not?”

Not only was Da with her, he was usually posing naked—and, much as Stephen shuddered to imagine it, one thing generally led to another. He’d learned very early in life not to disturb his parents when they were together in Mama’s studio.

He took another swallow of brandy.

“I must confess, Lady Brentwood, that I had nothing to do with my children’s matrimonial choices,” Mama said, “though it certainly wasn’t for lack of trying. Jane was firmly on the shelf in her eighth Season when she settled on Viscount Motton. And John . . . I thought I’d have to convince some young woman to dress up as an exotic flower to catch his attention.”

Da snorted. “They both managed to get themselves caught up in a scandal—that’s what forced them to the altar.”

“Ah, but you know they are both deeply in love, sir,” Mama said.

“Oh, yes, but if it weren’t for the scandal, I’ll wager John, at least, would not have had the wit to marry.” Da raised his brandy glass to Stephen. “Congratulations on being the first of our children to propose without the weight of society’s displeasure forcing you to bended knee.”

An uncomfortable silence seized the room. Stephen studied his brandy as if it were the elixir of life.

“Is there something you’ve neglected to tell us, Stephen?” Mama asked.

Anne waved good-bye to Mr. and Mrs. Parker-Roth as Stephen’s carriage pulled away. They were both very pleasant even after they’d learned the embarrassing details of their son’s betrothal, but still Anne had never been so happy to see two people’s backs in all her life.

“Shall we go for a stroll in the park?” Stephen asked, gesturing to the center of the square.

“Yes. That would be lovely.” She did not want to go back inside and risk encountering Clorinda and Lady Brentwood again. And they did need to discuss how and where she’d meet him to tell him her secret.

They crossed to the little park. She could tell him now . . . Her stomach clenched, and sweat blossomed on her palms.

Yes, she was a coward; she wanted to put that interview off as long as she could. And the park was not private enough. Anyone could stroll by at the most inopportune moment or be close enough to hear her confession. If Stephen reacted violently—she wasn’t concerned he would hurt her, of course, but he might well raise his voice or reveal his anger in his gestures—she didn’t want any witnesses. She wanted an enclosed spot where she could be certain he was her only audience.

She swallowed her nerves and looked up at him. “Why didn’t you accompany your parents to the Pulteney ?”

He grinned as he unlatched the park gate and held it open for her. “I didn’t want to subject myself to an inquisition. You may have noticed my mother can be very tenacious.”

“But shouldn’t you tell them the truth?”

“What do you mean?” Stephen led her over to a bench and dusted it off with his handkerchief.

She sat, looking around while he took the place next to her. She didn’t see anyone else, but it paid to be cautious. She leaned toward him and whispered, “You should tell them our betrothal is a sham.”

“Anne, my love, our betrothal is not a sham—it is very real. I announced it at Lord Kenderly’s dinner and the notice has been published in the papers.”

“Shh!” She glanced around again. “Lower your voice. Anyone might hear you.”

“I don’t care if they do. In fact, I think I’ll climb up on this bench right now and shout it out in case anyone is nearby.”

Dear God, surely the man wouldn’t be so nonsensical ?

It looked very much as if he would; he was beginning to get to his feet. She lunged, grabbing his arm. “You can’t do that.”

“I can. Watch me.” He started to peel her fingers off his person.

“No!” She bit her lip and tried to speak quietly. “Please don’t, at least not until after I tell you . . . what I have to tell you.”

He looked at her. “It won’t change anything.”

“It
will
.”

“It will not.” He raised his eyebrow. “What did you do, murder someone?”

“Shh!” She looked over her shoulder. Why would he not be more discreet? “No, I—” She should tell him right now . . . but she couldn’t. Tonight in private, she would tell him then. She must. She was dissembling with him far worse than he was with his parents. “I will tell you everything tonight, I swear. Have you hit upon a place for us to meet?”

His blue eyes had turned gray with concern, but he didn’t press her further. “I think the best place might be your room.”

“My
bed
room?” Her voice squeaked, her heart suddenly beating a wild tattoo in her chest. To have Stephen in her bedroom . . . the notion was beyond shocking. What if they were discovered?

She took a deep breath to calm her nerves. They would not be discovered—she would be sure to lock the door. And they would be very much alone. No one would disturb them. They would have all the time they needed to discuss their situation.

And there was a bed . . .

She shook her head. Whom was she fooling? Once Stephen heard she was no longer a virgin, he would leave in disgust.

But if he didn’t leave . . . Perhaps he would be willing—since he’d then know he couldn’t take her virtue as she had none—to finish what he’d started in the green sitting room and again in his carriage.

She would ask him to do it. Once she’d managed to tell him her secret, she’d have nothing to lose. She wanted to know what the act was like in a bed with a kind gentleman. And this time she would be able to give him some relief for his painful stiffness.

“Unless you object, of course.” He was watching her carefully. “I couldn’t think of a better place that met your requirements for privacy.”

“N-no, I don’t ob-object.” She took another deep breath. “But how is it to be accomplished without anyone knowing?”

“You are promised to the Palmerson ball this evening, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” A hideous thought struck her. “Will your parents be there?”

“Possibly.” Stephen smiled. “But you will not.”

“I won’t?”

“No, you’ll be sick. Pick any illness you care to, as long as it’s not dire. Tell your cousin and Evie you have the headache or an unsettled stomach or are merely out of curl. Just make it something you can recover from by morning.”

More lies—though this wouldn’t truly be a lie. Her stomach was definitely unsettled and her head was pounding. “And what if they decide to stay home to keep me company?”

“Assure them you will do much better alone as all you need is a bit of quiet and a chance to rest or maybe even sleep. Tell them you intend to go directly to bed as soon as they leave.”

Go to bed . . . her stomach shivered. “All right.”

“Good. Now where is your room?”

“On the north back corner. I’ll be sure the curtains are open so you can see the light.”

“Splendid. And is there a tree or a sturdy vine nearby?”

“What?” Stephen wasn’t intending to pursue his botanical interests now, was he?

He looked slightly exasperated. “So I have something to climb to reach you. I could come up the servants’ stairs, but that is more risky. You’d have to make certain the servants’ door was unlocked, and I might run into a maid or footman.”

“Oh. Yes, there’s a tree, and it’s in serious need of pruning.”

“Good.” He frowned. “The boys will be asleep by, say, nine o’clock, won’t they?”

She nodded. “They are in the old nursery area on the floor above the rest of us, and they are very sound sleepers.”

“Excellent. I will drag Nick along with me when I come to escort your sister and cousin to the ball. Then I’ll make some excuse at the appropriate time and leave, delegating the duty of bringing them safely home to Nick.” He paused as if waiting for her concurrence.

She nodded again; what else could she do?

“I’m not certain when I’ll be able to get away from the ball. I hope it will be no later than ten o’clock, but too much depends on circumstance. I don’t want to raise anyone’s suspicions.”

Good God, if people suspected he was visiting her bedroom—“No, you don’t want to cause any more gossip.”

“So listen for me. I will throw some pebbles against your window.”

“Yes, yes. Of course.” She hoped she could hear anything over her thundering heart.

“Splendid.” Stephen rose and offered her his hand. She took it; his grip was so strong and confident. He looked completely at ease as he walked her back to Crane House.

“You might wish to begin to act sick now,” he said when they approached the front door.

She nodded. That would not be a problem. With the combination of dread and anticipation churning in her stomach, she felt quite, quite ill.

Chapter 17

“Here without your betrothed, Stephen?”

Stephen turned to consider Maria. She’d obviously sought him out—he was standing in a remote section of Palmerson’s ballroom, half obscured by potted palms. Everyone else had realized he did not wish to converse this evening and had left him alone. Why did Maria need to see him?

He could think of no pleasant reason.

“Unfortunately, yes. Lady Anne is not feeling quite the thing tonight.”

“I’m so sorry.” Her expression and tone belied her words.

He frowned. How had it taken him so long to see the pettiness beneath her beauty? He’d always thought himself most astute.

Apparently not when he was letting his cock do his thinking.

“Don’t frown.” She looked at him from under her lashes. “Come dance with me”—she dropped her voice suggestively—“or walk with me in the garden. I’m sure I can raise your”—she lowered her gaze to his breeches—“spirits.”

He wanted to cover his privates like a bashful maiden—or perhaps he only wished to protect himself from attack. “No, thank you. I’m quite content where I am.”

Maria tittered. “Oh, you don’t have to pretend with me, Stephen.”

“Pretend?” What the hell did the woman mean?

She snorted. “That you wish to marry this girl, of course. I know you only proposed because of the scandal.” She sighed and shook her head. “You have such a misplaced sense of chivalry.”

Anger curled through his gut. “You are mistaken. I am quite eager to wed Lady Anne.”

She laughed unpleasantly. “If you think your little red-headed whore will warm your bed, you are far from the mark. Brentwood says she’s as cold as ice.” She curled her lips into a sneer. “He says having her is like swiving a bloody statue.”

He’d thought he was angry before, but he’d been mistaken. The rage now burning through his veins might well cause the nearby palms to combust. He clenched his hands to keep from strangling Maria. “You will not repeat such lies.”

“They aren’t lies.” She raised her eyebrows. “What, did you think your betrothed was a virgin? You poor deluded man—she must be a better actress than I gave her credit for.”

Damn it all to hell, Maria wasn’t lying. Detecting deception was a crucial skill to have when hunting plants; far too many people were eager to take advantage of foreigners. He’d honed his sensitivity to falsehood to a sharp edge over the years.

Anne was waiting to tell him a secret. Was this it?

Maria shrugged. “I suppose you can hope she’s got better at bed games through practice. Brentwood had her years ago. Who knows how many men have slid between her thighs since?”

He hadn’t thought to tell Nick he was unwell when he left early, but now it was the perfect excuse, no matter if society might wonder at Anne and him both taking sick. And he didn’t need to worry whether his brother was as good at spotting falsehoods as he was. He could not remember ever feeling so nauseous.

Maria leaned closer. “And don’t think you can come crawling back to my bed. My offer tonight was given only out of pity. By the time you realize your mistake, I’ll be the next Marchioness of Brentwood.”

It wasn’t well done of him, but he couldn’t stop himself. He’d trade unpleasant truth for unpleasant truth.

“Oh? You love the man so much you’ll follow him into poverty?”

“What?” Maria didn’t mask her alarm fast enough; he heard it in her voice, saw it in her eyes. She forced a laugh. “Oh, I see. You are lying to pay me back for telling you the truth.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You are.” She smiled, though the expression didn’t reach her eyes. “Brentwood is a marquis.”

“Maria. How long have you been in society? You know a title is not a guarantee of funds—more than one marquis has found himself at point nonplus.”

A tiny frown marred the perfection of her brow. “You
must
be lying. If Brentwood was in dun territory, I would have heard it. There’s not been the slightest rumor.”