Sally MacKenzie Bundle (47 page)

Alton’s hands froze. “You’re planning to leave Town?”

“As soon as I can.”

He sat back. “I will miss you.” His face was as impassive as only an excellent butler can manage. “Where do you go?”

“To the Continent with you, you lobcock. We are finally getting married.”

“Married?” Alton frowned. “Bea—”

“Shh.” She put her finger on his lips. “I don’t want to hear all your arguments. You’ve repeated them for years and I am still not impressed. You promised to wed me once Meg was settled. She is as near to settled as can be now. I’m no longer needed here—in fact, I’ve been relieved of my duties. I am, after all these years, free to follow my heart and I intend to do so.”

“I still don’t think—”

“Don’t think. I am going to marry you, Mr. William Alton, so just get that through your thick skull.”

“But—”

Bea covered his mouth with her own, ending one discussion, but beginning a much more interesting exchange.

“Charles, I’m worried about Meg.”

“I know you are, sweetheart. I’ve been watching you pace the bedroom for the last five minutes.”

Emma stopped by the fire and gazed into the flames. “What could have gotten into her? I never thought she’d do something so hare-brained as go off into the shrubbery with a man. She’s not a debutante. She’s twenty-one. This is her second Season. You’d think she’d have more sense.”

Charles grunted.

Emma scowled at the hearth. “I should have come to Town earlier. I know I should have. I thought about it when I received Lady Oldston’s letter, but Henry was getting a tooth, and you know how fussy he is when he’s teething. He won’t go to Nanny at all. I must have been up two straight nights with him.”

Charles grunted again.

“To be truthful, I assumed Lady Oldston was just being a jealous old cat. But then I got the note from Lady Farley.” She turned toward Charles. “Can you believe Lady Farley said Meg was no better than she should be? I was so furious, I wanted to come to Town just to wrap my hands around her scrawny, wrinkled neck.” She blew out a short breath. “And then Sarah wrote. I knew I—”

Emma
really
looked at Charles. He was sitting in bed, propped up against the headboard, covers down to his waist. The candlelight flickered over a vast expanse of skin—strong neck, broad shoulders, muscled arms and chest, the light brown curls sprinkled down to his…

“Are you naked?”

He grinned and peered under the bedclothes. “It appears I am. Would you care to see for yourself?”

Suddenly, she would—very much. It had been almost two months since she’d felt his weight. Her body ached for him.

She took a deep breath. “You are trying to distract me.”

“No, I am trying to seduce you—to lure you into my bed so I can kiss every inch of your body and bury myself in your heat.”

She grabbed the back of a handy chair. Her knees threatened to give out.

She tried to concentrate on something other than her sensitive breasts and the throbbing between her legs.

“Why didn’t you write me about Meg, Charles? If Sarah noticed, you must have—or at least, Sarah must have told James and he must have mentioned it to you.”

“Well, he didn’t.” Charles shrugged. Emma watched his muscles shift.

Meg. Think about Meg.

“How could James not have said anything? How could
you
not have seen what was going on?”

“Because, Emma, I’ve not made a habit of going to balls and other social events. I don’t want to hear the silly chatter that goes on there, and I certainly don’t need to see the latest crop of young girls.”

She straightened. “I should hope not.” She did not like to think of Charles looking at other women—or of other women looking at Charles.

He smiled briefly. “I go to the House of Lords, to White’s, to meetings with likeminded men. I come home and read—and miss you and the boys and Isabelle and Claire.”

“Oh.”

“And, as you say, Meg is not a debutante. She survived last Season with Aunt Bea. I didn’t think there was cause for concern.”

Emma sighed. “Neither did I, but obviously I was mistaken. What am I going to do?”

“Come to bed. You’ve fed Henry?”

“Yes. He should make it through the night now.” She smiled. “He’s a greedy little devil.”

“Just like his father. I have missed you dreadfully, you know.”

“As I’ve missed you.”

She came over and climbed into bed. Charles stretched out his arm, and she laid her head on his shoulder, putting her hand on his chest. He held her close.

He was so big and solid. She got used to sleeping alone when he was in London, but she much preferred having his comforting body next to hers. She closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling his scent, soaking up his warmth and strength.

She wanted this for her sister—this connectedness. This love. Would Meg find it with Mr. Parker-Roth?

How could she? Scandal was not a very good matchmaker.

Charles started stroking her hip, reminding her of all the other reasons she missed him.

“I should have come to Town when I first received Lady Olston’s letter.” She ran her fingers through the short, springy hair on his chest. “I should have been Meg’s chaperone instead of Lady Beatrice.”

Charles shifted to lean up on one elbow. He started unbuttoning her nightgown. “Emma, you had the children to care for. You know they are happier in the country.”

“Hmm.” His fingers felt so good brushing against her skin. She knew his mouth would feel even better. “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the children would do fine in London, and then we wouldn’t be away from you so much.”

He grinned down at her. “Well, I’d certainly like to have you here.”

And she would like to be here, if she could spend all her time in bed with him. She ran her hands over his shoulders and chest. She felt his erection heavy against her leg, and her body came to life. Heat and dampness blossomed between her thighs. She remembered so clearly it was almost painful just what he felt like sliding deep inside her.

Need and a sharp emptiness expanded in her womb.

He kissed her eyelids. “But London is not a good place to raise children. It is much too dirty and noisy. And if you were going to all the society events with Meg, you’d be exhausted all the time.”

“Yes, but—oh.” Charles’s hands were on her breasts now. She wanted his tongue and lips there.

“Meg is not a silly, young girl, Emma. She is twenty-one, in her second Season, independent, and strong willed. She is more than capable of making her own decisions.”

“You don’t understand—”

Charles put his finger on her lips.

“I do understand that you feel the need to take responsibility for too many people. Let Meg live her own life. You have Charlie and Henry and Isabelle and Claire and me to take care of. Isn’t that enough?”

“Yes, but—”

“Part of loving is letting go, sweetheart. It’s time to let Meg go. From what Robbie tells me, Parks is a good man. She could have done much worse. Would have done much worse if Bennington had been found with her.”

Charles sounded so reasonable. “Perhaps you are right.”

“Of course I am right. I’m always right.”

She pushed on his chest. “No, you’re not.”

He covered her hand with his and grinned down at her. “No? Well, I think I’m right in saying it’s time to stop talking about Meg.”

“Well…” She sucked in her breath as his hand skimmed over her breasts again.

“And I am also right in my opinion that this nightgown is very much in the way. I want to have your beautiful body naked under mine.”

He started to pull her nightgown up. She lifted her hips to assist him, and then sat up to yank the gown over her head. She sent it sailing off into the shadows.

“On that point at least, Lord Knightsdale, I will not argue.”

Chapter 5

God, he had to piss.

Viscount Bennington pushed himself into a sitting position and paused. His head throbbed, his jaw ached, and he felt every damn scratch from his encounter with Palmerson’s holly bush.

He was in Lord Needham’s house. He felt like hell.

He cradled his poor head in his hands. How many bottles of port had they consumed last night—or was it this morning? His mouth felt like the bottom of a horse’s stall.

He should have gone home after that scene in the shrubbery. He would have if he hadn’t stepped out of the alley right into Claxton’s path. Of course the man had wanted to know what had happened to him. He’d looked like he’d been set upon by brigands.

He had been. Damn Parker-Roth. The bounder had given him no warning, sneaking up behind him like that. He’d had no chance to defend himself.

But then what did he expect from horse dung like Parker-Roth?

Lord Peter emitted a loud snore from a nearby couch. Bennington considered stuffing his cravat in the man’s mouth. The linen was beyond saving anyway, covered with blood as it was.

Really, the scene in the garden had all been Miss Peterson’s fault. She had lured him into the bushes. Not that he hadn’t known what she’d wanted, of course. It wasn’t a secret. She’d been working her way through the men of the
ton
. At least he’d offered marriage.

He snorted. She was little better than a light-skirt. He was well quit of her.

Lord Peter must be the loudest snorer in Christendom. Bennington picked a snuff box off a nearby table and flung it at the man. It bounced off his shoulder. He didn’t waken, but at least he turned over.

Blast. Would Miss Peterson tell Knightsdale what he had done? He didn’t relish explaining to the marquis that his sister-in-law was Haymarket ware, but he would if he had to. He could only tell the truth, after all.

Damn, where was the bloody chamber pot? You’d think Needham would have several in evidence given the number of men scattered about the room.

He struggled to his feet. Perhaps Needham had a water closet, but he didn’t have time to go searching for it and he sure as hell couldn’t make it to the privy out back.

He couldn’t abuse the potted palm…it would just have to be the hideous urn by the door. The way he felt, he could probably fill the damn thing to the brim.

Lady Felicity rested her head against the cool glass of the window and watched the sun struggle through the sooty London air. One ray of light managed to reach the garden, illuminating the tangled mass of greenery.

Once she had thought the garden exciting, a place for endless trysts. Now it merely looked untidy. Well, of course it did. The gardeners had all quit. They were tired of not being paid.

She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead harder against the glass, swallowing the panic that was becoming her constant companion. How long before the
ton
knew her father was teetering on the edge of penury?

She took a deep breath. Calm. She must remain calm.

Perhaps society would not find out for a few more months. She had not known until just a fortnight ago. The signs had been there, of course. She just had not seen them.

She took another breath. She needed to get out of this house before her father was completely disgraced. She needed to find a husband while she still could. She needed…

Damn. She dashed the stupid tears from her eyes. Crying never solved anything. What was the matter with her? It wasn’t even the right time of the month for her to be all weepy.

She turned from the window, her eyes sliding over the empty spot on her bureau where the little china cat had stood. She winced. How could she have been so stupid? It had taken this to make her see the facts right under her nose.

The servants had been complaining and then leaving, but her father often didn’t bother himself with paying wages on time. Certainly he would never pay a tradesman promptly. He still had his brothels, his gambling dens. He went out every night. How was she to know?

And then she’d come home from the Amberson soiree and found the china cat gone. She’d stared at the blank spot, the clear round circle surrounded by dust, and realized how many other empty circles she’d noticed recently. She’d gone directly to the earl.

At first he’d said the maid had broken it, but she’d heard the lie in his voice. His words had been just a little too smooth—and the maid had left the week before. Finally he’d told her the truth. He’d sold it.

She gripped her bedpost tightly. Why? It was just a trumpery piece of crockery. She’d only kept it because it had belonged to her mother. He couldn’t have gotten more than a farthing or two for it.

When she’d asked, he’d shrugged and said he was sorry, but he was that desperate. He’d made one bad investment too many, that was all. He would come about shortly.

Once she heard he’d gone to the cent-per-centers, she knew there was little hope of that.

What was she going to do?

Marry. A husband would solve her problems. She’d been such a fool to waste four years of her life running after the Earl of Westbrooke.

Enough. She was like a dog chasing its tail. Her senseless pursuit of Westbrooke was in the past. She had to look to the future. Quickly. Surely she could find a man to marry before her father’s financial situation became known. It could not be so obvious. The denizens of the
haut ton
never paid their bills on time, and the earl was still spending as if he had plenty of the ready.

She sighed. He’d had another of his parties last night. Why couldn’t he entertain the riffraff of the
ton
at his brothels or gaming halls instead of his home?

At least this had been a male-only gathering. The men played cards and drank themselves into a stupor. Occasionally there was a fist fight, but the commotion was nothing compared to that which ensued when a few prostitutes were added. She’d taken to arming herself with a suitably long, sturdy pin if she had to venture into the corridors during one of those entertainments.

Well, the beaux and dandies should be waking up and taking themselves off in a few hours. She would just curl up with her book and read until they had vacated the premises. With luck, the detritus of their visit would not be too disgusting to clean up.