Sally MacKenzie Bundle (245 page)

And Anne had been on edge herself. It wasn’t only his ill-temper that had poisoned the atmosphere.

“It can wait until the morning, sir,” Clorinda said.

A small, reasonable voice whispered in his heated brain, agreeing it might be better to put off any discussions until his spleen had settled. He silenced the voice. “It cannot. I must speak with Anne tonight.”

“You are very rude.” Clorinda turned as if to block the doorway. Hobbes, standing behind her, wrung his hands.

“I am very determined.”

“Anne,” Evie said, “do you wish to speak to Mr. Parker-Roth? If you don’t, I’m certain Mr. Hobbes will deny him entrance.”

Hobbes’s eyes widened and he looked around rather wildly, as if searching for a few strong footmen to assist him. Wise man. Stephen didn’t want to hurt the fellow, but he was not going to be deterred.

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” Anne finally said, throwing him a distinctly annoyed look before she stepped past Clorinda. “Of course the man can come in if he wishes.” She nodded at Hobbes as she entered the foyer. Hobbes smiled in evident relief.

“Thank you.” Stephen let Clorinda and Evie precede him, but only by a half step. Hobbes wouldn’t try to keep him out, but he wouldn’t put it past the women to slam the door in his face.

Anne had already shed her cloak and was heading for the stairs. He stepped past Clorinda and grasped her elbow. “I said we needed to talk.”

She glared at him, but he thought he saw a touch of fear in her eyes as well. That made him even angrier. She couldn’t be afraid of him; she must know he’d never hurt a woman, and he’d certainly never hurt her.

“I said you could come in; I didn’t say I’d talk to you.” Anne shrugged one shoulder and looked away from him. “I’m tired.”

“Exactly,” Clorinda said, removing her cloak and handing it to Hobbes. “We are all tired.” She looked pointedly at Stephen. “Very, very tired. You go on up to bed, Evie. I’m sure we’ll be along shortly.”

“Very well.” Evie looked uncertainly from her sister to her cousin to him. “Thank you for escorting us tonight, sir. Even though things seem a bit . . . unsettled at the moment, I wish to say I truly had a wonderful evening.”

He forced his lips to unlock so he could bend them into something approaching a smile. “I’m very glad to hear it, Evie. And I would say you were a complete success. You’ll have all the young men of the
ton
—and some of the older ones—at your feet.”

A shy smile lit her face. “Oh, do you really think so?” She blushed.

His face loosened more and he grinned. “I really think so.”

“And your brother . . .?” Her blush deepened. “He was very amiable.”

He laughed. Oh ho, did the wind blow in that direction? It would be awkward if he couldn’t settle matters with Anne—and Nick was still very young—but it might be a good match. “Poor Nick was completely bowled over by your charm and beauty, Lady Evangeline.”

“Oh, now you are funning, sir.” She looked extremely embarrassed and equally pleased.

“Weren’t you on your way to bed, Evie?” Clorinda asked.

“Yes, of course. Good night.” Evie curtseyed and then almost skipped up the stairs.

“At least someone’s happy,” Clorinda said, watching Evie. Anne kept her eyes on the newel post, inspecting it as if it were some strange, new architectural marvel. Clorinda speared him with a dark look. “And now, sir, as I’ve said, we are all tired. This had better not take long.”

Did Clorinda think to chaperone them? She would be very much in the way. “There is no need for you to stay up, madam. Your presence is not required.”

“Of course it’s required. You are not yet married to Lady Anne, Mr. Parker-Roth.”

“I’m betrothed to her.”

“And betrothed isn’t married, is it?”

Anne made an odd, little sound—a cross between a slightly hysterical giggle and a snort of exasperation. “You may go up to bed, Clorinda. Mr. Parker-Roth is not going to r-rape me.”

“Anne!”

Clorinda sounded as shocked as Stephen felt. He wasn’t some shy virgin, but to hear that ugly word on Anne’s lips, to think of that ugly action as having anything to do with what was between them was sickening.

Anne swiped at her eyes—was she crying? “I’m sorry. I really am tired. It was a more stressful evening than I anticipated.”

Clorinda put her arm around Anne’s shoulders. “And Mr. Parker-Roth is a beast for even thinking of keeping you up another instant. You can talk to him in the morning. Come—”

Anne shook her head and slipped out from under Clorinda’s arm. “No, it’s best he and I speak now. I couldn’t sleep if I did go upstairs. I’m too”—she waved her hand vaguely—“agitated to rest. You go on ahead.”

There was real concern in Clorinda’s eyes and voice. “You’re certain?”

Anne nodded. “Yes. And don’t wait up. I’ll be fine, truly.”

“Well, all right. I
am
tired . . .” Clorinda gave Stephen one more stern look. “I expect you to behave like a perfect gentleman, Mr. Parker-Roth. I am relying on your honor.”

He bowed. “You may do so without the slightest hesitation, madam. I do sincerely care for Lady Anne’s welfare, you know.”

She examined him a moment more and then nodded. “Very well. Good night then.”

“Good night.”

They watched Clorinda make her slow way up the stairs. Once she’d disappeared from sight, Anne turned to Stephen. “Are you going to ring a peal over my head now?”

Stephen looked around. Hobbes had left as soon as he’d locked the door behind them. They were alone, but he did not wish to have this discussion in such an exposed place. Sound carried, especially when spoken in a marble hall with a wide staircase. “Isn’t there a place we can be private—other than the study or the odd room with the obscene knickknacks?” Neither option appealed at the moment.

Anne jutted out her chin. “We
are
private.”

There was no point in wasting more time arguing. He took one of the candlesticks and Anne’s arm and directed her toward the back of the house. “Do I need to open every door, or will you tell me when we arrive at a suitable room for our talk?”

He passed the odd room and the library. They didn’t need much space; just a door that closed and walls that would absorb their words.

Anne grumbled and stepped ahead of him. “The green sitting room should do,” she said, pulling open a door near the end of the hall.

It was a small room with an assortment of chairs and tables and a large chaise-longue. The fire had been banked; the air was chilly. Anne shivered.

Stephen shut the door behind them and then struggled out of his coat. He draped it over Anne’s shoulders and went to throw a log on the fire.

Anne pulled the coat tight around her. It was warm with the heat of Mr. Parker-Roth’s body. She buried her nose in the cloth—he was turned away from her; he wouldn’t notice—and breathed deeply. It smelled of him, too.

Oh, God, what was she going to do about Brentwood?

Panic threatened to strangle her. She couldn’t think about it now. She was far too upset.

She watched the muscles in Mr. Par—no
Stephen’s
—back shift as he poked the fire, bringing it back to life, and she felt something flicker deep inside her.

He was angry with her. He would tell her how she shouldn’t have acted the way she had waltzing with Brentwood.

She didn’t want to argue. She didn’t want his anger. She wanted his strength, his warmth. Him.

He’d awakened something in her, this little flickering need. It had stirred when he’d first kissed her, and it had grown stronger when she’d seen how he’d looked at her before the ball, when he’d teased her in the carriage on the way there, when he’d taken her into the garden and kissed her.

She’d been angry with him; he was angry with her.

She didn’t want to be angry any longer. Not now. Now she wanted a different kind of heat, something to make her forget anger and fear. Forget shame. Forget Brentwood.

The fire must finally be burning to his satisfaction; he put the poker down and turned to face her. The lawn of his shirt was so fine, she could see his arms through the fabric.

If only he weren’t still wearing his waistcoat.

“Don’t look at me that way, Anne.” He sounded tense again, but not angry.

“What way?” The fire was working amazingly quickly; she was quite warm now. Hot, even. She slipped Stephen’s jacket off her shoulders and hung it carefully over the back of a chair.

She walked toward him. She felt . . . reckless.

She stopped when she got to within a few feet of him. Closer and she might completely embarrass herself by starting to unbutton his waistcoat. Her fingers itched to do so.

She wanted to feel his hands on her again. She wanted to taste his mouth again. After her waltz with Brentwood, she needed to feel Stephen’s touch to feel clean again.

She closed her eyes briefly. She should tell him her secret; she should not lie to him with silence.

She didn’t want to tell him, not now. What harm would there be in delaying?

She would tell him . . . later.

“Are you going to give me a thorough tongue-lashing ?” she asked.

Oh! A jolt of heat shot from her breasts to the place between her legs. She should not have mentioned tongues.

“I should.” Stephen’s voice wasn’t much more than a strained whisper. He was staring back at her, an air of . . . hunger about him.

She wet her lips and watched his eyes follow her tongue. “Why?”

He blinked. “Why, what?”

She was having a hard time following this conversation as well. Her body was shouting at her to stop talking and do something better with her mouth. “Why do you wish to give me a dressing-down?”

His eyes flicked over her. She
had
said “give me a dressing-down” and not “take my dress down,” hadn’t she? She was certain she’d said the former; she wished she’d said the latter.

“Yes.” His eyes snapped back to her face. “Yes, I want . . . I want to . . .”

He stepped toward her and grabbed her shoulders. He shook her, not hard, but hard enough that one loose hairpin fell, sending a length of hair tumbling down to cover his fingers. He dropped his hold on her as if scalded, whipping his hands behind his back.

“What were you thinking this evening?” His voice was hoarse.

“When this evening?” She could easily reach his waistcoat buttons now. They were calling to her. “In the garden with you?”

She flushed. She should not have said that either; she did not wish to tell him what she’d been thinking—and feeling—then. Though if she did, would he be so kind as to make her think and feel those things again? The door was closed. She was already a fallen woman. At twenty-seven, she would likely not get many more chances for this kind of . . . activity.

Once he knew the truth—once everyone knew the truth—she’d get no more chances at all, unless she wished to take up the usual occupation of fallen women.

“No, damn it.” Stephen sounded goaded. “When you were dancing with Brentwood.”

Brentwood. Oh. She felt trapped and dirty again.

And what had Stephen been doing while she’d been suffering with Lord Brentwood?

Perhaps anger
was
better than this cold, sick feeling.

“I’m surprised you noticed. I thought all your attention was on your partner—your
mistress
—Lady Noughton.”

His brows snapped down. “Did Brentwood tell you Maria was my mistress?”

He’d called the woman by her first name.

Anne bit her lip. It felt like he’d stabbed her with a knife.

Stupid! It was nothing to her what Mr. Parker-Roth did. She and he were strangers, brought together by scandal and this sham betrothal. They would part ways—to her great delight—by the end of the Season. Sooner, if possible.

If she tried to speak, she’d cry. She nodded, but one ridiculous tear leaked out anyway.

He must think her the most pathetic creature in Christendom.

His hand came up to cradle her jaw; his thumb caught the tear and wiped it away. His voice was now as gentle as his touch.

“She was my mistress, Anne, but she is no longer. We parted ways in February. It took me too long, but I finally saw what a petty, grasping woman she is.”

Now both his hands held her face tilted up toward his. He was staring at her mouth. Her lips felt swollen. Her heart—and an organ rather lower down—started to pound. She put her hands on his waistcoat.

“There’s been no one else in my bed since.” He brushed his lips over her forehead, over her cheek. “And never anyone in my heart.”

His mouth touched hers then, just touched it, not pressing, not mashing her lips against her teeth as Brentwood had done during that terrible house party.

She wanted more pressure, but she made herself stay still. If this was her only chance, she would not rush it. Though she was no longer a virgin, she knew nothing about physical love. She wanted to see if there was more to it than the embarrassment and pain Brentwood had given her. What better way to find out than to let the King of Hearts be her teacher?

He lifted his head, his hands sliding up into her hair, plucking her pins free, dropping them to the carpet. She felt her wild red mane tumble down over her shoulders and back.

“Your hair is beautiful.” He buried his face in it, then turned to kiss her neck just below her ear.

Her breasts ached; the place between her legs ached. She was so hot she felt she was burning, and her temperature had nothing to do with the fire in the grate. She wanted to press herself against him, but she stayed still. She would not rush blindly ahead and so, in her ignorance, miss something wonderful. And she did think it would be wonderful.

But it would be more wonderful without his annoying waistcoat. She slipped the top button free.

He chuckled by her ear. “Are you undressing me, Lady Anne?”

Her fingers froze for a moment. Was she being too bold? But he’d sounded amused. She swallowed and moved trembling fingers to the next button. “Surely you must be too hot.”

He gently sucked on the skin below her ear and her nipples tightened. “You are right, I am a trifle overheated.” He straightened, making it easier for her to reach all his buttons. “Thank you for thinking of it. I will definitely be more comfortable with fewer clothes.”