to find exotic plants, Margaret.”
“I see.” She would like to do that, too, but it was clearly impossible. “An expedition such as you are describing is very expensive. Mr. Parker-Roth was telling me—”
Bennington’s hand tightened on her shoulder.
“My lord, you are hurting me.”
“You know Parker-Roth?”
“Slightly. I met him at a house party last year.” Meg shifted position. “Please, Lord Bennington, you will leave a bruise.”
He loosened his fingers. “My pardon. I just cannot abide the man. He’s a neighbor of mine. Spends most of his time in the country.”
“Ah.” So that was why she hadn’t seen him in Town—not that she’d been looking, of course.
“It’s disgusting the way everyone fawns over him when he does attend a Horticultural Society meeting. He has plenty of money—he sends his brother all over the globe looking for plant specimens.”
“I see.” Lord Bennington’s hold on her had slackened. Would he let her go now? “Shall we return to the ballroom, my lord?”
“But you haven’t given me your answer.”
“Answer?”
“Yes. Will you marry me or not?”
Lord Bennington was frowning at her, all signs of passion gone. She found it quite easy to make up her mind.
“I am very sorry, my lord. I am fully aware of the great honor you do me, but I believe we would not suit.”
The frown deepened.
“What do you mean, we would not suit?”
“We would not…suit.” What did the man want her to say? That she thought he was a hideous oaf and she had made a huge error in judgment even speaking to him?
“You brought me into this dark garden and yet you are turning down my offer?”
“I really did not expect an offer of marriage, my lord.”
“What kind of an offer did you expect? Are you looking for a slip on the shoulder, then?”
“My lord! Of course not. I was not expecting an offer now. I mean, I was not expecting an offer of anything—any offer at all. I just wished to take a turn about the garden.”
“Miss Peterson, I was not born yesterday. You lured me into this darkened corner for a reason. Was it just to steal a kiss? Are you that starved for amorous activity?”
“Lord Bennington!” Had the man actually said “amorous” with regard to her?
“You are not going to use me to satisfy your urges.”
Urges! Her only urge was to get back to the light and sanity of the ballroom.
The viscount was becoming markedly agitated. She really had not anticipated such a reaction. The other men had been completely amiable when she’d suggested they go back inside. Lord Bennington was almost hissing.
“You chose to come into the garden with me, so now you’ll pay the price. When I’m finished with you, your wealthy relatives and friends will beg me to wed you.”
“Lord Bennington, be reasonable. You are a gentleman.”
“I am a man, Miss Peterson. Surely your sister has warned you it is highly unwise to be alone with a man in an isolated place.”
Emma had warned her of many things—perhaps she should have listened to this particular lecture. At least she would be spared Emma’s jobation this time—her sister was safely ensconced in Kent with her children. If she could just get away from Bennington, all would be well. She had learned her lesson. She would not be visiting any shadowy shrubbery again.
The viscount stuck his hands into her coiffure, sending pins flying everywhere. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders.
“Lord Bennington, stop immediately!”
He grunted. He had his hands on her bodice again. She jerked her knee up, but she missed her target.
“Playing that game, are you?”
“My lord, I will scream.”
“Please do. The scandal will be delightful. How much do you suppose the marquis will pay to keep it quiet?”
“Nothing.”
“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.