Authors: Sally MacKenzie
“And I really don’t see how you are one to talk, Clorinda,” Anne said. “You have your nose forever buried in some ornithological tome.”
“That’s an entirely different matter. I’m studying living, breathing creatures.” Clorinda sniffed. “Your father and the countess are pawing through history’s middens”—she wrinkled her nose in distaste—“picking through someone’s garbage.”
Mr. Parker-Roth cleared his throat.
“Oh, what is it?” Anne looked at the man in exasperation, but her damn heart stuttered the moment her eyes focused on him. He was so incredibly handsome. Women must stare at him wherever he went.
Idiot! Of course they stared at him—he was the King of Hearts. All the
ton
’s females vied for his attention.
“I don’t believe we need to take any more of Lady Dunlee’s time, do you?” Mr. Parker-Roth was saying. He tilted his head slightly toward the woman and raised his eyebrows significantly. “I’m sure she must have other commitments.”
“Oh.” Anne glanced at the annoying busybody. Lady Dunlee’s beady little eyes fairly glowed. Clearly she was gathering bits of gossip like a squirrel gathering nuts for the winter. At any moment her cheeks would start to bulge. “Yes, indeed. Please don’t let us detain you, Lady Dunlee.”
“Tut, tut. Don’t be silly.” She smiled as if she were some completely harmless matron. “As it happens, I have nothing pressing to attend to. Please, carry on. Just pretend I’m a potted palm.”
A potted palm with a tongue that runs on wheels.
“I wouldn’t think of it,” Anne said. “I know you are a very busy woman.”
Busy about other people’s affairs.
She walked briskly to the bookroom door and opened it. Mr. Parker-Roth gestured for Lady Dunlee to precede him. The woman hesitated, but finally must have concluded—correctly—she had no choice in the matter. She dragged her feet, but she went.
Anne looked at her cousin. Clorinda had already returned to the book she’d been reading when Lady Dunlee, full of moral outrage, had barged in with them. “Coming, Clorinda?”
“Hmm?” Clorinda turned a page.
“Are you coming to see our guests out?”
Clorinda waved her hand vaguely, her nose still buried in her book. “You can do that without my help.”
“Very well. I’ll—”
“Just do be careful.” Clorinda marked her place with her finger to glance up at Anne. “Mr. Parker-Roth is very pleasant to look at, I grant you, but he’s also a bit of a rake. They call him the King of Hearts for a reason, you know.”
“Yes, I know.” And didn’t Clorinda know the man was standing in the corridor right behind her? Anne heard him choke back a laugh. Lady Dunlee snickered.
“Just thought I should put the word in your ear, Anne,” Clorinda said, returning to her reading. “Having spent your whole life in the country, you’re hardly up to snuff.”
“Thank you, Clorinda.” One didn’t need to come to London to learn about libertines, but Anne didn’t wish to discuss that topic whilst the current libertine and the queen of London gossip listened. She pulled the door closed behind her and avoided her guests’ eyes. “This way,” she said.
She started briskly toward the front of the house. She’d be extremely happy to see the back of Lady Dunlee—and Mr. Parker-Roth, too, of course. Once they were out the door, she could finally get on with her day. She’d planned to take her paints out early to explore the back garden, but first Harry had needed a walk and then the . . . incident with Mr. Parker-Roth and Lady Dunlee had occurred, and now she’d completely missed the morning light. Blast! As soon as her unwelcome guests had departed, she’d hurry upstairs and . . .
No, the way this day was going, she’d never be so lucky. The boys were sure to be into some kind of mischief—she almost hoped they were teasing Miss Whiskers again—and she was supposed to take Evie shopping. A proper come-out required an annoying amount of clothing.
She glanced over her shoulder. Lady Dunlee was peering around as if trying to memorize every detail her greedy little eyes beheld. Papa must not have invited her in on his rare visits to London. She snorted. Why would he? He might be more focused on Greek and Roman artifacts than English society, but he could recognize trouble when it lived next door.
Lady Dunlee must have heard her snort and was now looking at her inquiringly.
“Er . . .” What to say? Lady Dunlee obviously expected something. “I do apologize for Harry’s behavior.” She was saying that a lot today, not that she meant it this time either—Lady Dunlee should have kept her cat inside.
“That’s quite all right.” Lady Dunlee turned to examine a naked statue of Apollo through her lorgnette. “No permanent harm done. Miss Whiskers has likely found her way home by now.”
“Then you’ll want to hurry off to let her in,” Anne said hopefully. She reached for the door, but Mr. Parker-Roth’s large hand grabbed the knob first.
Lady Dunlee tore her eyes away from Apollo’s fig leaf. “Oh, I’m sure my butler has already done so, unless Miss Whiskers chose to stay on the front step. She likes to lie on stone that’s been warmed by the sun. I image it’s quite cozy, don’t you?”
Anne blinked. She hadn’t ever considered the matter. “I . . . I suppose you are right.”
Lady Dunlee nodded. “Of course I’m right.” She stepped past Anne, but paused on the threshold to give her a stern look. “Before I leave, I must insist you keep your dog under better control in the future, Lady Anne. Miss Whiskers and I will not be pleased if we are constantly disturbed by the brute.”
Miss Whiskers had been the one doing the disturbing this morning, but Anne managed to keep from saying so. “Yes, indeed. I will try to keep Harry away from your cat.”
Lady Dunlee nodded toward Mr. Parker-Roth. “I’m sure your betrothed can help. Oftentimes large dogs need a man’s touch.”
“Exactly.” Mr. Parker-Roth wrapped an arm around Anne’s waist. “I’ll be happy to take Harry in hand.”
Anne stiffened at his touch. Lady Dunlee’s lorgnette had snapped up and her enlarged orb was now staring at his hand on her waist. She tried—halfheartedly, but she did try—to shrug out of his embrace, but he wouldn’t let her go. Instead his hand slipped a little lower so it lay on her hip just below her stays.
Oh! She felt each finger as if it were burning a hole through her dress and chemise. The hard strength of his arm and the warmth of his body all along her side made it very difficult to think clearly.
Well, perhaps thinking wasn’t the issue. Her head insisted she should move away, but her body . . . She drew in a deep shuddery breath, filling her lungs with his scent, a heady mix of brandy, damp broadcloth, eau de cologne, and . . . man.
A heavy liquid warmth settled low in her belly.
Oh, God. She’d never felt this way before, even when she’d thought herself in love with Brentwood. It could not be good.
“I will see if I can train Harry to behave in a more gentlemanly fashion,” Mr. Parker-Roth was saying. “As I’ve been in London and Lady Anne’s been in the country, I haven’t had the opportunity until now to do so—and of course manners in the country are more relaxed.”
“Indeed they are, sir,” Lady Dunlee said, scowling at him, “but I hope manners are not so relaxed as to approve the behavior I just witnessed in the square. You know, if Lady Anne does not, that London society will not tolerate such conduct.”
“I—”
Mr. Parker-Roth didn’t let Anne squeeze a word in. “I beg your pardon for my lack of decorum, Lady Dunlee. I can only plead temporary insanity. I’d not seen Anne in far too long.” Mr. Parker-Roth managed to look suitably contrite—he’d probably perfected that charmingly apologetic expression as a boy.
Good Lord, Lady Dunlee dimpled up at him. “Of course you have my pardon, sir, as long as I have your vow to control your emotions in the future. I quite understand the fervor of young love.”
Anne had to choke back a laugh, turning it into a cough. Lady Dunlee had at least forty, if not fifty, years in her dish. Young love must be a very faint memory.
“But I would be terribly remiss,” Lady Dunlee continued, “if I didn’t point out many people will wonder at this sudden betrothal. You can’t wish to make things more difficult for Lady Anne and her family.”
“Of course I don’t.”
Anne barely heard Mr. Parker-Roth’s words.
Many
people would wonder? What a horrifying thought.
She must have made a sound, because Lady Dunlee raised her brows, giving her an alarmingly arch look. “You are very lucky, Lady Anne. Countless society maidens will take to their beds in a fit of the dismals when they hear Mr. Stephen Parker-Roth is no longer available.”
Her stomach sank to the bottom of her slippers. This
must
be a nightmare. She would wake up in a moment safely tucked into her bed at Crane House.
“Oh, yes, society will be abuzz with the news of your betrothal.” Lady Dunlee gave what looked suspiciously like a skip as she cleared the threshold.
“But you promised not to say a word,” Anne called after her.
The woman just smiled over her shoulder and waved her hand. Instead of turning to mount the stairs to her house, she headed off across the square. A large, gray cat darted out from under a bush to rub itself against her ankles.
“At least Miss Whiskers is safe,” Mr. Parker-Roth said, closing the door.
Anne glared at him. “I don’t care about that stupid cat—where is Lady Dunlee going?”
“To Melinda Fallwell’s. She lives at number forty-nine.”
“Who’s Melinda Fallwell?” Anne pointed to the door. “And aren’t you leaving, too?”
Mr. Parker-Roth took her arm. “Melinda Fallwell is London’s second greatest gossip—second to Lady Dunlee, of course—and, no, I am not leaving. We need to discuss our betrothal. Where can we be private?” He started back down the corridor, opening doors and peering in. “Ah, this will do nicely.”
He pulled her into what Hobbes had called “the, ahem, Oriental room” when he’d given Anne a quick tour of the house the day before. She called it the harem room. It was furnished with low couches and oversized pillows. Gauzy striped curtains festooned the ceiling and hung down the walls giving one the feeling of being inside a large tent.
Mr. Parker-Roth picked a brass statue off the mantel. His eyes widened and he chuckled. “Interesting decorations you have, Lady Anne.”
She had a bad feeling about this. “Everything was here when we arrived.” She snatched the statue out of his hands and looked at it. There was a man and three women and they were—
“Dear God!” She stuffed it behind one of the couches. As soon as she got rid of Mr. Parker-Roth, she would examine all the knickknacks and pack away the inappropriate ones before the twins found them. This looked like just the sort of room ten-year-old boys would love. “Apparently collecting erotic—I mean
exotic
—items runs in my father’s family.”
“Apparently.” The annoying man had found another inappropriate sculpture on the mantel.
“
Will
you put that down?”
“I don’t know. It’s rather . . . stimulating, don’t you think?” Mr. Parker-Roth sent her a heated look. His thumb was rubbing slowly over the brass woman’s extremely prominent breasts.
“No, of course not.” If he wanted prominent breasts, he would have to look elsewhere.
And why was she thinking of breasts at all? How shocking.
Her body wasn’t shocked. Her little breasts felt oddly sensitive, almost achy, as if they’d like Mr. Parker-Roth to touch them as he was touching the statue. “Didn’t you drag me in here to discuss our b-betrothal?”
He put the statue back on the mantel and smiled. “Yes, I did.” His voice sounded like sin as he came toward her. He
looked
like sin.
He’s the King of Hearts, you ninnyhammer. Seduction is his middle name.
She looked for a sturdy settee to dodge behind, but the damn room had nothing so conventional. She grabbed a fat pillow instead and held it in front of her like a shield.
He stopped a good two feet from her and frowned. “You aren’t afraid of me, are you, Anne?”
“Of course not.” God help her! His look of concern made him even more alluring.
She wasn’t afraid of him; she was afraid of herself.
What was the matter with her? Had she forgotten the last time she’d let her body rule her head? Ten years ago, she’d gone with Lord Brentwood into Baron Gedding’s garden and come back without her virginity. She would not be so stupid as to make that mistake again.
Well, she couldn’t, could she? Virginity once lost was gone forever.
“I won’t hurt you.” Mr. Parker-Roth actually looked worried. “I thought you knew that.”
“You’re drunk.”
He shook his head and winced. “Not any longer—or at least not enough to mask my other aches and pains.” He looked at her intently. “But even drunk I’d never force myself on a woman.”
He wouldn’t have to. Women would force themselves on him.
She dropped the pillow back on the couch, feeling a little ridiculous. “About this sham betrothal?”
He studied her for another minute and then shrugged, running his hand through his hair. “I do think it’s the only way to save your reputation and salvage your sister’s Season.”
She had a very uncomfortable feeling he might be correct. She didn’t care about her reputation—she didn’t have one to salvage—but she’d fight tooth and nail to protect Evie’s chance to enjoy a London Season and perhaps find a suitable husband. “If Lady Dunlee would keep the story to herself, we might be able to get by.”
He rolled his eyes. “Yes, and if I had wings, I might be able to fly across the Thames.”
“But—”
“But I am sure Lady Dunlee and Melinda Fallwell are setting out this very moment to share the tale—in strictest confidence of course—with ten or twenty of their closest friends. It will be all over London by nightfall.”
“No.”
“Yes. You don’t have to be familiar with London to know how gossips operate. There are plenty of those in the country.”
“Oh, yes, I know.” Though somehow the story of her downfall had never spread, probably because only she and Brentwood knew about it. She was not about to say anything, and Brentwood likely had forgotten it the moment he’d pulled her dress back down. From what she’d heard later, she was only one of his many conquests.