Sally MacKenzie Bundle (61 page)

“I don’t know about that. He looked rather impressed in Lady Palmerson’s parlor.”

“Urgh.” Meg dropped her head back into her hands.

“Didn’t you tell me when I was in a similar position that some men are afraid of matrimony, but settle down nicely once the knot is tied—like a horse being broken to bridle?”

“I am certain I was wrong. Mr. Parker-Roth is nothing like a horse. He is more like a mule—stubborn, headstrong, completely infuriating.”

“Ah, I see. Then he is a simple creature merrily eating, sleeping, and fornicating?”

“
Must
you throw my words back at me?”

Lizzie laughed. “It
is
amusing.”

Lord Manders grunted and squirmed.

“Oh, dear. I think Bobby is going to need a change in a moment.”

“I see.” There were some things Meg did not care to see if she could avoid them. She stood quickly. “I believe I’ll go watch the bowlers.”

“Coward.” Lizzie grew serious. “Just don’t be a coward about the important things, Meg. I think Parks is perfect for you.”

Meg shook her head. “Oh, really? Tell him that.”

Lizzie didn’t smile in reply. “I don’t think I need to tell him. Remember, Meg, Robbie didn’t want to offer for me, either. If Lord Andrew hadn’t attacked me and forced the issue, I might still be unwed—and Bobby would not be here.”

Lizzie hugged her baby. Meg frowned. The situations were not similar at all. “Robbie’s loved you for years.”

“
I
didn’t know that.”

“You would have if you’d opened your eyes.”

“And perhaps you need to open
your
eyes, Meg.”

“Balderdash. I—”

Lord Manders grunted once more and something other than his eyes opened.

Meg backed away. “I’ll see you later after you, um”—she gestured toward the viscount’s posterior—“tidy up.”

“You’re sure you wouldn’t like to practice changing a baby?”

Meg just waved and kept walking.

“Well done, Parks.”

Westbrooke clapped him on the back. Parks grinned. It had been an inspired bowl if he said so himself. He’d sent Bennington’s ball spinning off to the right, far beyond hope of scoring, and guaranteed his team the win. He bent to pick up his coat.

“I don’t believe you’ve made a friend, however.” Lord Frampton, his other teammate, nodded at Bennington. The viscount was definitely glaring at him. If looks could kill, Parks would be taking his last breath.

He shrugged and turned away. “Bennington and I have an unpleasant history.”

“Because you came between him and Miss Peterson?”

“Good God, no.” Parks stared at Frampton. The man looked sincere. He was not being malicious—just stupid. “Where did you get that notion? Miss Peterson has absolutely nothing to do with it.”

“No?” Frampton raised his eyebrows. “There were rumors Bennington was interested in her for her connections. Oldston told me he overheard the viscount talking at White’s about some expedition he needed funds for—a trip to South America or Africa or some outlandish location—and that he might take a stroll in the garden with Miss Peterson. Sample the wares, he said, to see if he could bear to make her an offer. Said he probably would, though. That he could bed any goose if she laid a big enough golden egg, and anyway, there were plenty of whores to warm a man’s bed if a wife proved too chilly.”

“Bloody hell!”

Westbrooke laid a hand on Parks’s arm. “You might want to keep your voice down to a low roar. You’re distressing the ladies.”

“What?” He looked in the direction the earl indicated. A gaggle of silly debutantes scowled at him and scurried away. Good. Fewer ninnyhammers for his mother to push toward him. He turned back to Frampton. The man was looking mulish.

“It’s common knowledge Miss Peterson has been entertaining in the bushes.”

Apparently the baron had the intelligence of a mule as well. “Miss Peterson has
not
been entertaining anyone in the bushes.”

“Oh? She tried to drag me off into the shrubbery at Easthaven’s just the other night, if you’ll remember.”

Parks took a deep breath and forced his hands to open out of the fists they’d formed. Starting a mill on the Duke of Hartford’s lawn with the majority of the
ton
as witness would not be a good idea. His intentions must have been clear on his face, however, because the baron stepped back.

He would not shout. He took another, deeper breath and let the red haze of fury dissipate somewhat. “I hope you have not been spreading that tale, Frampton. I assure you sincerely—it would be a very serious error to do so.”

Frampton had a death wish, it was the only explanation. The man blinked at him, then opened his asinine mouth. “Ah, yes, I see. I thought…well, pardon me for saying so, but the chitter-chatter had you declining to offer for the girl after you were found in rather compromising circumstances.”

He felt Westbrooke’s hand on his arm again. He shrugged it off. He was not going to kill Frampton…today. When they weren’t standing in front of so many interested witnesses, however…well, the thought was extremely appealing.

“Do you seriously think the Marquis of Knightsdale would have let me
not
offer for his sister-in-law if I had compromised her?”

Ah, a new concept found its way into the ass’s brain box. Frampton scratched his head. “No, I don’t suppose he would.” He nodded. “So you have a private understanding?”

“I am not at liberty to say.” He certainly wasn’t going to tell this idiot Miss Peterson had refused him.

“But why keep it secret? You must know the girl is subject to all kinds of unpleasant speculation.”

“You’ve just illustrated that fact.”

Frampton flushed. “Well, yes, my apologies. I didn’t completely understand the situation.”

“Damn right.” The situation was a bloody mess.

“Are you fellows going to bowl or not?” Lord Pontly asked.

“We’re done,” Westbrooke said. “Feel free to take our place.”

They stepped away from the competition. Unfortunately, Frampton was like a dog with a bone—he would not let the subject go.

“So why do you say it is not Miss Peterson who comes between you and Bennington? Stands to reason it would be. He wants her; you have her.”

Sudden lust kicked Parks in the…He sent a stern reprimand to his most unruly organ. He did not “have” Miss Peterson nor was he going to unless she changed her mind.

His body begged to differ. Begged and—

He looked to Westbrooke for assistance. The damn earl was grinning at him like a bedlamite. Obviously, there would be no aid from that quarter.

“Because,” he said, “—not that it is any of your concern, of course—Bennington has hated me for years. Long before either of us knew Miss Peterson graced the world.”

“Why?”

God give him patience. Did he quash the man for being a busybody or just answer his question?

Westbrooke finally found his tongue—regrettably.

“Plants, Frampton, if you can believe it.” The earl snickered. “Bennington hates Parks for his plants.”

Frampton’s lower jaw dropped, causing him to bear a striking resemblance to a codfish ready for gutting. “Why would anyone be at daggers drawn over greenery?”

Parks sighed. He was all too familiar with this reaction.

“Because Bennington fancies himself in competition with me. He is jealous of my extensive gardens and greenhouses, especially my collection of exotic specimens. That is why he wants money—to search for new plant species.”

Frampton continued to gape at him for another few seconds.

“Bloody hell,” he said, finally. “I never would have guessed.”

Parks did not care for the man’s tone. There was something about it…He did not think they were discussing Bennington’s horticultural ambitions any longer. “What wouldn’t you have guessed?”

Frampton flushed. “Oh, nothing. Just surprised, that’s all.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sure flowers and weeds and what have you can be fascinating to a, um, certain kind of fellow.”

Was the man insinuating…? No. He couldn’t be that much of a dunderhead.

“Surely you’ve heard of Humphry Repton, John Claudius Loudon, Sir Joseph Banks—”

“Parks!” Westbrooke was laughing again. The man spent far too much time grinning. “You’re wasting your breath. Frampton doesn’t read anything that doesn’t discuss horses or hunting, do you, Frampton?”

“Of course not. Should I?”

“Exactly.” Westbrooke nodded. “See anything at Tatt’s recently, Frampton?”

“Actually, yes. I have my eye on an excellent bit of blood…”

Frampton droned on about some horse he’d seen at Tattersall’s. It was probably a bone-setter of the worst sort—the man was a notoriously poor judge of horseflesh. No matter. Frampton could recite the collected works of Shakespeare for all Parks cared, just as long as he stopped talking about Miss Peterson. He let Frampton and Westbrooke walk ahead.

Miss Peterson. Damn and blast. To think Bennington was bandying about her name at White’s…the cad. He should have hit the bloody cur’s head instead of his wood just now. No, he’d rather have his guts for garters—literally. He’d stab his stomach with a blunt knife and carve him open slowly—

“Mr. Parker-Roth, a word, if I may.”

The Marquis of Knightsdale stood by his side, his face like stone. He’d been a cavalry officer—a major—on the Peninsula before his brother died and he inherited the title, and he looked ready to do battle now.

His stern façade was marred by one detail. He was holding a child—a boy barely out of babyhood—with the same curly brown hair and clear blue eyes as his own. Obviously his son, the Earl of Northfield. The earl stared at Parks, and then laid his head on his father’s shoulder.

“Papa, I’m
hun
gry.”

“How can you be hungry, Charlie? You’ve been eating all day.”

“But I
am
hungry.” The earl widened his eyes and turned down the corners of his mouth so he looked completely pitiful.

The marquis sighed and reached into his pocket, pulling out what appeared to be a partially eaten macaroon adorned with bits of lint.

“Here you go, then. Aren’t you glad I saved this for you? You wanted to throw it out, remember.”

The earl nodded, taking the biscuit and picking off the worst of the fuzz, before popping it into his mouth.

“Parker-Roth?” The marquis gestured with the hand that wasn’t holding his son.

“Of course.” Parks matched steps with the marquis as they walked away from the crowd. He should be nervous—Knightsdale obviously did not want to talk of the weather—but he wasn’t. He glanced again at the earl. The child gave him a wide, crumb-filled grin.

God.

He looked away. What was the matter with him? He felt…Well, something about Knightsdale and his son made him think having progeny would be a good thing.

He was losing his mind. He didn’t want children. They were noisy, dirty, destructive nuisances. He’d grown up in a family of six, hadn’t he? It had been chaos. It still
was
chaos when his two youngest sisters set to hair pulling. Most of the time he was forced to arbitrate their disputes himself. His parents…Well, he’d made the mistake once of seeking them out in his mother’s studio when the girls were fighting. Good God, he was never doing
that
again. He still couldn’t bear to think—

No, no children. He just wanted to be left in peace to work in his garden.

“I’ve been meaning to speak to you about my wife’s sister, sir. The marchioness is concerned—as am I—that there has been no announcement.”

They stopped at a shallow ornamental pool. Parks had been slightly surprised he hadn’t heard from the marquis earlier—in the form of an invitation for pistols for two, breakfast for one. Dueling was illegal, but the man had been a cavalry officer…

“Look, Papa. Ducks!”

“I see, Charlie.” The marquis put his son down. “Why don’t you watch them while I talk to Mr. Parker-Roth?”

The earl nodded. “May I feed the ducks, Papa?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have any bread, Charlie. We’ll go get some after I finish this conversation.”

The earl’s lower lip stuck out and he looked as if he were considering throwing a tantrum, but changed his mind when two more ducks landed on the water. He ran over to look at them—and they swam to the opposite side of the pool.

“Just don’t fall in, Charlie.”

“I won’t, Papa.”

The marquis turned back to Parks. “So, Mr. Parker-Roth, about my sister-in-law?”

“Surely Miss Peterson informed you that I offered and she declined?”

“Yes, after the incident in Lady Palmerson’s parlor. Given what I saw…well, I don’t suppose you need me to describe the scene that greeted the marchioness and me when we entered that room.”

“No. No, that isn’t necessary.” Knightsdale could only recount what he’d seen—Miss Peterson, half naked, sitting on Parks’s lap. Parks remembered
every
detail. God, remembered? They haunted his dreams—the weight of her soft bottom on his thighs, the silkiness of her skin, the light scent of roses that grew as she warmed under his hands, her sweet responsiveness—

Devil take it! His breeches were becoming distinctly uncomfortable. He looked away. The earl was laughing, chasing the ducks from one side of the pool to the other.

“What do you expect me to do? As I say, Miss Peterson declined my offer. A woman in this day and age cannot be forced to the altar.”

Knightsdale frowned. “No, of course not. I would never force Meg to wed.” He blew out a short, forceful breath, and ran his hands through his closely cropped hair. “It’s just that, well, the situation is becoming complicated. You must know people are gossiping. Meg’s reputation hangs by a thread. I am quite certain if I were not the Marquis of Knightsdale, the
ton
would have turned its collective back on her already.”

Damn right they would have. The shallow-minded, nasty gabble grinders were definitely whispering about Miss Peterson—Easthaven’s ball had proven that.

The earl was beginning to lean over the edge of the pool to reach the ducks. Should he mention it to the marquis?

“It would be one thing if Meg had taken a dislike to you, but that isn’t the case.”