The Naked Earl

by Sally MacKenzie

“No, uh…” Surely Felicity would not be upset at Hartford’s passing? And why was Lady Dunlee looking at the earl?

  Comprehension dawned.

  “Oh, no. That is not the announcement I was preparing to make.”

  Lady Dunlee stared at him as if he had lost his mind. He was beginning to feel that perhaps he had.

  “The announcement I have to make—the verysad announcement—is that the Duke of Hartford expired in bed this afternoon.”

  He should have left the location of the duke’s demise out of the sentence. Lord Botton sniggered. Even Sir George was beset by a coughing fit. Tynweith rushed to cover the sounds.

  “Obviously, this is a great shock to us all and especially to the duchess. To honor her feelings and the duke’s memory, I’m afraid I must bring this house party to a premature close. I must ask you all to leave in the morning. I am sorry, but to continue with entertainments when one of the oldest peers of the Realm has died would not be proper.”

  “Very true,” Lord Dunlee said. “Very well put, Tynweith. My wife, my daughter, and I will prepare to depart early tomorrow.”

  “Thank you. I am sorry—yes, Flint?” The butler was gesturing from the door. Everyone turned to look.

  “My lord, I have some unfortunate news to report.”

  “Well, go ahead, man.” There was no point in being overly discreet at this point. Felicity’s absence had already been noted—better to have the truth than wild speculations.

  “First, Lord Andrew has taken leave of the premises.”

  Tynweith nodded. Just as well. He hadn’t decided what to do with the man anyway. Chances were Alvord would like Lord Andrew’s guts for garters, but the duke could find the blackguard himself if he wished. “And?”

  “And I regret to inform you that Lady Felicity has not been seen at Lendal Park since the carriages left for the ruins this morning.”

  “Oh, poor Felicity!” Lady Caroline actually wrung her hands.

  Damn. Could Felicity have wandered off and gotten hurt in the ruins? Shouldn’t the locksmith have found her? Apparently not.

  “Send a footman to the castle immediately, Flint.”

  “Yes, my lord. I—”

  “Thank you, Dickey. You were wonderful.”

  “That’s Lady Felicity’s voice!” Lady Caroline led the charge into the entry hall with her mother close behind. Lady Dunlee managed to squeeze through the door first—and came to an abrupt halt.

  “Oh, my.” She sounded breathless with scandal.

  “What is it?” Tynweith pushed to the front of the crowd.

  Lady Felicity was indeed standing in the entry hall. Her hair was falling down her back and her dress was almost falling off her person. She was clinging to the arm of a very burly, very embarrassed locksmith.

  Lady Dunlee had another tasty morsel to add to her gossip stew.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I don’t see why I need to marry Robbie so quickly.” Lizzie swallowed her panic. She was back in her room at Lady Beatrice’s town house. They had left Lendal Park two days ago. Robbie had ridden ahead and procured a special license. In less than thirty minutes, she would say her vows in Lady Beatrice’s drawing room and become the Countess of Westbrooke.

  She felt like throwing up.

  “You don’t?” Lady Beatrice paused in stroking the large orange cat in her lap. Queen Bess meowed her disapproval and butted her head against Lady Bea’s hand. Lady Bea resumed stroking. “How long have you been acquainted with Lady Dunlee? I have no doubt the woman is already entertaining her intimates with every detail she observed on Tynweith’s battlements—and probably a few she didn’t.”

  “That’s the honest truth,” Betty said as she pinned up a lock of Lizzie’s hair. “That woman would gossip about God Almighty if she could.”

  Lizzie frowned at Betty in the mirror; Betty smiled back and tweaked her hair.

  “Ouch.”

  “So sorry, my lady.”

  “You just want to move to Westbrooke House.”

  Betty grinned. “Very true, my lady. Me and Collins have waited years for this day.”

  Lizzie grunted. At least someone was happy. “But Lady Bea, wouldn’t our engagement be enough to scotch the rumors?”

  “Perhaps in the regular way of things, but there is nothing regular about this situation. You are the Duke of Alvord’s sister, one of—if notthe —most prominent woman your age in society, and you were seen practically as bare as the day you were born in the company of two men by one of London’s biggest gossips. The story of Westbrooke’s naked excursion to your bedchamber is sure to be discussed as well. No, if you are not securely wed to the earl before you step over the first society threshold, you’ll be given the cut direct by every woman of theton —and probably garner the unpleasant attentions of all the rakes as well.”

  Lizzie’s stomach twisted. “Surely not!”

  “I would be willing to wager on it. This house party will be discussed for the rest of this Season and probably many Seasons to come. The pattern card of respectability, Lady Elizabeth, ruins her reputation, and the old satyr, Hartford, cocks up his toes. Not to mention Lady Felicity’s encounter with the local locksmith. Much too delicious a plateful of scandal for the tabbies to ignore. The only way to curtail their feast is to flash a wedding ring at them.”

  Lizzie gripped her hands in her lap and willed the little she had been able to eat to stay where it belonged. She feared Lady Beatrice was correct.

  “And there are two more reasons for you to wed quickly—Lady Felicity and Lord Andrew. Felicity had a somewhat less than rational reaction to your engagement announcement.”

  Thatwas an understatement. Lizzie rubbed the space between her eyebrows. She was developing a crashing headache to go with her unsettled stomach. Lady Dunlee had taken it upon herself to inform Felicity of Robbie’s betrothal the moment she saw the girl standing in Tynweith’s entry hall, leaning on the arm of the locksmith who’d discovered her in the ruined castle. Fortunately the man had good reactions. He’d caught Felicity’s fist before it could connect with Lizzie’s eye.

  “Felicity will not relinquish her ambitions gracefully, nor will she relish being a laughingstock,” Lady Beatrice said. “Everyone knows she’s been pursuing Westbrooke—and she knows everyone knows. And I cannot like the fact that Lord Andrew is likely lurking somewhere in London. He has proven himself no gentleman.” She shook her head, causing the orange plume in her hair to bob. “I’d say there was every reason to rush your nuptials. Once the knot is tied, there is little Felicity or Andrew can do.”

  “And you love Robbie,” Meg said, leaning forward to touch Lizzie’s arm. “It is not as if you are rushing into marriage with a stranger.”

  “It is just so…sudden.” Lizzie sniffed back tears. This was not the way she had imagined her wedding. Not that she needed—or wanted—a big ceremony at St. George’s, Hanover Square—not at all. She had never thought to marry in London. No, when she’d dreamt of the day, she had pictured the church at Alvord with her family there—James and Sarah. Aunt Gladys. And Robbie, but a Robbie wildly in love with her, not this resigned, reserved man who was marrying her only to save her reputation.

  “I wish James were here.” Lizzie bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

  Lady Beatrice got up, dumping an annoyed Queen Bess on the floor, and patted Lizzie’s shoulder. “I know. He would be, of course, if Sarah weren’t on the verge of being brought to bed. He’ll come visit as soon as he can—or you and Robbie can visit him later when you are at Westbrooke.”

  Lizzie sighed. “Can’t we go there now?”

  “We discussed this. It is best you remain in London and go about for a few weeks to stifle the rumors. Then, when all theton has seen you, you can leave for the country. Then your departure will not look like a retreat.”

  “There.” Betty smiled and stepped back. “All done, my lady. Ye do look beautiful.”

  “Very true.” Lady Beatrice consulted h
er watch. “The earl should be here at any moment. There is only one task left to do.” She cleared her throat and looked at Meg. “Meg, you may go get ready.”

  “Iam ready, Lady Bea.”

  “Then you may go see that everything is in order downstairs and keep Lord Westbrooke company should he arrive early.”

  “But—”

  “Go,Meg. I have some words of a private nature to share with Lizzie.”

  “Oh.”

  Meg looked as shocked as Lizzie felt. Words of aprivate nature? Surely she didn’t mean…?

  She did. As soon as the door closed behind Meg, Lady Bea settled her sizable bulk in a chair close to Lizzie and put her hand on Lizzie’s arm.

  “My dear, I know your mother died when you were born. Has your aunt or your sister-in-law ever spoken to you about the marriage bed?”

  Lizzie wished the floor would open and swallow her up.

  “No. Those conversations usually occur right before, um….”

  “Exactly. Right before the wedding—and the wedding night, of course. And since you will be wed in about”—Lady Bea consulted her watch—“fifteen minutes, I believe I had best give you a hint of what to expect, if you will allow it.”

  “Um.” What could an elderly spinster possibly know about the intimate relations of marriage?

  Lady Beatrice took Lizzie’s inarticulate response as assent.

  “The main thing, my dear, is not to be afraid. The marriage act may seem very odd at first, but you will soon become accustomed to it and I daresay enjoy it.” Lady Bea frowned. “Some women have the misguided notion that ladies of theton cannot or should not experience pleasure in carnal relations. Balderdash! A lady can be as passionate as a lightskirt. The basic equipment is the same. It’s what’s up here”—she tapped her head—“that matters.”

  “Yes. Of course.” Lizzie could barely get the words out. Embarrassment was strangling her. Surely Lady Beatrice…The woman had never married…. How could she know…?

  “Now, there may be a little pain, a little blood, tonight when Lord Westbrooke breaches your maidenhead, but you must not be concerned. It is just a momentary discomfort. After that I’m certain everything will be splendid. The earl is a handsome man. He must know his way around a woman’s body. You are in good hands”—Lady Beatrice smiled archly—“literally.”

  “Um. Yes. Of course. Thank you.” Lizzie had not been looking forward to facing Robbie, but she would face a den of lions to escape any more of this conversation. “Do you suppose it is time to go downstairs?”

  Lady Beatrice chuckled. “Eager, are you? Well, if I were forty years younger, I might have my eye on the earl, too.”

  Lizzie stared at Lady Beatrice in horror as the older woman consulted her watch once more.

  “Good evening, Alton.” Robbie handed his hat to Lady Beatrice’s butler, a tall thin man with a shock of white hair. He looked like a University don, but rumor was he sprang from the London stews. Robbie believed it. The man’s demeanor was all that was proper, but his eyes were as sharp as a lancet. Made a man worry he’d be bled of all his secrets.

  Robbie looked away quickly. He did not want Alton bleedinghim.

  “Good evening, my lord.” Was there a note of humor in the man’s voice? “May I extend my sincere felicitations on your impending nuptials?”

  “Yes. Of course. Thank you.” Robbie glanced back. Those damn eyes were watching him still. The man couldn’t know, could he? Surely he couldn’t tell Robbie was…?

  Ridiculous. Alton might be preternaturally perceptive, but he was not a mind reader.

  He bit his lip. Lizzie would have no need to read minds—she could read the limp evidence of his failing clearly if he visited her bed tonight. How was he going to keep his secret from her? God. His head throbbed from trying to find an answer to that question. He’d thought of nothing else in the last two days.

  “If you’ll step into the drawing room, my lord? You will find Miss Peterson there with the parson.”

  Robbie nodded and tried not to appear as if he were fleeing the entry hall.

  Hell, Alton should look to his own secrets. There’d been rumors about him and Lady Beatrice for years, reportedly even back to when he was a young footman in Knightsdale’s service and Lady Beatrice was not yet out. People said he was the reason she’d never married. And when Knightsdale had finally given up on her and let her set up her own household, she’d chosen an elderly, deaf, and very nearsighted cousin as her companion, and Alton as her butler. That had been before Robbie was born. The companion had long since departed for the hereafter, but Alton was still in residence.

  Why hadn’t Charles insisted his aunt use the Knightsdale town house to launch his sister-in-law? It had a better location and a much more appropriate butler.

  Robbie repressed a snort. Most likely Lady Beatrice flat out refused. And Knightsdale Housewas an incredibly dark and depressing place. Charles’s father had been rather dark and depressing himself.

  Robbie stepped into the drawing room and was assaulted by a battalion of roses.

  “Oof!”

  Meg’s face appeared on the other side of the flowers. She grinned. “Sorry. I was just rearranging things. Lizzie should be down at any minute.” She lowered her voice and leaned closer. “Lady Beatrice sent me downstairs so she could havethe talk with Lizzie.”

  “Ah, yes.” He hoped his face wasn’t as red as the blossoms Meg was transporting. “And Reverend Axley?”

  Meg gestured with her head. “By the peonies.”

  “Parks?”

  “I don’t—ah!” She looked over his shoulder, and her face lit up like a thousand candles. “He just arrived.”

  Robbie felt Parks’s hand on his shoulder. “Good evening, Miss Peterson. Ready to step into parson’s mousetrap, Westbrooke?”

  “As ready as I will ever be.” He would be more than ready if only he didn’t have his mortifying secret. There was no other woman he would rather marry.

  “Good. The bridegroom is here.” Lady Beatrice appeared in the doorway. “Come along, Lizzie. It is time to get married.”

  Lady Beatrice moved and Lizzie stepped into view.

  God.

  She was beautiful. No, that word was inadequate. She was ethereal. Heavenly. He would certainly feel he’d reached heaven if he could truly make her his wife. As it was, he feared he was facing hell. To have her in his home, in the countess’s bedroom next to his, to know everyone including Lizzie expected him to come to her bed—hell could not be worse.

  Her white ball gown clung to her sweet curves like water. He wanted to run his hands over the silk, and then strip away the fabric to touch the silk of her skin. The image of her naked before her glass in Tynweith’s guest room flashed into his memory in tantalizing detail and his recalcitrant organ surged to life. Damn. If only…

  Reverend Axley cleared his throat. “Shall we begin?”

  The words of the wedding service washed over Robbie. He had heard them many times before. At James’s wedding—also a hurried affair held in a drawing room—and at Charles’s. He had never thought to hear them spoken for him. He had given up all hope of marriage years ago.

  What was he going to do tonight?

  He glanced down at Lizzie. She was unusually pale. He took her hand in his. Her fingers felt like ice. He rubbed their backs with his thumb, and she angled a fleeting smile up at him before turning back to the minister.

  If only…But there was no point in wishing he were a normal man. No amount of wishing had made his shy little member brave before. It was cowering in his breeches now, like the tail of a frightened dog, limp and droopy, at the thought of bedding Lizzie—or rather, failing Lizzie. Damn it.

  The minister was frowning at him. God, what had he missed? The man would expect him to pay attention at his own wedding.

  “Your vows, my lord? You need to reply…?”

  “I do. Yes. Of course I do.”

  He had no choice. He could not condemn Lizzie to wed tha
t bastard, Lord Andrew. Even a marriage to him was better than that. Nor could he expose her to theton’s vitriol. No, their marriage was the only solution—which was the only reason he was standing here.

  He heard her murmur her vows.

  At least now he would have the right to protect her if Lord Andrew or any other man made improper advances. Not that he expected anyone would. He might not be the Duke of Alvord, but he was not insignificant. He had some power. And more than one rake might take note of Lord Andrew’s rearranged countenance.

  He snorted. Reverend Axley and Lizzie both gave him a startled look. He smiled back at them.

  The cowardly bastard had probably gone to ground somewhere until the evidence of his beating faded.

  He shook his head. He had never felt such anger as he had when he’d seen that blackguard assaulting Lizzie. He hadn’t known himself.

  “You do not have the ring, my lord?” Reverend Axley frowned at Robbie.

  He frowned back. “Of course I have the ring. Why would you think I didn’t?”

  “I’m sorry, my lord, but you shook your head when I asked you. I understood—”

  “No, I’m sorry. I was woolgathering.”

  “Woolgathering, my lord?” The reverend’s eyebrows jumped halfway up his forehead. “At your wedding?”

  “Well, yes. Not precisely woolgathering, I suppose. Daydreaming, more like.”

  “Ah.” Reverend Axley gave him a knowing look and a wink. “I see. Not much longer to wait, my lord, for those activities.”

  “No, uh, that is….” The man thought…? But the minister was frowning again. Best not to argue the matter.

  He took Lizzie’s hand. Her fingers trembled slightly. Her lovely eyes were huge. He felt another stab of guilt. They should be sparkling with happiness, not shadowed by sadness and worry.

  He felt like a beast. She should have a wedding dress and veil, hundreds of guests filling St. George’s, James giving her away, her Aunt Gladys crying in the congregation—not this hurried little ceremony. He didn’t care for such stuff, of course. If he were capable of consummating this marriage, he’d say his vows naked on a dung heap, but Lizzie should have better.