Sally MacKenzie Bundle (67 page)

Each minute they delayed increased the odds that some breath of scandal would reach his ears—but more, each minute meant yet another minute until she could tear off his waistcoat and shirt and pantaloons and…

“I can’t wait, Bennie. I’ve brought a few necessities for you.” She moved her hands under his coat and down to his buttocks. “You won’t need much. I’ve got the traveling carriage. Let’s just go. Please?”

He stared at her mouth. She ran her tongue slowly over her lower lip.

“Milord? What would ye want me to do with yer coach? The horses are gettin’ restless.”

“Take them back to the stables, William,” Bennington called over his shoulder. He kept his eyes on Felicity. “And tell Ferguson and Mrs. Ferguson I’ll be away for a few days.”

“Yes, milord.”

Felicity smiled as she heard Bennington’s coach move off. “Shall we go, my lord?” She touched the hard ridge in the front of his pantaloons. “I really can’t wait to get started.”

“Mmm. Neither can I, my love. Neither can I.”

Parks was late. He leapt down from his carriage.

“Come back at midnight, Ned.”

“Yes, sir.”

He hurried into the building as Ned pulled the carriage away. Damn and blast. He hated being late. He would have been on time—he would have been early—if he hadn’t wasted precious minutes talking to Mother about Miss Peterson. Now the Horticultural Society meeting was already underway. He’d missed the opportunity to converse before the program began. There’d be no chance for rational conversation until Rathbone finished droning on about the damn Amazon.

He handed the footman his hat.

“Upstairs—”

“Yes, thank you. I know the way.”

He took the stairs two at a time. It really was not fair. The one thing that made these trips to London bearable was the opportunity to discuss botanical issues with fellow horticultural enthusiasts. Now he’d have to sneak in and grab a chair in the back.

And why the
hell
did the topic have to be the Amazon? When he thought about Miss Peterson sailing off to South America, he wanted to hit something. Or strangle someone—preferably Miss Peterson.

She could not seriously be considering traveling with Miss Witherspoon and Miss Witherspoon’s odd companion, could she? Surely Knightsdale would put his foot down, or if he did not have authority over her, then her father would object. Her sister.
Someone
must talk sense to the woman.

The main door was closed, so he slipped through the red drawing room to the other entrance. As he expected, Rathbone had already begun his boring presentation. He scanned the crowd. All the usual attendees were present—Smithson, Palmerson, Easthaven. Perhaps after the meeting he’d have a word with Easthaven concerning the state of his garden. The picturesque was all well and good, but portions of the earl’s plantings were veering out of control.

The plantings were not the only things veering out of control in that garden. He felt an uncomfortable heat move up his neck to his ears as he remembered how little control he’d exhibited there. He obviously would not be discussing
that
topic with Easthaven.

He glanced around the room again. Someone was missing. Who was it? Not Eldridge or Tundrow or—

Bennington. That’s who it was. Odd. Bennington always came and always, without fail, sat directly in front of the speaker. He’d probably done the same at Eton, trying to be the teacher’s favorite. What could possibly have kept the viscount away?
He
didn’t have a mother yammering at him to wed. Well, he’d already addressed that issue—the man was engaged.

He shrugged. Bennington’s vagaries were not his concern.

There was an empty seat by a young man with the worst haircut he’d ever seen. It looked like the fellow had cut it himself—with his eyes closed. He slid into the seat and glanced over. Did he know the boy?

The profile was vaguely familiar. Actually, it was more than vaguely familiar. It was as if he were viewing something he’d seen many times, but some crucial detail was missing. What?

The boy looked up. How old was he? His face was so smooth, it couldn’t have felt the scrape of a razor yet. And he looked so…stricken. Surely the boy wasn’t afraid of him?

The eyes. He had seen those eyes before. Warm brown, the color of rich loam with flecks of green. He’d seen them flash with spirit…

Good God! It couldn’t be—

It was. It bloody hell
was
Miss Peterson. She looked down at her hands—now the profile was so clear. Miss Peterson had chopped off her hair, donned pantaloons—

Pantaloons. The woman was wearing pantaloons. Her thighs were exposed for the world to see. He could see them quite clearly. Well, not quite as clearly as he would like, since they were covered in kerseymere…

He grabbed her wrist.

“What the
hell
do you think you’re doing?”

Miss Peterson made a little squeaking sound and kept her head down.

He glanced around quickly. No one was looking at them; everyone was watching Rathbone, listening to him drone on. Thank God they were at the back of the room. He leaned over to whisper in her ear.

“We are leaving now. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

He let go of her wrist—and his fingers brushed kerseymere. He froze. He was touching her leg. If he dropped his hand an inch—less—he’d have his palm on her thigh. He could trace its length all the way to…

He snatched his hand back, dropping it in his own lap so it covered…anything that needed covering.

This was ridiculous. He must get his unruly thoughts under control.

He glanced at her legs again. Control might be out of the question.

Damn. He fisted his hands so they couldn’t find their way back to her delectable person. She had taken a horrendous risk tonight. Fear—and on its heels, anger—flooded his gut. Someone should teach Miss Peterson a thorough lesson.

At this particular moment, he felt like the most qualified man to do so.

She was going to be sick. Her heart was lodged in her throat. She couldn’t breathe.

Meg stared at Mr. Parker-Roth’s hand encircling her wrist. It was so much larger than hers. So much stronger. There was no possible way she could break his hold.

If she wanted to.

She clenched her teeth. Of course she wanted to. She wanted him to go away, to permit her to die of embarrassment in peace—alone.

“We are leaving now. Do you understand?”

She nodded, and he finally released her. His fingers paused, hovering over her leg.

She closed her eyes. He must be looking at her thigh.

She really would die of embarrassment. If only the palm tree were larger. If only she were already in the jungles of the Amazon. If only the ground would open up and swallow her.

She wished to be anywhere but here, sitting next to Mr. Parker-Roth, having him stare in shock at her scandalously pantaloon-clad thigh.

If he’d ever had an ounce of respect for her, the slightest glimmer of positive regard, it must be gone now. No respectable man could think kindly of a hoyden who dressed in men’s clothing and attended a male gathering, Miss Witherspoon’s friend notwithstanding. Well, Miss Witherspoon’s friend had not had the ignominy of being caught.

Mr. Parker-Roth was saying something. She swallowed to clear the roaring from her ears.

“What?”

“I said, you leave first. Wait outside the chamber door. I’ll come along shortly. If anyone notices us, they’ll think you are unwell and I’ve gone to assist you.”

She certainly felt unwell. “I’ll have to push past you.”

He grinned at her. He bore a marked resemblance to a wolf anticipating his dinner. Not that she’d ever seen a wolf, of course, but there was something distinctly feral in Mr. Parker-Roth’s expression. His eyes were…hot.

“That’s quite all right.” He looked around the room, and then back at her. “Now go.”

She stood. There really was very little room to get by. Couldn’t the man move to let her out? She looked at him. He flashed that particularly unsettling grin back at her and gestured with his head for her to continue.

Well, the sooner she was out of here the better. She started to squeeze past him, stumbled on his foot, and bumped her discarded punch glass.

“Ulp!” She reached for the glass in a vain attempt to save it. Instead, she knocked it over as she felt a hand run up her leg under her coattails. A large male hand.

Heat flooded her belly. She felt branded, though there was no pain—unless one counted the throbbing ache in a very embarrassing location. She watched a trail of punch flow from her spilled glass across the table top toward Mr. Wicklow’s elbow.

She hoped she wasn’t panting.

The hand continued across her derriere. If her poor brain weren’t so overheated, she’d muster the intelligence to scream.

No, men didn’t scream, did they? She should hit him.

She bit her lip to keep from moaning. He was tracing the outline of the kerseymere now, coming perilously close to the throbbing, aching…

She wanted him to touch her there. She dropped her head, overcome by mortification and need.

Mortification won. The trail of punch must have finally reached Mr. Wicklow’s elbow. His arm jerked off the table and he leapt out of his seat.

“What the—” He glared at her. “This is my best coat, you bloody bastard.”

The hands on her derriere were pushing her now. She didn’t need any encouragement. Mr. Wicklow looked ready to darken her daylights.

“So sorry.” She clapped her hand over her mouth. She did feel ill. Everyone was staring at her.

Mr. Wicklow stepped back quickly. “Good God, man, don’t shoot the cat here. Go on.” He flapped his hands at her as if she were a stray dog. “Go.”

She needed no more urging. She turned and fled.

Chapter 17

There was no point in waiting to leave now. Miss Peterson had caused such a scene, he might as well complete it by departing immediately.

He nodded at Wicklow, shrugged as if to say
Young cubs, can’t hold their alcohol, can they?
and headed for the door.

To be fair, the scene had not been solely Miss Peterson’s fault. No, to be honest, it had hardly been her fault at all. If he’d kept his hands to himself, she would have slipped out quietly. But zounds, how could he have helped himself? Her sweet arse was right there in front of him, begging to be touched.

Mmm. He paused with his hand on the doorknob. If only it hadn’t been covered in kerseymere. If only he’d had his hands on her soft, naked flesh. He could imagine exactly…

Bloody
hell
. It wouldn’t take anyone’s imagination to discern where his thoughts had traveled. One look at the bulge in his pantaloons would reveal all. And since all the men in the room thought Miss Peterson was a boy, he’d find himself a social outcast in short order.

Damn. At least the woman must realize now the danger she courted by parading about in men’s clothing. Not that he should be entertaining salacious thoughts about a gently bred young woman of course, but, damn it, a man had his limits. He was only male—more obviously male than usual at the moment, devil take it.

Apparently—
very
apparently—he had more pressing needs than he knew. He shook his head. His odd state must be due to the Sodom and Gomorrah atmosphere of London. He didn’t usually have trouble controlling his urges. Hell, he didn’t usually have any urges to control. His weekly visits to Cat dealt with that issue quite adequately.

He flushed. The last time he’d been in her bed, he’d caught himself contemplating a new fertilizer mix almost before the deed was done.

He blew out a short breath. He just needed to get back to the Priory and his gardens. Tomorrow morning he’d shake London’s dust from his boots and life would return to normal.

She took a deep breath the moment she closed the door behind her. She had to think.

She couldn’t wait for Parks to take his time exiting the room. She had to leave immediately. What if Mr. Wicklow came after her to demand satisfaction for ruining his coat? Or, or what if some lord felt the need of a chamber pot—there was a cupboard just to her right that might contain such a receptacle.

Or what if Mr. Parker-Roth wanted to touch her again?

Lud!

She covered her face with her hands as a wave of mortification crashed over her. He knew who she was. He had seen her in pantaloons and he
knew
. He’d had his hands on—

Ohh.

She felt ill. Heat burned her face and…other places.

What had he meant by it? He’d obviously been angry. She’d expected him to read her a scold at his first opportunity. She had most definitely not expected him to…she could never have imagined he would…

She had to get away. She glanced over her shoulder. The door was still closed, but it was unlikely to stay closed long.

Where were the stairs? She’d not come in this way. The room was very large, with red curtains and big gilt frames holding dark pictures of men in helmets and togas. Somewhere there must be a—

“Eep!” There was movement on the other side of the room. Who was it? She couldn’t see—the light was too dim. Someone was trying to save a few pence by limiting the number of candles. It was definitely a gentleman, though. One would have thought he’d have made his presence known when she’d entered, but he seemed as taken aback as she.

“Good evening, sir. Could you point me toward the stairs?” She cleared her throat. The man didn’t say a word. “It is rather urgent. I must leave immediately.” Lud! She heard the door hinge squeak. “Please, I beg of you—”

A male hand closed around her arm. She screamed.

“Good God, woman, do you want to bring the entire Horticultural Society running in here? Keep your voice down.”

She pulled back. Why wasn’t the other man coming to her aid? Was he afraid of Mr. Parker-Roth? Surely after her scream, he could not think she welcomed this contact?

“Unhand me, sir.” She gestured toward the other man. “You can see we are not alone.”

“What?” Parks looked across the room. “What are you talking about?”