Tynweith pressed on his temples. He did not want Charlotte to have diversions.
He’d worked hard to block the thought of her in bed with her wizened husband from his mind. Did he also have to expunge the image of Lord Peter’s very unwizened body entwined with hers? The bloody boy was not much more than twenty.
Bah. The whelp was inexperienced. Only a boy—and boys focused only on their own pleasure. He wouldn’t know how to satisfy Charlotte.
Not like Tynweith could.
He ripped off his cravat. Where the hell was Grantley? He wanted to get out of this coat, out of his eveningwear, into his bed.
He snorted. What he really wanted was to get into Charlotte’s bed.
He balled up the cravat and threw it at the dressing room door. The damn cloth opened in flight and fell limply to the floor.
Surely he would have heard if Charlotte were taking lovers. A juicy piece of gossip like that would have had all the old tabbies—and most of the younger ones—in alt. Lord Peter must be her first.
The ache had moved to the back of his head. He’d have Grantley mix up a powder.
Why the hell was he having this bloody house party anyway? He must have been drunk as an Emperor when he’d hatched the notion. He didn’t give a rat’s ass for any of the over bred cod’s heads cluttering his estate.
“My lord.”
“Grantley. Get me out of this damned coat, man.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Another reason to curse his guests. He couldn’t wear his comfortable old coats and baggy breeches with the ton invading his house. A pox on all of them.
Well, not Charlotte. She was the reason he had invited this plague of idiots. She’d been restless. He’d noticed—and had hoped to tempt her to some dalliance.
Damn Lord Peter.
“You heard about the disturbance this evening, my lord?”
“What? Oh, if you mean the confusion in Lady Elizabeth’s room, yes, Flint told me.” Tynweith paid the butler well. One of his duties was to keep his master informed of everything that happened on the estate.
“Her grace came to Lady Elizabeth’s defense.”
“Yes, I heard. Interesting. I would not have thought the duchess harbored any warm feelings for the Duke of Alvord’s sister.”
Grantley twisted his thin lips into a more supercilious smirk than usual. “I believe her grace was assisting Lady Felicity.”
“Oh?”
“The duchess pointed out that if Lord Westbrooke was found in the room, he would be obliged to wed Lady Elizabeth.”
“Ah. And Lady Felicity would prefer that she be the next Lady Westbrooke.”
Grantley nodded. “One of the upstairs maids observed the woman slip into Lord Westbrooke’s room shortly before the incident.” Grantley’s nostrils flared as if they had encountered an unpleasant odor. “The maid believed Lady Felicity had not been invited to share the earl’s bed.”
“I’m certain she had not. Westbrooke’s been studiously avoiding her since her come out.” Grantley pulled off the blasted coat and Tynweith sighed in satisfaction, rolling his shoulders. “Perhaps I should not have lingered in my study. I seem to have missed a very entertaining tableau. Do you suppose Westbrooke was actually cowering in Lady Elizabeth’s bed?”
“Certainly, my lord. Lord Peter followed him and saw him climb in the window.”
“Climb in the window?”
Grantley smoothed the coat’s lapels. “Yes. From the portico roof.” His mouth pursed so tightly it resembled the sphincter of another orifice. “Unclothed.”
“Naked? The Earl of Westbrooke was capering over my portico roof naked?” Tynweith choked on a laugh. He really had missed an interesting series of events.
“It would seem so, my lord. Will you require anything else this evening?”
Charlotte.
Tynweith bit his lip. Surely he hadn’t said that aloud, had he? No, Grantley’s expression had not changed—it was still his habitual, mildly dyspeptic frown.
“No, that will be all.”
Grantley bowed. “Very well. Pleasant dreams, my lord.”
God, the man was annoying. He’d have gotten rid of him years ago if he weren’t so good at what he did.
And he was not going to have pleasant dreams. He was going to have hot, sweaty dreams of Charlotte—Charlotte whom the wags now called the Marble Duchess.
She wasn’t cold. He knew there was passion in her. He sensed it. She just had not yet found the right man to bring it out. He’d bungled the job all those years ago in Easthaven’s garden. He’d been too ardent—and too insignificant. If he’d been a duke, she’d have suffered his touch.
Well, she’d gotten her duke—a randy old codger. Better Hartford, though, than Alvord. Hartford would not live many more years—perhaps not even many more months.
He climbed into bed and blew out his candle.
When the duke died, Tynweith planned to be the first in line for the duchess’s hand.
Would she have a mere baron this time? He smiled up at his bed canopy. Yes. He meant to have her panting for him.
He was going to get into Charlotte’s bed during this house party, even if he had to drag Lord Peter out.
Chapter Three
“Up early, Westbrooke?”
Damn. Robbie’s appetite fled. He wished he could do likewise.
“I might say the same of you, Lord Peter. I did not think to see you before noon.” He’d hoped not to see anyone. He did not care to make idle conversation. He chose some toast and eggs from the sideboard and took a seat at the table.
Lord Peter grinned. He had obnoxiously white, straight teeth. “You wouldn’t find me up so early in the normal course of things. Usually can’t abide mornings.” He cut a large bite of beefsteak, speared it, and pointed the bloody morsel at Robbie. “I just had an, um, especially stimulating evening, as I’m certain you can understand.” He popped the meat in his mouth and chewed vigorously, waggling his brows in a knowing way at the same time.
God. Robbie stared down at his plate. The eggs looked distinctly unappealing. He broke off a corner of toast instead.
“There is something invigorating about balancing the body’s humors, don’t you agree? Not that I enjoy bloodletting, of course. But other methods of ridding oneself of excessive fluids can be quite enjoyable.”
Robbie grunted. The toast was dry as dust. He poured himself some tea.
Lord Peter took a swig of ale and then leaned close, dropping his voice. “I highly recommend married women, Westbrooke, for adjusting one’s humors. No need to worry about pulling out at the most interesting moment. Much tidier and pleasurable to deposit the fluids inside a female body, don’t you know? And I’m certain it must be better for the female. Calms their nervous agitation.”
“Lord Peter!” Robbie did not consider himself a prude, but he had no desire to hear what the other man had been doing with the Duchess of Hartford. He assumed it was the duchess. The only other married female at the house party was Lady Dunlee. He could not see the young lord mounting Lady Caroline’s mother—and he assumed Lord Dunlee might lodge a strenuous objection to such an attempt.
“I offered to withdraw, of course. Wanted to be a gentleman about it. But the lady insisted I remain throughout the proceedings.”
“Perhaps it would be more gentlemanly not to discuss the experience.”
Lord Peter frowned and straightened. “I’m not one to bruit my conquests about. I thought we could speak man to man. It’s not as though you were languishing alone in your bed last night. Just thought I’d give you some friendly advice for when you’re ready to fish in other streams.”
“What?”
Lord Peter rolled his eyes. “I saw you go in Lady Elizabeth’s window, Westbrooke. I know you were naked in her bed.” He took another swallow of ale. “Damn, I’d never have guessed the girl would behave in such a fashion. I always thought her a pattern card of respectability, and yet, there she was, cool as a cucumber, only i
nches from having her perfect reputation shredded.” He shook his head, then grinned. “Have you two been trysting for a long time?”
Robbie’s right hand clenched into a fist. Lord Peter’s straight nose begged to be broken. Red blood streaming down over his snowy white cravat would be an interesting contrast in color.
“I am not trysting with Lady Elizabeth.”
“No? What do you call it then? F—”
Lord Peter did not finish his sentence. He was lucky to finish his breath. He might be on the verge of finishing his life.
Robbie twisted his hand again, pulling the man’s cravat even tighter around his throat. Lord Peter’s face turned an attractive shade of purple.
“Lady Elizabeth’s reputation is spotless. She is a wonderful girl, and I will personally kill anyone who says—who hints—otherwise. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
Lord Peter gagged and nodded.
“Excellent. You will not be tempted to forget that, will you?”
Lord Peter shook his head no.
“I’m so glad we understand each other.” Robbie let the man go. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I seem to have lost my appetite. I believe I will go for a stroll.”
He left Lord Peter gasping like a trout in a fisherman’s basket.
“Wake up, slugabed.”
“Uhh.” Lizzie turned on her side and pulled her pillow over her head. Did Meg have to shout? “Go away.”
“I will not. It’s past noon—you should be up and dressed.”
Lizzie heard Meg open the window draperies. Light tried to get past her bed curtains. She burrowed farther into the bedding.
“What happened in here last night?”
“Nothing. Go away.”
“There were too many people clustered around your door for ‘nothing.’ I think I was the only member of the house party not milling around in my nightclothes in the corridor. The noise woke me from a very pleasant dream.”
“I’m so sorry.” Lizzie moved the pillow away from her mouth far enough to be heard distinctly. “Now go away!”
“Not until you tell me everything that happened.”
Meg had always been a stubborn busybody.
“Nothing happened.” Lizzie’s head started to throb. “Not that you care. I could have been murdered in my bed.”
“You will be murdered in your bed if you don’t tell me everything. When you said the ton lived on gossip, I didn’t realize you intended to feed them their main course.” Meg threw open the bed curtains and yanked the pillow away.
“Ohh.” Sunlight pierced Lizzie’s head like shards of glass. She covered her eyes with her arm.
“And here comes Betty with your morning chocolate—even though it’s no longer morning. Perhaps it will help you feel more the thing.”
The thick, overly sweet scent enveloped Lizzie.
“Meg.” She swallowed. She scrambled into a sitting position. Her mouth was watering, but not in a pleasant sense. “I think I’m going to be…”
Meg took one look at her and dove for the chamber pot, shoving it into her hands seconds before the previous night’s turbot a la Anglaise made an unfortunate reappearance.
“Apparently Lady Elizabeth doesn’t care for chocolate at the moment, Betty,” Meg said.
“Oh, my lady, let me get ye…”
Lizzie looked up at her maid, got another whiff of chocolate, and bent over the chamber pot again.
“I think it’s best if you just take the cup away.”
“Yes, Miss Meg. I’ll do that right quick. I’m sorry—”
“Just a moment.” Lady Beatrice’s strident voice cut through Betty’s apologies.
Lizzie groaned. She leaned her head against her bedpost. Lud! The woman looked like an old bruise in her puce and pomona green dressing gown.
“How long has this been going on, miss?”
“Uh?” Why did Lady Beatrice have to speak so sharply? And she was scowling at her. “What?”
Lady Bea’s nose wrinkled, and she pointed at the chamber pot. “That. How many times have you cast up your accounts?”
What an odd question. “Twice.” Lizzie felt her stomach lurch. “So far.”
“That is not what I meant.”
Lizzie’s head felt as if a blacksmith were hammering horseshoes against the inside of her forehead, her mouth tasted like a barnyard floor, and her stomach…. She gripped the chamber pot more tightly. Best not to think about her stomach. Suffice it to say, she was completely incapable of playing guessing games this morning. She looked to Meg for help.
“What do you mean, Lady Bea?”
Lady Bea put her hands on her expansive hips.
“What I mean is how long has this been going on? How many days has Lady Elizabeth been sick?” She frowned at the chamber pot and turned to Lizzie’s maid. “Betty? Can you give me an answer?”
“It was the chocolate, my lady.” Betty held up the cup in her hand. “The smell set her off. She was fit as a fiddle last night.”
“Really? She is sensitive to odors?” Lady Beatrice puffed up like her cat, Queen Bess, did when faced with a canine intruder. “The smell of chocolate made her…” She grimaced.
“Yes, my lady.”
“I see. Then let me rephrase my question yet again.” Lady Beatrice bit off each word. “How many mornings has Lady Elizabeth greeted the day hunched over that, that receptacle?” She gestured at the chamber pot. “This type of malady usually manifests itself in the morning, does it not?”
“My lady!” Betty drew in a sharp breath. “I don’t know what ye mean.”
Lizzie didn’t know either, but she wished Lady Bea would take her riddles elsewhere—along with the increasingly offensive chamber pot. She looked hopefully at Betty. For some reason her maid’s cheeks were bright red.
“So your mistress has not been shooting the cat regularly before breakfast?”
“Of course not, my lady.”
“There’s no ‘of course’ about it. I sincerely doubt Lord Westbrooke is a eunuch.”
“What?” Lizzie sat up abruptly, causing the contents of the chamber pot to slosh dangerously. Robbie a eunuch? She didn’t completely understand the specifics but—the image of Robbie as he had appeared the night before flashed into her mind. No sultan would put such a man in charge of his harem.
Betty’s face had turned a dark purple, rivaling the puce in Lady Bea’s gown.
“Ye can’t mean—”
“I most certainly can. Surely the rumors flying through this house party have reached your ears—wherever those ears were resting last night.”
An uncomfortable silence greeted this statement. Lizzie squeezed her eyes shut. Lady Bea could not be suggesting…
Her stomach twisted again. Sarah had been queasy in the mornings with her pregnancies.
The room started to spin. Someone—Meg?—took the chamber pot from her hands and pushed her head down between her knees.
Surely she could not be with child? There must be more to the process than merely touching hands or the entire female populace would be increasing. True, Robbie had not been wearing gloves….
A slightly hysterical giggle bubbled up in her chest. No, he had not been wearing gloves.
“Lizzie!” Lizzie cringed as Meg’s voice hissed in her ear. “What have you been up to?”
Lizzie grunted. Perhaps if she closed her eyes and kept them closed, everyone would go away. She buried her face in her hands for good measure. This was a dream, that was it. A bad, bad dream. She would wake up in a few moments, shudder, and get on with her day.
“Don’t think you can hide from me.” Meg’s voice was still buzzing in her ear like an annoying insect. “I mean to find out exactly what happened in here last night.”
“Mmphft.”
Meg laughed. “And don’t think you can hide from Lady Bea, either. She looks very determined.”
She sounded very determined also.
“You may go, Betty, but I shall have more to say to you lat
er. And take that disgusting chamber pot away—far away—and dispose of it.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Lizzie kept her face in her hands. She heard Betty leave the room. There was a long pause. She began to wonder if the gods had smiled on her and she’d been left to suffer in solitude. Well, not complete solitude. Meg had not left her place on the bed next to her. But perhaps Lady Bea had departed?
She lifted her head cautiously. No. Lady Beatrice was still there, scowling at her.
“Would you like to explain what exactly is going on, Lady Elizabeth?”
Oh dear. She felt as if she were fourteen, being called on the carpet by her brother for some infraction.
No, that was ridiculous. She was twenty years old, a woman grown. This was her fourth Season. A lady of her age and experience did not need a chaperone, and certainly should not be cowering in fear of a dressing-down. Lady Bea was more of a companion really, an older woman to satisfy society’s strict notions of propriety.
Lizzie straightened her spine, took a sustaining breath, and looked Lady Bea in the eye.
Her stomach clenched immediately. She dropped her gaze to stare at her hands.
“Uh. I think…I believe…I’m just not accustomed to…”
“I should hope you are not accustomed to such activities, miss. I can’t imagine what your brother will say. The least you could have done was gotten Westbrooke’s betrothal ring on your finger before you got his—”
“Lady Beatrice, I believe you are laboring under a misapprehension.”
“Oh? And what would that misapprehension be? Are you prepared to tell me that Lord Westbrooke has nothing to do with your current malaise?”
“Yes. Definitely. It is all my own doing.” Lizzie cleared her throat. “Last night, well, I believe I had one glass of ratafia too many.”
“Hmph.”
Lady Beatrice stared at her, most directly at her stomach. Lizzie placed her hands over that area and tried to breathe slowly.
“You are positive your current indisposition has nothing to do with a certain lord?”
“Yes!” Lizzie took another deep breath and struggled to recover her composure. “Yes, indeed. Most assuredly. Lord Westbrooke’s presence—”
Sally MacKenzie Bundle Page 4