Sally MacKenzie Bundle (58 page)

He paused.
Was
she a virgin?

He clenched his teeth. Of
course
she was. What was he thinking? He repressed an odd thrill of, of…something…that thudded in his chest. He should not be considering Miss Peterson’s state of virginity.

Another odd sensation assailed him, though this time it did not target his chest. He adjusted the fall of his pantaloons. He was feeling very out of sorts. Perhaps the lobster patties had not agreed with him, or he’d had a bit of bad fish.

Miss Peterson’s behavior in Lady Palmerson’s parlor gave evidence of her innocence. She’d struggled to keep that damn shawl covering her—No, he would not think about her lovely, white—

Well, she was admittedly less innocent now than she’d been before she’d entered that parlor, and if she didn’t stop frequenting dark corners, she’d be much, much less innocent shortly. There was a reason young women were cautioned to avoid the shrubbery. Men could—

The shocking image of what a man…what
this
man could do with Miss Peterson in the shrubbery sent a jolt of molten lust directly to the part of him most eager to misbehave.

Damn, damn,
damn
. He needed to get his thoughts under control.

All right, perhaps it wasn’t his thoughts that most needed control.

Miss Peterson was safe from him. He had offered her his name and she had declined. That was the end of it. She did not want him, and he had asked merely for convention’s sake. He had no interest in her at all.

His lack of interest chose that moment to increase the intensity of its throbbing disinterest, forcing him to bend over slightly.

He avoided a boring, nondescript shrub. No matter what he thought, it must be clear to anyone with half a brain that Miss Peterson was in desperate need of close supervision. Why wasn’t Lady Knightsdale keeping her sister out of the bushes?

He ducked under a low hanging vine. Easthaven’s gardeners needed to do some judicial pruning. It was one thing to cultivate a wild look, quite another to risk hanging one’s visitors.

Well, if Lady Knightsdale would not do the job, he would see that Miss Peterson understood the appropriate behavior for an unwed young woman. Hell, if she were his sister—

His stomach twisted. She was
not
his sister. He definitely did not have brotherly feelings for the woman. The very thought was obscene.

Still, if Jane had—well, Jane
had
, but only with Lord Motton.

Perhaps he
should
demonstrate exactly what could happen to a young lady alone in the dark with a man.

He paused. He needed a nice, cold fountain. Icy cold. Freezing. A dunk in very, very cold water would certainly help his concentration.

What he really needed was to get back to the Priory. The noxious London air had infected his brain.

All right, they were far enough from the ballroom now. He would stop Miss Peterson and give her the sharp edge of his tongue—

God! The ache turned into a stabbing pain. He bent over, bracing his hands on his knees. Where was a nice icy fountain when you needed one?

No tongues. Best leave tongues out of consideration entirely. Scold her. That was what he would do. She would feel his anger. Anger. That was all she would feel.

Truly, if he didn’t drag his mother home from London soon, he’d be moving into Bedlam.

“Miss Peterson?” He whispered in case someone else was out in the garden. He knew she wasn’t far away.

“Ulp.”

The small sound was cut off abruptly. There was a pause, and then he heard the sound of more furious running.

Was the woman completely crazy?

He followed her. The foliage grew more dense and bushy. Either Easthaven had chosen to attempt a picturesque landscape or he should fire his gardeners.

There she was, standing by some pine trees. Was she thinking of hiding? Ridiculous. He stepped forward and wrapped his fingers around her upper arm. Her flesh was incredibly soft.

“Eek!” She jerked and stared at his fingers. Was she afraid to meet his eyes? Was she afraid of
him
? He did not care for that thought. Why would she fear him? Had he ever used her poorly?

Well, perhaps in Lady Palmerson’s parlor, but she had not been complaining—not at all. She’d been a very active participant in those activities.

“Going somewhere, Miss Peterson?” Even he heard the odd anger in his voice.

“Uh…” She kept staring at his fingers. They were large and dark against her skin. He turned her.

“Mr. Parker-Roth.” Her voice was breathless. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Surely she was not going to act as though she’d just been out for a leisurely stroll? Her hair had tumbled over her shoulders and down her back and was sporting more than one leaf. Her bosom was rising and falling rapidly. She was panting, for God’s sake.

He
was panting.

“A man might wonder, Miss Peterson, what you are looking for in this darkened garden.”

A man might wonder many things. He drew in a deep breath and smelled pine needles and woman. Miss Peterson. Meg.

He wondered if he’d imagined how soft her breasts were, how wonderful her skin tasted, how quickly he could get her out of her ball gown.

No, no, of course he didn’t wonder that.

She was saying something about wanting solitude. Solitude? Right. That was just what she needed. What he needed. Time alone to get his raging lust under control. He could never reenter the ballroom in his current state of…excitement.

“You are hurting me, sir.”

Damn. “My apologies.” He loosened his hold. He was going to give her his tongue. No! No tongues. He was going to jump down her throat—no, no. He was going to ring a peal over her. That was it. No tongues, no throats.

The tip of her tongue peeked out to moisten her lips. She swallowed, her delicate throat flexing, arching. He would love to taste those lips again; to run his tongue from the sensitive point under her ear down her throat to the pulse he knew was beating—

A scold. She deserved a scold.

“I find your answer somewhat disingenuous, Miss Peterson.” God, did he really sound like an old prig with a poker up his arse? “You left the ballroom in Lord Frampton’s company. Rather odd behavior, wouldn’t you say, for someone wishing to be alone?”

Even in the dim light of the garden, he saw her flush. The dark color swept up her throat to her cheeks. Did it move down as well? If he lowered her bodice, if he freed her from her corset, would he see her breasts pinken? Her belly, her sweet—

Well, his skin was certainly changing color. He didn’t need to look to know that. He could feel the heat, the swollen—

“The man is not with me now, is he?”

Good thing. He wasn’t certain he could behave in a civilized manner if Frampton were present. He feared he’d darken the poor man’s daylights for him.

“Only because he refused your invitation to scandal.” Frampton had behaved like a gentleman.

“Balderdash. He merely did not care to take a turn in the garden. And my desire for solitude struck me rather suddenly. It came on when I saw you approaching in the ballroom and intensified when you stepped onto the terrace.”

God give him patience. He was going to wipe that smirk off her face if it were the last thing he did. How dare she act as if he were the one behaving unreasonably? She was in need of a lesson and he was just the man to give it to her.

“Miss Peterson—”

“Mr. Parker-Roth, do not say another word. Please. Just return to the ballroom. I shall be fine by myself.”

Fine by herself?

He heard her sharp intake and relaxed his fingers again.

Fine by herself? The woman was mad. She was the one who belonged in Bedlam.

“I will not leave you alone. It is not proper.”

Her eyes flashed. “Unhand me, sir, and I will do you the favor of leaving
you
alone.”

“I would like nothing better, but I am a gentleman.” And a liar. No, he
did
want to leave her, but he also wanted to wrap his arms around her, back her up against a tree, and—

He was losing his mind.

“I cannot leave a lady—a woman—alone in the dark.”

“You are insulting, sirrah!”

Perhaps he had put the wrong emphasis on a word. Who the hell knew? Didn’t the girl comprehend that it was a miracle he was actually forming coherent sentences?

“You are incorrigible, madam.”

“I am not! How can you say so?”

“How can I not say so? Have you not made a habit of frequenting the darker corners of the
ton’
s vegetation with a variety of men? One would think, if you were an intelligent woman, you would have learned your lesson after your encounter with Bennington.”

That got to her. He grabbed her hand before it connected with his face. Did she think to frighten him with that glare?

“At the risk of repeating myself, Mr. Parker-Roth—
go away
!”

“And at the risk of repeating myself, Miss Peterson, no. I am not leaving you alone in this garden.”

“Sir, you are not my keeper—”

He swore his head was going to explode. He had never been so angry—he actually saw red.

“Bloody hell, woman.” He grabbed her shoulders. They felt so delicate under his hands. He could break her as if she were a porcelain doll. Had she no sense at all? “Someone needs to be your damn keeper and I don’t see a blasted queue forming for that honor.”

Miss Peterson raised her chin. There wasn’t a hint of fear or caution in her eyes. By God, she
did
belong in Bedlam.

“I do not need a kee—”

He had heard enough. His mouth came down on hers without conscious thought. Let her taste the danger she flirted with.

Taste. Mmm. Yes. She tasted hot and sweet. He licked the line between her lips—they softened, opened. He slipped inside. Her weight sagged against him.

This was much better than arguing.

He stroked the dark, wet wonder of her mouth. God, it was so good—as good as he’d dreamed since that bloody evening in Lady Palmerson’s parlor. Better.

Well, not quite. In his dreams, Miss Peterson was naked, gloriously, splendidly, completely naked.

Another jolt of lust targeted his groin. He
was
going to explode.

He slid his hands down her back, past her hard corset to the lovely soft expanse of her bottom. He traced its contours, cupped it, pressed it closer to his ache.

Was he scandalizing her? Frightening her? He didn’t want to—

She made an odd little noise in the back of her throat and wiggled closer. Another movement like that and he was going to disgrace himself.

The most recalcitrant part of him throbbed in anticipation at the thought. He sent it a stern reprimand and flexed his hips back slightly as he kissed her jaw. Her breathy pants and little moans filled his ears. She smelled of roses and need.

Good God. Her hands slid down
his
back, under his coat tails, to his posterior. The minx! She was tugging on him, trying to pull him back against her.

She was in serious need of a thorough lesson, and he was going to—

Damn.

“John—”

“Shh!” He covered her lips with his fingers. Yes, he was right. It was a wonder he’d heard anything over the blood roaring in his ears, but he had. Someone was approaching.

A meeting would be most inadvisable. Miss Peterson looked delightfully wanton and he…well, his pantaloons were much too fitted to disguise his current sentiments.

He tugged her farther into the pine trees.

They reached the stone wall separating Easthaven’s garden from the alley before Meg had completely recovered. Really, if Parks hadn’t wrapped his arm around her waist and supported her, she would have melted into a puddle on the ground. He was almost carrying her.

“John—”

This time she didn’t need his muffling fingers. She heard a woman’s voice clearly.

“Confess—you enjoyed it.”

Oh, lud! It was Lady Dunlee.

She swallowed a groan and put her head on Mr. Parker-Roth’s chest. His hand came up to tangle in her hair—hair that was shockingly tumbled over her shoulders and back.

His fingers comfortingly massaged her scalp.

She really was ruined this time. Once was bad enough, but to be found in the bushes twice with Mr. Parker-Roth? Lady Dunlee could dine out on this tale for the rest of the Season—if not the next Season and the next.

A man snorted. “I will not. I don’t see why you must keep dragging me into the shrubbery, Clarissa. We have a perfectly good bed at home.”

Bed? Clarissa? That was Lady Dunlee’s Christian name and the man speaking sounded like Lord Dunlee, but…

Bed
?!

Were they going to sleep in the shrubbery? They couldn’t…surely they were far too old to use a bed for anything other than slumber.

Meg peered out through the pine needles.

“I can’t help it, Edgar. You know how these spells come on me. I get so hot—flushed and damp. I can’t stand being in the stuffy, close air of the ballroom. And then, well, sometimes I get…”

The woman giggled!

“Sometimes I really can’t wait. And you weren’t protesting very vehemently a few moments ago, my lord.”

Lord Dunlee cleared his throat. “Well, no. Always ready to be of service, of course, my dear. It just seems at our age…my rheumatism…well, a bed is vastly more comfortable, don’t you agree?”

“Sometimes. And sometimes a quick…encounter…on a secluded garden bench is exactly what I need for my comfort.”

“I’d say so. You were like a wild animal, my dear. I hope I have not lost any buttons.”

“If you have, we’ll just have new ones sewn on.”

“But I have to reenter the ballroom.”

“Then I’d best check to see all is in order, hadn’t I?”

Lud, surely Lady Dunlee wasn’t going to…? She was! She put her hand on Lord Dunlee’s…

Meg buried her face in Mr. Parker-Roth’s cravat. Were they going to resume whatever activity they’d been engaged in?

Thankfully not.

“Clarissa, you must give me time to recover.”

“Oh, pooh. Very well.” Lady Dunlee emitted a short, disgruntled-sounding sigh. “You used to be able to perform more than once in an evening.”