Robbie heard Lizzie draw in a sharp breath that ended on a sob.
He couldn’t look at her. His stomach clenched in a tight, hard knot, and familiar hot shame pooled in his gut.
How could he marry Lizzie? How could he condemn her to a life without children, without passion?
How could he tell her…Panic seized his chest. He struggled to breathe.
He couldn’t tell her.
“I will be happy to offer for Lady Elizabeth,” Lord Andrew said. The words came out slightly mumbled—the man’s lips were swollen and he was missing at least two teeth. “After all, it is my fault she finds herself in this state. I let my animal instincts get the better of me.”
He grimaced in a way that was perhaps intended as a smile.
“I have no excuse except that I have worshiped Lady Elizabeth for years—I was crushed when she turned down my earlier offer.”
Robbie waited for Lady Beatrice to put the bastard in his place. Instead she nodded.
Good God. She couldn’t mean to…She wouldn’t let Lizzie wed….
“No.” Lizzie almost shouted the words. “I will not marry Lord Andrew.”
“Lizzie, you don’t have a choice—”
“I do have a choice, Lady Beatrice. James would never force me to wed that snake.”
“Perhaps not, but even the duke cannot repair the damage you’ve done to your reputation today. If you don’t wed, you’ll be condemning yourself to live in the country, at Alvord, a spinster for the rest of your life.”
“My Aunt Gladys never married, and she spent many a Season in Town.” Lizzie sounded defiant, but Robbie heard the thread of panic in her voice.
“Your Aunt Gladys never appeared naked in public with two gentlemen, miss.”
“I’m not”—Lizzie’s voice dropped to a whisper—“naked.”
Lady Dunlee snorted. “You’re near as can be.”
“I really think we should postpone this discussion until everyone is calmer.” Mrs. Larson gestured toward the stairs again. “I suggest we leave now. I do believe it is going to rain at any moment.”
Everyone ignored her.
“Very well, Lord Andrew.” Lady Beatrice threw Robbie a look before she considered the other man. “Since you have offered—”
“You cannot mean to let Lizzie marry that blackguard.” Panic made Robbie’s voice tighter than he would like.
“Have you another suggestion, Lord Westbrooke? The girl needs a husband.”
“I do not need a husband.”
Robbie looked at Lizzie. She was staring straight ahead, chin up, hands clutching his coat.
She had been so innocently wanton when she’d drunkenly pursued him in her bedroom. She’d been so purely passionate in Tynweith’s shrubbery. If she married Lord Andrew—no, the thought was too obscene to contemplate. He could not condemn her to a life with that bastard. The man might give her children, but he would definitely give her pain. The possibility of motherhood could not outweigh the certainty of abuse. Lord Andrew would break her spirit.
“I will marry Lizzie,” Robbie said as the storm clouds finally opened.
Lizzie sat dripping in a carriage with just Lady Beatrice and Meg for company. Everyone else had squeezed into the other vehicles to give her privacy.
“Lizzie, are you really going to marry Robbie?”
Lizzie didn’t know the answer to that question. Lady Beatrice did.
“Of course she is, Meg. She has no other option. I tell you, I was a bit concerned when Lord Andrew offered and Westbrooke stood there like a block.”
A bit concerned? Mindless panic was what Lizzie had felt. To be bound to that despicable man for life, to be compelled to tolerate his most intimate touch…. She could not have borne it.
And yet it would have been her own fault if she’d been so condemned.
She looked out the window. She didn’t see the rain and the passing scenery—she saw Lord Andrew’s face, his eyes hot, his mouth cruel, as he’d tried to open his breeches. She felt his weight on her, pinning her to the stone parapet. She could not have stopped him. If Robbie had not arrived when he did, she’d have been…Lord Andrew would have…
She pressed her head against the carriage wall.
It was all her fault. She had to be daring. She had to insist on visiting the battlements even after Mrs. Larson and Sir George had left the party—even when she knew Lord Andrew would be her only escort.
Robbie was right. Apparently she had no sense whatsoever. She’d been in the billiard room. She knew Lord Andrew was not to be trusted.
She sniffed, swallowing tears. She had not known, she truly had not imagined, that anyone could be so evil.
And now poor Robbie was being made to pay for her stupidity. It was obvious he had not wanted to offer for her—he had done so only to save her from Lord Andrew.
Perhaps there was a way out. They would get engaged. Then after the worst of the scandal had subsided, she would call it off.
She would jilt Robbie. She squeezed her eyes shut. She would jilt him, and by doing so cause a second scandal. He would be embarrassed. She would be disgraced. No one would ever marry her. Lady Beatrice was right—she’d be consigned to Alvord to live her days out as a spinster aunt.
She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
She would have to marry Robbie.
Have to? It was no burden for her—she had wished for it for years, just not in this way. She loved him.
She would make it up to him. She would be the best wife a man could have. Whatever he wanted, she would do. If he wanted her to stay in the country, she would. If he wanted to keep a mistress—several mistresses—she would not complain. She would see to it that he never regretted today’s chivalry.
Everything would be all right. She had enough love for them both. She—
A new thought intruded.
What if Robbie were in love with someone else?
Damn, it had been quite a day—and it wasn’t near over yet. Lord Tynweith poured himself a generous glass of brandy and sprawled in his favorite chair by the fire. He’d retreated to his sitting room to hide until dinner.
Who would have thought Lord Andrew was such a bounder? Almost raping a fellow house guest—that really was bad ton. He’d confined the man to his room and stricken him from any future guest lists. At least he wouldn’t be seducing young ladies any time soon. Scaring them, perhaps. Westbrooke had done a thorough job of rearranging the man’s face.
He sipped his brandy thoughtfully. Who would have guessed Westbrooke was so handy with his fives? As far as he knew, the earl didn’t frequent Gentleman Jackson’s to practice his boxing form. And apparently he knew how to use a knife as well. Tynweith shook his head. The things one learned about people when one spent a little time with them.
He snorted. Lady Dunlee certainly had learned a lot, and it was clear she was bursting to return to London and educate the rest of society. God, even soaking wet, the woman had been veritably twitching with excitement. And she would have plenty of juicy tidbits for the ravening tabbies. Nell had said the scene on the battlements was shocking, and Nell was not easily shocked.
One good thing about all this—Westbrooke had finally overcome whatever odd scruples had been holding him back from offering for Lady Elizabeth. Still, according to Nell, he hadn’t leapt at the opportunity; it had only been the distasteful prospect of seeing the girl tied to Lord Andrew that had impelled him to action.
Tynweith chuckled. Unless he missed his guess, Lord Westbrooke would be impelled to other action immediately. Lady Beatrice had had a very determined look on her face when she’d climbed out of the carriage. He suspected she wanted Lady Elizabeth wed before Lady Dunlee could draw her first gossipy breath in a London ballroom.
He scowled at the fire. Damn Lady Dunlee. Her eyes had gleamed like a feral dog’s when Hartford had come bumbling through the castle gatehouse.
He got up to pour himself more brandy. With luck, Lady Elizabeth’s scandal woul
d be so delicious, Lady Dunlee would not think to regale the gabble grinders with her account of Hartford’s bizarre arrival.
He swirled the amber liquid in the bottom of his glass. The thought he’d been avoiding finally intruded.
How was Charlotte?
He’d truly wanted to murder Hartford this afternoon. Thank God Nell had been there to stop him. She’d been right, of course. He would have done no one good by making a scene, least of all Charlotte.
He tossed off the contents of his glass. The brandy burned his throat and caused his eyes to water. He wouldn’t think of Charlotte.
He couldn’t think of anything else.
He went to his window. He was jumpy. He could not sit still.
He had thought to visit Charlotte’s bed tonight. He had thought about it every second from the moment he’d left her room this morning to the moment Hartford had appeared in the ruins. He’d thought about the silkiness of her hair, the taste of her skin, the warm wetness of her passage….
He was going mad, like a man dying of thirst who’d been given one small sip of water and then been held back from the well.
He looked out over the green lawns, the gardens. He needed a wife, an heir….
Damn.
He strode back to the fire.
He had not seen Charlotte since she’d left with Hartford. Nor had he seen the duke. That was…what? Two hours ago? Was the old satyr still at it?
He slashed at the logs in the fireplace. Sparks shot into the air. He must remember this was what Charlotte wanted. As repulsive as the thought of Hartford mounting her was, it was what she wanted. What she needed. A means to an end.
If she left Lendal Park enceinte, she would be happy.
He stabbed the logs once more. He didn’t believe that. He couldn’t. He had woken her to passion. She had melted in his arms. The Marble Duchess had turned molten at his touch. She needed him as much as he needed her.
He turned away from the fire. Enough. Thinking about it only tied his stomach in knots. As Nell pointed out, he had no rights here. Charlotte was a married woman.
He would go downstairs. Perhaps he could interest Westbrooke in a game of billiards. The earl seemed as morose as he. They would be a good pair.
He stepped into the corridor. He had to pass Charlotte’s room. He walked briskly. He was not going to think of her in bed with that wizened old man. Hartford would never cause her to scream with passion, but if he did, Tynweith definitely did not want to hear it.
So why was he slowing his steps outside her door?
There was a sound coming from her room. An odd sound.
He paused. There was no one else in the hall—no one would notice if he put his ear to the door….
He heard it again. A faint noise, but urgent. He pressed his ear to the wood.
“Help.”
Bloody hell! What could Hartford be doing? He listened further. There was no answering male voice.
“Help.” Again, a little louder with a sob this time.
He didn’t care if Hartford was Charlotte’s husband—he could not ignore a plea for assistance under his own roof.
He shoved on the door. Thankfully it opened easily. There was no one in the sitting room.
“Charlotte, it’s Edward. Are you all right?”
“Edward. Oh, God. Edward. In here. Please…”
Charlotte’s voice came from the bedroom. Tynweith reached the door in two strides.
“Good God!”
He stared at Hartford’s shriveled arse. The duke was stretched out on top of Charlotte. He wasn’t moving.
Charlotte’s panicked eyes met his.
“Help me, Edward. I’m trapped. I think…Oh, God. I think he’s dead.”
“My lord, may I say I am delighted—” Collins’s grin collapsed abruptly into a frown. “That is…I mean…it is true you are to marry Lady Elizabeth, is it not?”
Robbie gripped the windowsill more tightly. He’d like to be out in the storm again. The wind and biting rain matched his mood exactly. No point in depressing his valet, though. The man must be merry as a grig at the news of his impending nuptials—his wedding Lizzie meant Collins could finally make Betty an honest woman.
He turned away from the window and attempted a smile. He had to force his lips to move—it was probably not a very convincing performance. Damn. He used to be quite skilled at pretending good spirits.
“Yes, Collins, you are correct. Lady Elizabeth and I plan to wed.” Immediately, if Lady Beatrice had anything to say to the matter. She’d already sent word to James—or would once the storm had passed. Even she recognized sending a man out on the road in this downpour was lunacy.
She’d informed him in no uncertain terms that he was to ride for a special license tomorrow.
“My lord, you are dripping on the carpet. You need to get out of those wet clothes or you will catch your death.”
There was an idea. He could save Lizzie by sticking his spoon in the wall—but only after wedding her. Dying at this point would condemn her to marry Andrew.
“You need a warm bath, my lord. I’ll arrange for it at once.”
“I’m not some hothouse flower, Collins. A little cold and wet won’t kill me.”
“It pays to be cautious, my lord.”
Robbie pulled his sodden shirt over his head while Collins made the necessary preparations for a tub and hot water. Surely the man wasn’t going to coddle him until he tied the knot with Lizzie? That would drive him mad.
Another reason to wed quickly, he supposed. Annoying solicitude was not acceptable grounds for murder.
He shivered out of his breeches. A bath would be nice. It wouldn’t warm the cold terror gripping his heart, but it should take the chill out of his flesh.
What the hell was he going to do? Lady Beatrice had been correct—the scandal would be horrific if Lizzie didn’t marry posthaste. She had been, for all intents and purposes, naked on the battlements, and once the heavens opened, the rain had soaked the remaining scraps of her shift to transparency.
Now if Lady Dunlee could be persuaded to be discreet….
“What are you laughing at, my lord?”
Collins was frowning harder. Not surprising. Robbie’s laughter had not been prompted by humor. The thought of Lady Dunlee being discreet was ludicrous. He might as well ask the rain pelting the window not to wet anything.
“Nothing. Is the bath ready?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Splendid.”
Robbie sank into the warm tub. The water stung his cold skin and made his numb toes ache as they came back to life. He closed his eyes for a moment. It did feel good.
“Hand me the soap, Collins, and take yourself off.”
“My lord, I’d be happy to help with your bath.”
“Well, I’d not be happy for your help. Go away.”
Robbie sighed and sank lower in the tub as he heard the door close. What was he going to do?
Marrying Lizzie was a dream come true—a nightmare.
He dunked his head, then took the soap and started lathering his hair.
After the disaster at the Dancing Piper, MacDuff and his chums had taken every opportunity to twit him.
“Challenge Westbrooke to a duel with swords—he’s got only a little weapon.”
“Fallen off any good mounts lately, Westbrooke?”
“Let me know if you visit Fleur again, Westbrooke. I’ll come behind to give the poor girl satisfaction.”
He had learned how to deal with the twits. He’d laughed and pretended their words did not hurt. Their interest in taunting him faded eventually.
His anxiety didn’t. When he went home at the end of term, he decided the problem was much like falling off a horse—you just needed to get right back on and ride again. So he tried. Nan had helped him lose his virginity; he reasoned she’d be an excellent choice to cure him of his nerves.
It hadn’t worked. Nan had been happy to go off to the abandoned hermit’s cottage with him
. She’d been quite enthusiastic, even. She’d done her best to encourage him. And she’d even been kind when he’d lost his…courage at the crucial moment.
“Don’t worry, love. These things ’appen, though mostly to older gents. Just finish me with yer finger and we’ll call it a day.”
Damn. He’d gotten some soap in his eye—that was why it was tearing. He scrubbed his arms.
What the bloody hell was he going to do on his wedding night?
Tynweith waited for the last of the house guests to assemble in the drawing room. Charlotte had stayed upstairs with her maid. Well, and Hartford was upstairs, too, in a manner of speaking.
Poor Charlotte. She’d been quite shaken when he’d found her. Not surprising. She’d been trapped under the duke—literally a dead weight—for a good little while. Apparently he had died in medias res.
She was more composed now, but still not ready to face the likes of Lady Dunlee. Tynweith clenched his hands into fists and then carefully relaxed each finger. Lady Dunlee was just entering the room. She’d be in alt with this new morsel of tittle-tattle. He drew a deep breath.
“If I may have your attention?”
The desultory chatter died down. It was clear his guests expected an announcement of interest. All eyes focused on him—some, like Lady Dunlee’s, sharp and hungry; others, slightly amused. Lord Westbrooke stood off to the right, his face pleasantly expressionless. Lady Elizabeth, hands folded in her lap, sat next to Lady Beatrice, as far from the earl as possible.
He cleared his throat. This was harder than he’d expected.
“I’ve asked you all here—”
“But we aren’t all here,” Lady Caroline interrupted.
“Yes, I know. The duchess did not feel up to appearing as you will understand when I tell you—”
“But what about Lady Felicity?” Lady Caroline frowned. “I’ve been thinking about her all afternoon. I haven’t seen her since luncheon.”
Tynweith surveyed the room. Lady Caroline was correct. Felicity was absent. Had he seen her since luncheon? She’d been talking to Charlotte at table, but she had not been with her when Hartford arrived, had she? Where had she gone?
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