“Oh, Miss Peterson, you are naïve.”
He mashed his mouth on hers, parting her lips. His tongue slithered between her teeth like a snake, threatening to choke her. She did the only thing she could think of.
She bit down hard.
John Parker-Roth—Parks to his friends and acquaintances—stepped out of the heat and noise of Lord Palmerson’s ballroom into the cool quiet of the garden.
Thank God. He could still smell the stench of London, but at least he wasn’t choking any longer on the foul mix of perfume, hair oil, stale breath, and sweat that permeated the air inside. Why his mother wanted to subject herself to that crush of humanity was beyond him.
He chose a path at random. Palmerson’s garden was large for Town. If he could ignore the cacophony of music and conversation spilling out of the house and the general clamor from the street, he could almost imagine he was back in the country.
Almost. Damn. Had the plants Stephen sent arrived yet? He should be home to receive them. If they’d traveled all the way from South America to die waiting to be unpacked at the Priory…It didn’t bear thinking of.
Would MacGill follow his instructions exactly? He’d written them down in detail and gone over each point with the man, but the pigheaded Scot always thought he knew best. All right, usually he did. MacGill was a bloody fine head gardener, but still, these plants required careful handling.
He wanted to be there himself. Why had his mother insisted on dragging him to Town now?
He blew out a pent up breath. He knew why—the blasted Season. She said it was to get more painting supplies and to catch up with her artist friends, but she didn’t fool him. She wanted him wed.
He’d heard Palmerson had a good specimen of Magnolia grandiflora. He’d see if he could find it. With luck it would be in the farthest, darkest corner of the garden. He wouldn’t put it past his mother to come out here looking for him, dragging her latest candidate for his hand behind her.
Why the hell couldn’t she accept the fact he did not want to marry? He’d told her time after time. Was it such a hard message to understand?
Apparently it was. He grimaced. Now she sighed and got that worried frown every time she looked at him.
He batted aside a drooping vine. The fact of the matter was there was no need for him to marry. He didn’t have a title to pass on. The Priory could go to Stephen or Nicholas, if Father didn’t outlive them all. He was very happy with his life. He had his work—his plants and his gardens. He had an accommodating widow in the village, not that he visited her much any more. Frankly, he’d rather be working in his rose beds than Cat’s bed. The roses were less trouble.
No, a wife would just be an annoyance.
Damn it, was that rustling in the shrubbery? That would make this evening complete—stumbling over some amorous couple in the bushes. He veered away from the suspect vegetation.
The problem was Mother firmly believed marriage was necessary for male contentment. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. God give him patience. Didn’t she ever open her eyes and look around the bloody ballrooms she’d been dragging him to? She might be happily married, and Father might be content, but most husbands and wives were not.
He had no interest in stepping into parson’s mousetrap. Maybe if Grace had—
No. He would not entertain such a ridiculous notion. He’d decided that years ago. Grace had made her choice, and she was happy. Last he’d heard, she had two children. She’d been in the ballroom just now. He’d seen her laughing up at her husband at the end of the last set.
The noise from the bushes was getting louder. Wonderful. Were the lovers having a spat? That was the last thing he wanted to witness. He would just—
“You bitch!”
Good God, that was Bennington’s voice. The man had the devil’s own temper. Surely he wouldn’t—
“My lord, please.” The girl’s voice held a thread of fear. “You are hurting me.”
He strode forward without another thought.
She must not panic. Bennington was a gentleman.
He looked like a monster. He stared at her through narrowed eyes, nostrils flaring, jaw hardened. His hands gripped her upper arms. She was certain his fingers would leave bruises.
“You bitch!”
“My lord, please.” She moistened her lips. Fear made it hard to get her breath. He was so much stronger than she, and the garden was so dark.
He was a viscount, a peer, a gentleman. He wouldn’t really harm her, would he?
She had never seen a man so angry.
“You are hurting me.”
“Hurting you? Ha! I’ll show you hurting.”
He shook her so her head flopped on her neck like a rag doll’s, then he yanked her bodice down, tearing the fabric. He grabbed her breast and squeezed. The pain was excruciating.
“Bite me, will you? How would you like me to bite your—”
A well-tailored forearm appeared at his throat.
He made a gagging sound, releasing her to claw at the black silk sleeve cutting across his neck.
“You bastard.” Mr. Parker-Roth jerked Lord Bennington back, spun the viscount around, and slammed his fist into the man’s jaw, sending him backward into a holly bush. Meg would have cheered if she hadn’t been trying so hard not to cry. She pulled up her bodice and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Parker-Roth.” Bennington spat out the name along with some blood as he extracted himself from the prickly vegetation. “What the hell is the matter with you? The lady invited me into the garden.”
“I’m certain she didn’t invite you to maul her.”
“A woman who goes off alone with a man…”
“…is not asking to be raped, Bennington.”
The viscount opened his mouth, then closed it abruptly. His jaw was beginning to swell and he had blood on his cravat. “I wasn’t going to…I wouldn’t, of course…I merely lost my temper.” He glanced at Meg. “My humble apologies, Miss Peterson. I will do the proper thing, of course, and speak to your brother-in-law in the morning, then travel down to Kent to see your father.”
“No!” She swallowed and took a deep breath. She spoke slowly and distinctly, “I will not marry you. I would not marry you even if you were the last man in England—no, the last man in all the world.”
“Now, Margaret—”
“You heard Miss Peterson, Bennington. I believe she was quite clear as to her sentiments. Now do the proper thing and take yourself off.”
“But—”
