Sally MacKenzie Bundle (243 page)

Mmm. He would love to see Anne naked.

He slipped his hand fully into her bodice and lifted free one breast. He couldn’t rearrange her clothing too much—they did have to reenter the ballroom shortly—and he couldn’t leave wet stains on the satin, but he could, if he were careful . . .

He bent his head and ran his tongue slowly over one tight, hard nipple.

Anne squeaked and her hands flew up to grab his head. Her fingers twisted in his hair, but they couldn’t seem to decide whether to push him away or pull him closer.

“Oh, oh, oh.” Her hips rolled against his front in a delightfully stimulating manner. “Oh, sir. Oh, Mr. Parker-Roth, you must . . . oh!”

He’d love to torment her further, but her hips were tormenting him a bit too much. He couldn’t have any obvious stains on his clothing, either.

He laughed and lifted his head, keeping her breast cupped in his hand. “Anne, love, my name is Stephen. You can’t keep sirring and Parker-Rothing me.” He kissed the top of her breast. “We are betrothed, and I’d say our relationship is now rather intimate, wouldn’t you?”

“No.” She looked down at her breast in his hand. Her fingers were still in his hair. “Y-you shouldn’t do that.” She was panting slightly.

“I know, but you are too tempting.” He took out his handkerchief and slowly, carefully dried off her breast and nipple. “We don’t want to spot the satin, do we?”

She shook her head, watching his hand move over her. Her fingers had released his hair, but were now gripping his shoulders. He tucked her back into her stays and adjusted the neck of her dress, taking some time to smooth the satin over both breasts and down her sides, hips, and stomach.

“Stop that, sir.” She still hadn’t let go of him. Perhaps she couldn’t. He rather fancied he was helping her keep upright.

“Knees a little wobbly, Anne?”

She glared at him, but she still didn’t let go. “Sir, we should not be out in the garden alone.”

He clasped her waist and kissed her. “Stephen, Anne. My name is Stephen.”

She pulled her head back, but she didn’t struggle in his hold nor did she let go of him. “Sir.”

“Stephen.” He kissed her again, soft kisses, just pressing his lips to hers. They couldn’t afford deeper kisses now. They did need to go inside shortly. They might already have been out here too long. They were betrothed, true, but he didn’t care to have their absence become a topic of gossip in the ballroom.

“We should go,” Anne said. “I need to see how Evie is doing.”

“We will go once you call me ‘Stephen.’”

She finally took her hands off his shoulders to push on his chest. He let her go, and she glared at him. “Very well,
Stephen
.”

He grinned. “Have I told you yet what a beautiful voice you have? My name sounds splendid coming from your lips, even in that annoyed, martyred tone.” He leaned closer. “It will sound even better when it’s said with passion.”

She sucked in her breath and her glare sharpened. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She took a step back. “Now, I’ve said your name. Can we go?”

“In just a moment.” He reached into his pocket.

She put her hands on her hips. “Not another requirement. You said we would go in once I said your Christian name. I did so. You are not very honorable if you add—oh.” She whipped her hands behind her back. “What’s that?”

“What does it look like?” He held the ring up, but the moonlight didn’t do it justice. “It’s your betrothal ring. I owe you one, and I think this is perfect—a ruby to match your hair”—he captured her left arm and pulled it gently so her hand appeared from behind her back—“and your temper.”

“I don’t have a temper.” She fisted her hand so he couldn’t take off her glove.

“No? Then it is red to match your passion—yours and mine.” He peeled her fingers back one by one and slowly tugged off her glove.

She was shaking her head back and forth as she watched him slip the ring onto her finger.

“I will just have to give it back to you.” She cleared her throat, still staring at the ring.

“It looks better in the light.”

Her eyes snapped up to meet his. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean . . . I’m sure it’s beautiful.” She looked back at the ring, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m sure it’s perfect.” She started to tug it off. “I just can’t keep it.”

He put his hand over hers, stopping her. He wanted her to keep the ring, even if she did end the betrothal. He’d chosen it for her; it would never look right on another woman’s hand. But he knew better than to say that. He didn’t wish to have the blasted ring thrown at his head and be forced to search for it in the dark and the leaves and dirt. “Then give it back to me at the end of the Season. For now, you must wear it or people will talk.”

He put her hand—the hand with his ring—on his arm and started back to the main path. This had not turned out as he’d imagined it. He’d expected—no, obviously he could never expect anything with Anne. She was far too unpredictable.

He lengthened his steps. They did need to get back to the ballroom. If they were lucky, they’d arrive before the next set started.

“I’m sorry you’ve been put to all this trouble,” Anne said, “and expense.” She looked earnestly up at him. “I will take very good care of your ring. I promise I shan’t lose it.”

Irritation twisted in his gut. “It’s your ring, Anne. You can throw it in the Thames if you wish.”

“No.” She frowned at him. “I am just borrowing it. I told you that.”

“And I told you it was yours. I have no need of it. I’m certainly not going to give it to the next woman I become betrothed to.” He rarely got angry, but he was feeling uncommonly out of sorts at the moment.

“But it must have been very costly.”

“So? Do you think me a pauper, Anne? I might not have a title, but I’m quite plump in the pocket. I have my own estate in Devon. You needn’t worry you’d starve if we wed.”

She snatched her hand from his arm and hissed at him. “You are being purposefully obtuse. Since we are not really betrothed, I cannot accept such an expensive gift from you. You must assure me you’ll take it back when our charade is over or I will not agree to wear it another moment.”

“And you are being purposefully difficult.” He clenched his teeth. His voice would carry more than Anne’s lighter tones, and they were too close to the ballroom now to brangle. Someone would be sure to hear and spread the tasty gossip that the newly betrothed pair was already squabbling.

She put her hands on her hips again. Wonderful. If anyone was watching, he or she could easily guess what was transpiring.

“Will you be more discreet?” It was his turn to hiss.

Anne looked exceedingly mulish, even in this dim light. “Will you agree to take back the ring when we end this betrothal?”

“Very well.” He could agree to that, since he wasn’t going to end their engagement, and he was determined to persuade this prickly woman she didn’t wish to end it either. “Now let’s change the subject, shall we? Tell me what—or who—in the ballroom sent you dragging me off into the bushes.”

Chapter 11

Anne’s stomach performed a pirouette. Thank God it was empty or she’d have decorated Mr. Parker-Roth’s handsome eveningwear with a mortifying display.

She’d forgotten for a moment—she couldn’t go back inside. Brentwood was in there. She pressed her hand to her lips and swallowed determinedly.

“Anne, what’s amiss?” Mr. Parker-Roth gripped her shoulders. He sounded most concerned.

When was the last time anyone had shown concern for her?

“Shall I call for the carriage? It will take but a moment. I’ll have you home in a trice.”

Yes, that was it. She would say she was ill. She
was
ill—very, very ill. She could go back to Crane House—

No, she couldn’t. People would notice and speculate ; the gossip would only get worse. And this was Evie’s come-out. If she left, Evie would insist on leaving, too. She couldn’t allow that. There were so many extremely eligible men in the ballroom.

“No.” She took a deep breath. She was a mature woman. She could do this. “I’m f-fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” One of his hands moved to her chin, but she stepped back, careful this time to raise her hem so she didn’t trip.

She knew he was frowning at her, but she wouldn’t look him in the face. She stared at his waistcoat instead as she tugged on her glove, covering up his betrothal ring.

“Something is the matter, Anne. What is it? Why did you drag me into the garden?”

She couldn’t tell him about Brentwood. She’d never told anyone that story. “It’s nothing. I apologize. I was overcome by the crowds and the heat.”

She could feel his eyes boring into the top of her head.

“Anne, I’m not a fool. Tell me what is bothering you.”

He was not going to let her escape without an answer, but what could she say? Not the truth. Her thoughts darted like dragonflies, unable to light on a plausible reason for her dash into the darkness. If only he would leave her be. It was rude of him to press her so, but then she was rapidly coming to realize he was not one to let something as inconsequential as polite manners stand in his way when he wanted something.

“Anne.”

He was losing patience, though what could he do if she refused to answer? He couldn’t choke the truth out of her.

She didn’t care to find out to exactly what lengths he’d go to satisfy his curiosity. There had to be . . . ah, of course. “If you must know, I found it extremely unsettling to be glared at by so many women.”

There was a telling pause. Excellent. She’d got under his guard and scored a flush hit. She found the courage to look up. He was frowning.

“Glared at?” He cleared his throat. “Don’t you mean stared at? Our betrothal was a bit of a bolt from the blue, after all. People are naturally curious.”

“Perhaps the men are curious; the women are angry. They believe the King of Hearts has been stolen from under their noses by Crazy Crane’s bluestocking daughter.”

His frown deepened. “Damn—I mean, dash it. I don’t understand why women—some women,” he amended, raising his brows and giving her a significant look, “fancy themselves in love with me. I assure you I’ve never encouraged them to think so.”

Oh, she understood completely, as she was one of that silly sisterhood, though fortunately he hadn’t puzzled that out yet. “The angriest of them all was that black-haired woman.”

“What black-haired woman?” Did she detect a slight thread of discomfort in his voice?

“The beautiful one, of course.”

He grinned at her. “I’ve been looking at only one beautiful woman tonight, and she has distinctly red hair.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, this woman was definitely looking at you. She was standing with Lord”—she swallowed—“with Lord B-Brentwood.”

He clasped his hands behind his back, and his expression—and his voice—grew guarded. “Oh, you mean Baron Noughton’s widow. You think her beautiful? I do not.” There was a tinge of bitterness in his words. Had the woman broken the King of Hearts’s heart? She looked like the sort who would do so if she could—elegant and cold as ice.

“Since you mention Brentwood,” Mr. Parker-Roth was saying, “let’s talk about him. Was it his unpleasant presence that sent you fleeing into the vegetation?”

She couldn’t lie, but she might evade the truth a little. “Why would you think that? I’ve had nothing to do with the marquis”—
for the last ten years
.

He just looked at her and let the silence stretch out. Damn it. She bit her lip hard to keep from blabbing all the embarrassing details of her supremely ill-considered connection with Brentwood.

Mr. Parker-Roth was obviously a master at getting to the truth of things, a skill that must have stood him in good stead when negotiating for rare plants. She should try silence the next time she wished to discover what mischief the twins had been up to.

“I will find out, you know. You could save us both some trouble by telling me now.”

“What, and deny you the fun of ferreting out the story?” She was becoming hysterical. She drew in a deep breath. “Not that there is a story to tell—there isn’t.” She forced a smile. “Surely we’ve been out here too long? We should go back into the ballroom.”

“Very well.” He offered her his arm. When she took it, he laid his hand over hers, holding her still. Alarmed, she looked up.

“As I told you in Hyde Park—don’t be afraid of Brentwood. He’s a bully, but like most bullies, he’s a coward at heart. He can’t hurt you.”

“Ah.” Mr. Parker-Roth was wrong, of course. Brentwood
could
hurt her and with her, Evie. All he need do was let the word out she was no better than she should be.

“If he bothers you at all, tell me. I’ll handle him.”

“Hmm, yes. Thank you.” By then it would be too late. Once Brentwood told Lady Dunlee or any of the gossipy
ton
the story of Baron Gedding’s house party, Evie’s Season would be at an end. She, Evie, and even Cousin Clorinda would all be treated to the cut direct. Papa would come back to find them in deep disgrace, if not already returned to the country.

It would serve Papa right for abandoning them in Town.

No, it wouldn’t be Papa’s fault this time. This time the blame could—should—all be laid at her door.

She walked with Mr. Parker-Roth back toward Lord Kenderly’s ballroom, feeling much like she imagined one might feel walking to the French guillotine.

Stephen leaned against a pillar and watched Anne waltz with Damian. The red satin skirt of her ball gown outlined her long, slim legs as she moved gracefully around the room. She was so beautiful. She’d only needed the proper clothing—the proper dressmaker—to reveal what her sack-like dresses had hidden.

He shifted position slightly so his breeches didn’t outline an especially long, thick part of his body.

She smiled at something Damian said, and an unpleasant sensation twisted his gut. Zeus! Was this jealousy? Ridiculous. Damian was one of his best friends—and very happily married at that—yet at the moment Stephen had an almost overwhelming urge to forcibly remove him from Anne’s vicinity.