Sally MacKenzie Bundle (254 page)

“Yet.” He shrugged. “That will change.”

Her frown turned to a glare. “Why?”

“Because I now hold all his debts.” He smiled rather grimly. “I don’t know how he’s managed to stave off the cent-per-centers so far, but whatever his ploy, it won’t work with me.” He narrowed his eyes and felt his lips pull into something certain to resemble a snarl. “I’m not feeling especially generous where Brentwood’s concerned. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve discovered this gathering is a dead bore.”

He didn’t have to push his way past Maria—he must have looked intimidating enough that she stepped aside of her own accord. Somehow he located Nick, told him he wasn’t in plump currant, and left the ballroom. He hoped he didn’t raise too much speculation, but he found he didn’t much care if he did.

Could Anne have done what Maria suggested? She’d said she had a secret to tell him, something that would keep her from marrying him.

Bloody hell! He wanted to hit something.

The footman at Palmerson’s front door must have thought he was a possible target. He handed Stephen his hat exceedingly promptly and took a step back the moment the exchange had been made. Damn. He slipped the man a larger vail than normal before he ventured into the darkness. He would walk. It wasn’t far to Crane House.

“Sir!” Blast. His coachman had seen him. “Are you leaving early? Shall I bring up the carriage?”

“No, Albert. Everyone else is staying. Nick will tell you when he needs you.”

“But, sir—”

“I prefer to walk.”

Albert looked doubtful.

“I wish to clear my head,” he added.
And calm my spleen.

“But the streets aren’t safe, sir. Please let me take you home. I’ll be back in plenty of time for the others.”

“No, thank you. I am not concerned. I’ve been in far more dangerous places than London, you know.” If only some misguided miscreant
would
accost him. He’d enjoy a good fight right now. “Oh, and I don’t know when I’ll be home—tell Nick not to worry.”

“But—” Albert clearly struggled with his misgivings and then forcibly swallowed them. He tipped his hat. “Very well, sir.”

Stephen nodded and set off down the walk. The last thing he wanted was to be cooped up in his coach—or to have Albert know he wasn’t going home but to Crane House. Albert was discreet, but not
that
discreet.

He waited for a carriage to pass before he crossed the street.

Anne and Brentwood. Damn. The thought made his stomach turn.

He sidestepped a pair of drunken dandies who were singing some bawdy song—which song it was impossible to tell as they couldn’t carry a tune or remember the lyrics between them.

Had Anne been playing him for a fool all this time, laughing behind his back?

He turned a corner and crossed another street.

Of course not. He was letting his imagination run away with him. Yes, there was a kernel of truth in what Maria had said, but only a kernel. He was as good at judging character as he was at recognizing lies.

Anne was no light skirt. She obviously had some history with Brentwood—unpleasant history judging from her reaction to him in Hyde Park, at Damian’s ball, and at the menagerie. He’d even suspected Brentwood had raped her. But he would make no assumptions. He must remember who had told him the tittle-tattle. Maria could be as venomous as an adder.

He would wait. Anne would tell him tonight; he just needed to be patient and let her do so. Accusations and harsh words never encouraged confidences.

He saw Crane House up ahead. It had been a good choice to walk. He still wasn’t completely calm, but at least he wasn’t as angry as he’d been when he’d left Palmerson’s ball.

Damn it all, he had to admit he was almost happy. Just the thought of seeing Anne made his heart—and another organ—lift.

He glanced around. Fortunately, the square was deserted. He’d seen Lady Dunlee at the ball, so he needn’t worry she’d spy him skulking about. He scooped up a few pebbles and hefted them as he slipped through the shadows to Anne’s window.

Anne paced back and forth in front of the fire. She was far too nervous to read or even sit still. She checked her clock—it was only five minutes later than the last time she’d looked.

Clorinda and Evie had believed her without question when she’d said she was ill—not surprising as she must have looked like death. The more she’d thought of encountering Stephen’s parents or Brentwood at the Palmerson ball, the more her stomach had twisted. Add to that the knowledge she must tell Stephen the truth tonight, and she was amazed she hadn’t embarrassed herself by bringing up the little she had in her stomach right there in the blue parlor.

Evie had immediately offered to stay home with her, of course, but Anne had managed to persuade her she neither wanted nor needed company. She smiled. The fact that Mr. Nicholas Parker-Roth would be coming with Stephen to escort them might also have been a factor in Evie’s decision to attend the ball.

Before Evie and Clorinda left, however, they’d insisted on seeing Anne dressed in her nightclothes and tucked into bed. Anne pushed her loose hair back off her face. It was beyond scandalous to receive Stephen this way, but then conversing with him in her bedroom would put her beyond the pale anyway.

She snorted. Why was she worrying? She was already hopelessly ruined; that horse had bolted years ago.

She looked at her clock again. It was almost eleven. Stephen must not be coming. She should try to get some sleep.

She pulled back the covers, climbed into bed, and closed her eyes. Brentwood’s ugly face appeared like a nightmare.

Her eyes popped open and she scowled up at the bed canopy. Blast it, Stephen
had
to come tonight. She wouldn’t be able to sleep until she told him her damn secret. Brentwood had almost spilled the soup at the menagerie today; he might not control himself the next time he was provoked. If Stephen found out from someone besides herself . . .

Her stomach knotted. She
was
going to be sick. She’d better get the chamber pot out from under the—

Ping !

She froze. Dear God! Was that . . . ?

Ping! Ping!

It was. Pebbles, bouncing off her window. Stephen must be out there.

She was tempted for just a moment to pretend she didn’t hear him, but then she thought of Lady Dunlee and shot out of bed.

She jerked the window open—and dodged as a pebble flew past her.

“Sorry,” Stephen called.

“Shh!” She leaned out and peered between the tree branches. He was standing in a pool of moonlight. “Come up before someone sees you.”

“Don’t worry, Lady Dunlee’s at the Palmerson ball.”

That was a relief, but still, Lady Dunlee was not the only person in London with sharp eyes and a ready tongue. And it was quite possible one of the Crane House servants might see Stephen and, thinking him a thief, attack him. There was more to worry about than mere gossip.

“Just hurry and come up.”

He grinned. “Eager to see me, are you?”

Did the man have no sense? “Stop talking and start climbing.”

He bowed. “Your wish is my command.” He slipped out of his coat, waistcoat, and shoes and then jumped to catch the lowest tree branch. He pulled himself up and reached for the next, moving quickly and confidently.

She leaned farther out to see if anyone was watching. No, thank God, but the ground was a long way down. What if Stephen fell?

She had a sudden vision of him lying broken and bleeding on the grass. “Be careful.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve climbed many trees in my life.” He wasn’t even breathless.

“When you were a child.” He was obviously in splendid condition, but he
was
thirty.

“No, recently as well.”

“In London?” What kind of a fool did he take her for?

Well, he was the King of Hearts . . . perhaps he had visited other bedrooms this way.

“Of course not in London.” He was finally level with the window. “I sometimes take to the trees when I’m hunting plants.” He grinned again. The man was amazingly lighthearted. “When I’m pursued by wild animals, angry natives, or competing plant hunters.”

She gaped at him. “I had no idea plant hunting could be so dangerous.”

He shrugged. “It can be.” He grabbed the branch above his head and lifted a brow. “Now did you want me to come in, or were you intending to keep me hanging out here all night?”

What was the matter with him? “Come in, of course. I cannot imagine why you haven’t done so already.”

“Because you are standing in the window, and I don’t want to knock you over. If you’ll step aside?”

She jumped back as he swung himself over the windowsill. Then he turned to slide the window shut and draw the curtains. His shirt pulled tight across his shoulders.

Mmm. He had a lovely back. It tapered down to his narrow waist and hips. And his arse—what would it look like naked?

His chest and arms had been wonderful to see—and touch—when he’d taken off his shirt before. What if he shed every stitch of clothing and stood here completely as God made him? She moistened her lips. She was feeling quite . . . hot. She—

She jerked her wayward thoughts back to the subject at hand, which was
not
Mr. Parker-Roth’s attractive arse.

She had to tell him her secret. Once she did so, he’d fling open that window and scramble back down the tree as quickly as he could manage.

He’d turned and was regarding her intently. “Is it hot in here? You look very flushed.”

“Yes, I—” Damn it,
she
was hot, not the room, as he’d clearly surmised. She cast around for a different subject. “When is your next expedition?”

He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “Perhaps in a month or so. Nothing has been firmly decided.”

Her stomach dropped. So soon?

No, the sooner the better. Once he knew her shameful secret, he’d want nothing more to do with her. She couldn’t abandon Evie; she had to stay in London until the end of the Season or until Papa and Georgiana returned. It would be easier if she didn’t have to encounter Stephen at every social gathering. And if he left without ending their betrothal—at least publicly—she’d be spared much social embarrassment. She would ask him if he’d do that. After all, he had kissed her on the street. If he hadn’t done something so outrageous . . .

Well, and she had kissed him.

She would never make that mistake again. If there were ever a next time, she’d know to scream and fight the man off . . . which she would have done this time if it had been any other man than Stephen.

She closed her eyes briefly. She was not blameless, but neither had she been the one to initiate the disaster. Surely Stephen would admit his culpability and be willing to grant her this small request. Then she would tell Evie and warn her to have nothing to do with Brentwood. Not that Evie would want to. If the marquis had been attractive ten years ago, he certainly wasn’t any longer.

To give the marquis his due, Anne had gone with him willingly. She had, in a manner of speaking, asked for her ruination. Evie would never be so stupid—especially once Anne related her story.

So all she had to do now was tell Stephen the truth. She frowned at him—and noticed his eyes were examining her nightgown. She looked down.

Good God! She could see her nipples clearly through the worn cloth—

She ran to one of the chairs by the fire and threw herself into its concealing embrace, covering as much of herself as she could with a shawl she’d left draped over its back. She poked her hand out of the fabric to point at the other chair.

“Come sit down. I’m sorry I don’t have any brandy to offer you. I didn’t think to—”

“Anne,” he said, walking toward her, “this isn’t a social call.”

“N-no.” Why wouldn’t the man sit down? His current position put her eyes on level with the organ that was making a very interesting bulge in his breeches. She could see its outline distinctly. She opened her eyes wider. Was it growing?

She glanced up. Stephen’s eyes were hooded and his lips curved slightly. The man knew exactly what he was doing to her. Well, he was the King of Hearts; what else could she expect? He’d probably perfected every method of seduction there was.

“Sit down!” She spoke sharply, mostly out of desperation. If he didn’t move immediately, she might give into temptation and unbutton his breeches. She must be the only fallen woman in the world who’d never seen the instrument of her ruination.

Ugh. Thinking of Brentwood and Stephen at the same time was obscene.

He sat. “You seem somewhat agitated.”

Somewhat? That was the understatement of the year. She wished she
had
thought to secrete some brandy in her room. She could use a good swallow at the moment. “Why do you say that?”

He grinned. “There are almost too many reasons to enumerate, but, for one, you’re clutching your shawl tightly around you when your face is almost as red as your hair.”

Her face promptly grew two shades redder.

“I grant you it does seem very warm in here.” He touched his cravat. “Would you mind very much if I got comfortable?”

“N-no. Of course not.” Anne’s eyes were glued to his fingers. “P-please, take off—I mean, do what you like. As you say, this isn’t a social call. We should be comfortable.”

She watched his hands as he slowly unwound his cravat.

It wasn’t good of him to tease her, but he couldn’t resist. Her eyes held such innocent passion.

He should forget Maria’s nasty words. Anne’s expression didn’t lie. No matter what her past, she wasn’t a light skirt. She didn’t welcome men indiscriminately to her bed. And if she had known a man before him . . . Did he really care?

His cock was telling him emphatically he did not.

Being in Anne’s bedroom with her temptingly rumpled sheets nearby made his desire almost unbearable. She was in her nightclothes, for God’s sake—her worn, thin, translucent nightgown. When she’d stood there in front of him, he’d seen the curve of her breasts, the outline of her nipples and delicate waist, and, most maddening of all, the shadow of her nether curls.