no horse bolted. Nothing happened.”
“Nothing?”
Damn it. Mother had only to raise her eyebrow just so and he felt like he was ten years old again and had just tracked mud over the entry hall. Not that Mother minded the mud so much, but it always sent Mrs. Charing, their old housekeeper, into a frenzy, and Mother did not like that at all.
“I’m going to bed.”
“Very well, Johnny. Sleep well. We can discuss this further in the morning.”
There was nothing to discuss, but he wasn’t about to get into an argument, especially with Agatha Witherspoon sitting there, itching to join in the fray.
He couldn’t force Miss Peterson to the altar. If she remained adamant, there was nothing he could do but go home to the Priory and get on with his life.
He was surprised the thought didn’t give him more pleasure.
His valet was sitting by the fire, reading, when he came into the bedroom.
“You should have joined Agatha, Mac.”
“Sure, and when did ye get the daft notion I’m an idiot, man?” The large Scotsman grinned. “Nor do I think the lady would be verra pleased to share a candle with me.”
“Probably not. What’s that you’re reading?”
Mac’s grin widened. He held up the pamphlet.
Parks squinted to read the cover. “A Complete Guide to the Cyprians of Covent Garden Including Prices Charged, Places of Business, and Special Amatory Skills. Good God. ‘Special Amatory Skills’? What does that mean?”
“Do ye really want to know?”
“No!” The gleam in Mac’s eyes warned him that he definitely did not want to hear any more.
“Yer sure? Ye don’t want to hear about Red-haired Peg—it’s not the hair on her head’s that’s red, by the by—who can, with her mouth—”
“Stop! I do not want to hear another word, I assure you. You have said too much already.”
“And then there’s Buxom Bess who has the largest—”
“Mac! Please. I have had a hellish evening. I do not need you adding to my headache.”
“Ack, ye’ve got the headache again, do ye? I’ll just be brewing ye some of my special tea, shall I?”
“No.” He just wanted to get into bed, pull up the covers, and pretend the evening had never happened. That he’d wake in the morning a free man again.
But he was a free man. Miss Peterson had rejected his offer.
Why didn’t he feel free?
“Just help me out of this blasted coat will you?”
“Yer sure ye wouldn’t like to take a stroll over to Covent Garden and see if we can find one of these lassies?”
“Good God, no! What we’d find would be a case of the pox.”
“I don’t know, Johnny. The man who wrote this guide seems verra enthusiastic—of course, he did include an advertisement for Dr. Ballow’s Special Pills, so I don’t know if we can trust his recommendations completely. Still, it’s not every day we get up to Town, ye know. Need to see the sights, as it were.” Mac got him out of his coat and went to hang it up.
“Believe me, I don’t want to see any more sights. I’d leave for the Priory tomorrow if I could.”
Mac’s voice was muffled by the wardrobe. “Ye aren’t usually quite so anxious to go home, Johnny. What happened?”
“I may have gotten myself a wife.”
“What?” Mac spun around and banged his head on the wardrobe door. “Bloody hell, now I’ve got a headache to match yers.”
“Where’s Miss Peterson, Bea?” Alton, Lady Beatrice’s butler, glanced out into the night. “Surely you didn’t misplace her?”
Lady Bea sighed and stepped past him into the entrance hall. “Not exactly.”
“Not exactly? What do you mean?”
She handed him her cloak. “Let’s go upstairs, Billy, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
He took her arm as they walked up to their bedroom.
“Lord, it’s good to be home.” Bea collapsed onto the sofa. “I don’t know how many more of these social gatherings I can take.”
“That bad?” Alton poured them both a glass of brandy.
“Yes.” She patted the seat beside her. “Come give me a hug.”
Alton handed her the brandy and settled down next to her. She rested her head on his shoulder.
“Mrrow!” Queen Bess, Bea’s large orange cat, leapt up and draped herself over Alton’s pantaloons.
Bea laughed. “Did you miss me, Bess?”
“Her highness always misses you, Bea.”
“That’s what you say, but I know better. Bess is completely content to have you for company. See whose lap she prefers?”
“She’s spent more time with me recently.” He dug his fingers into the thick fur behind Bess’s ears. Her highness closed her eyes and purred.
“That’s because I’ve had to waste hours trotting from ballroom to drawing room.” Bea rolled her eyes. “Have I told you how idiotic the ton is?”
“I believe you may have made that observation once or twice before.”
“Become a dead bore on the subject, have I?”
Alton kissed the top of her head. “Bea, you could never be boring.”
Bea snorted. “You must be the only one to think so.”
Alton eyed her current colorful attire, but wisely held his tongue.
Bea stroked Queen Bess’s ears. “Well, the good news is, I believe I’ve lost my chaperone duties.”
“Hmm.” Alton left Bess to Bea’s ministrations and stroked one of Bea’s curls instead. “You do seem to have lost your charge. Have the society tabbies torn Miss Peterson into little pieces and scattered the bits over the ballroom floor?”
Bea laughed. “No, not quite, though she did manage to create a splendid scandal this evening. Mmm. Keep doing that.”
“This?” Alton massaged the back of her neck. “Or this?” He leaned over and kissed the sensitive spot behind her ear.
Bess meowed and moved to Bea’s
