Читать книгу The Naked Earl - Sally MacKenzie - Страница 10

“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 inches 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 later. 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—”

Meg made a very unusual noise, something between a squeak and a whoop. Lizzie and Lady Bea both turned to stare at her. Meg grinned back at them.

“So Robbie was actually in your room last night, Lizzie? I had heard the rumors, but I hadn’t believed them. How splendid! Not that I’m really surprised, though I would have thought he’d have chosen a more conventional setting for his proposal. When is the wedding?”

“Uh.”

“Yes, miss, when is the wedding?” Lady Bea frowned so that her brows met over her nose. “While it is fortunate that Lord Westbrooke apparently restrained his animal urges, the fact remains that he was here in your bedchamber.”

Lizzie studied her fingernails. “Robbie did not propose.”

“What?” Meg’s voice squeaked with indignation. “What do you mean, he didn’t propose? He must have proposed! You’ve loved him forever. And he loves you. How could he not have asked you to be his countess? Why else would he have sought you out in your room?”

Lizzie blinked at Meg. Robbie loved her? Where had Meg gotten that notion? Lizzie had hoped—prayed—for years that he did—that he would—but when she was being completely honest with herself, she had to admit he didn’t treat her much differently than her brother did. Meg must be confusing that brotherly sentiment with the kind of love Lizzie wanted—romantic love. Kisses-and-wedding love.

“He didn’t seek me out, exactly. His being here was more of an accident.”

“An accident? How could Robbie have come to your room by accident?” Meg scowled. “Surely he wasn’t looking for some other lady’s room?”

Lady Bea snorted. “Fleeing more like—and from his own room. It is too bad Lord Needham won’t rein in his daughter, but then that would require him to drag himself out of his brothels and gambling dens, wouldn’t it? Lady Felicity is far from the dirtiest dish in the Brookton cupboard.”

Lizzie nodded. She reminded herself of that fact whenever she wanted to strangle the other girl. The Earl of Needham was a large pill for any prospective suitor to swallow. True, the earl’s vast wealth had to make marriage to his daughter more palatable, but the embarrassment of having a father-in-law in trade—and such a trade—had made many a man choke on his proposal. It didn’t help that Felicity refused to consider any matrimonial applicants below her father’s rank.

“Be that as it may, miss, you cannot entertain naked men in your room and not promptly attire your finger with an engagement ring.”

Meg squeaked again. She was becoming a regular mouse.

“Robbie was naked?”

“Well…yes.” Lizzie feared she would spontaneously combust from mortification. “In a manner of speaking, that is.”

“Hmm.” Lady Bea’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “And how can a gentleman be naked in a manner of speaking?”

Lizzie would not meet the older woman’s eyes. “It was dark.” After Robbie snuffed the candles. “I really didn’t see….” Enough.

Lady Bea narrowed her eyes. “Immaterial. He was naked and in your room. He has to wed you. I am astounded that he did not propose the moment the door closed behind me. If word of this gets out—”

“Word won’t get out.”

“Word always gets out. Granted, only Lord Peter saw Westbrooke enter your window, and I suppose it could be argued he was mistaken since no one actually witnessed the earl with you, but still, as they say, where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

Meg nodded. “And Felicity will stoke the flames.”

“No, I don’t believe she will in this case.” Lady Bea arranged her ample form in the upholstered chair by the fireplace. “She clearly wants Westbrooke for herself—just as he clearly does not want her. I expect he will offer for you this morning, Lizzie, so you must get dressed and go out. One would hope that he would address me first, as I am your chaperone, but given the fact that he has known you since infancy and is one of your brother’s closest friends, I doubt he will stand on ceremony.”

Lizzie rubbed her suddenly wet palms on her nightgown.

“Do you really think he will offer for me?”

“How can he not? He has compromised you quite spectacularly. Of course he will offer. He is probably searching the estate for you now.”

The thought of Robbie looking for her made her feel amazingly better.

Damn.

Robbie dodged behind a topiary bear. He’d taken a brisk walk around Lendal Park, searching for his equilibrium. He still had a number of days to live through this blasted house party. He couldn’t be trying to strangle Tynweith’s guests every time they mentioned Lizzie’s name—though Lord Peter had done far more than that. He forced his fists to relax. Every time he thought of the scene in the breakfast parlor, he wanted to hit something, preferably Lord Peter’s face. He would love to reorder his features. He would be doing the women of the world a favor, making Lord Peter’s countenance reflect the ugliness of his character.

He’d hoped to make it back to the house without encountering anyone wishing to discuss last night’s unusual activities, and here was Lizzie, not twenty feet away, examining an oddly shaped bush. Sunlight filtered through her thin muslin gown, outlining her long legs. God. He rubbed suddenly damp palms on his breeches. Muslin should be outlawed or at least restricted to darkened areas, free of revealing sunbeams.

He had not slept well. He’d been haunted by dreams of Lizzie’s white skin, her lovely small breasts and delicate pink nipples, her golden hair—all of it, curling over her shoulders, around her breasts, sweeping the curve of her lower back…and the separate patch nestling between her thighs.

He was going to spill his seed in Tynweith’s blasted garden if he didn’t think of something else immediately.

Escape. That was it. He needed to get back to his room undetected. He’d chosen this route because it went through one of the less popular gardens—Tynweith had actually discouraged the ladies from exploring it, telling them it was not suitable for their finer sensibilities. Why hadn’t Lizzie taken the hint and avoided the place?

He would just have to choose a circuitous route to his room. He peered around the other side of the bear.

Double damn. Lady Felicity, hands on hips, scanned the hedges. Her nostrils flared.

God, was she a hound that she could sniff him out?

What was so bloody attractive about the shrubbery today? This garden was sadly overgrown. The bear he was hiding behind, for instance. It definitely needed a trimming. Just look at…

Robbie’s jaw dropped. The bear was not a bear at all, but a very large woman. A very large, very enceinte, very naked woman doing some very odd things with her bushy fingers.

Tynweith’s gardener was clearly demented. Well, Tynweith had an odd kick to his gallop as well. Why Lady Beatrice accepted this house party invitation was beyond him.

Felicity was headed his way. He felt a sudden affinity for Odysseus, forced to sail between Scylla and Charybdis. Well, it was clear who the six-headed monster was. And really, he’d be happy to be sucked into a certain whirlpool.

He left the shelter of the obscene bear woman.

“Lizzie.” He kept his voice low. Felicity probably had preternatural hearing. “Walk with me, will you?” He grabbed her elbow and tried to hustle her away from disaster.

“Robbie!” She smiled widely up at him. “Have you been looking for me?”

“Uh…” He smiled back, thinking quickly. Clearly the answer was supposed to be yes. She would not be happy to hear the truth—that he had wanted to sneak past her. “Actually, I didn’t expect to find you here. Didn’t Tynweith discourage you ladies from exploring this garden?”

She shrugged. “I suppose he did. I got a bit lost and wandered in the wrong direction, I guess. But I found you.” She grinned.

God, she was beautiful, especially when she was practically glowing up at him like this. But he couldn’t stand here admiring her. Felicity would find them in a moment. True, Lizzie’s presence would put paid to any compromising plans Felicity might harbor, but he didn’t care to spend any time in that she-devil’s company.

“Yes. Well. Tynweith was correct. This is not an appropriate place for you. Come along.”

Lizzie didn’t move.

“This is a very odd garden. Can you tell me what this topiary is designed to depict? I’ve been studying it for the last five minutes and I cannot puzzle it out.”

“Oh, for—” They were running out of time. He could almost feel Felicity breathing down his neck. He looked at the bush. “It’s a dog.”

“Well, yes, I discerned that. But what’s it doing? What’s that part there?”

“That? That’s, uh, that’s…” Bloody hell! “That’s not something you should be looking at. Now come along.” He tugged on her elbow again, and this time she came with him, though she kept looking back at the lascivious vegetation.

“Why are you in such a hurry?”

“Shh. Felicity is just on the other side of that hedge.”

“Not anymore.”

“Blast!” Sure enough, Felicity was back by the pregnant bear creature. She was looking the other way—perhaps she had not seen them yet. There was a slight break in the foliage just up ahead. “Hurry.”

Robbie dragged Lizzie through a gap in the hedge. She tripped on a root, and he caught her against his chest, holding her tightly and turning so her dress would not draw Felicity’s attention to their hiding place.

They were in a small bower with just enough room for two people to stand close together. Very close together.

Robbie breathed in Lizzie’s light, lemony scent mixed with sunlight and vegetation. Her body was so soft against his. Her breasts. Her thighs. His hands smoothed over her bottom, pulling her toward him. He wanted her close. His palms moved up her sides, slid to her back.

Her arms were now wrapped tightly around his waist, and—God!—her fingers were tracing the curve of his buttocks. Then they slid up under his coat.

He was panting.

“Lizzie.” He put his mouth close to her ear—he couldn’t risk Felicity hearing him, could he? He brushed his face against her hair, sweet and silky. It would be a sin not to taste her throat, he was so close.

She tasted of sun and salt. Soft and feminine.

Lord, did she purr? She tilted her head, giving him room to kiss the spot behind her ear.

Was she panting also?

“Lizzie…”

“Mmm?”

Christ, her lips…they grazed his chin, his cheek, and then her mouth found his.

He was going to die. His head, his heart, his groin were going to explode.

Her lips were so soft. They welcomed him, promising heaven—and he was a dying man, desperate for salvation. He ran his tongue along their seam. She whimpered, opening for him.

He had known Lizzie forever. He had loved her as long. But he had lusted for her only since her come out and never quite like this. This was a mistake, a terrible mistake. He was starting something he could never finish; promising things he could not give.

It made no difference. He could no more stop his plunge into her warm, wet mouth than he could stop breathing.

Actually, he could stop breathing.

But he could not stop kissing Lizzie. Felicity could have marched into this private bower with Lady Beatrice and all the ton—even James, Lizzie’s brother—and he would not have, could not have stopped. She tasted of life, of hope, of all that he wanted and could not have.

His lips left hers and moved down her throat. He loosened the neck of her gown.

“When,” she breathed as he ran his tongue into the crease between her breasts.

“When will…ohh.” She made a breathy little noise as his fingers skimmed over her skin and dipped down to free her breast from her corset.

“When will we…”

His mouth found her nipple. She shuddered.

“Oh, don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He grunted. He was incapable of any more coherent response. He flicked her nipple with his tongue, and then had to cover her mouth with his when she squeaked.

God, this was heaven—or as close to heaven as he could ever hope to get. He wanted her naked. He wanted his hands, his mouth, on her from her throat to her ankles. He wanted to see her, to taste every inch of her.

His mouth found the pulse at the base of her throat.

“R-Robbie.”

She was moaning. Good. Could he make her squeak again? He touched her nipple and heard her breath catch.

He could.

“R-Robbie…when…Oh. Oh, do that again.”

She pressed closer. Her belly cradled his hardness. She rubbed against him. Heaven. If only…no, he wouldn’t spoil things by pining for what couldn’t be. He would enjoy the present moment.

It was a very good, a splendid moment.

“Do what again, love? This perhaps?” He cradled her breast with his hand and kissed its nipple.

“Oh, yess…” She put her hands on his hips and pulled him closer still. “When…ohh…when…will…we…”

“Hmm?” He moved to lave the other nipple. She arched back, giving him more room to explore, pressing her hips even tighter against his.

“Don’t…stop.” Her hands pressed into his buttocks. She twisted against him. Could he bring her to satisfaction just by fondling her breasts? It was a challenge he was happy to undertake.

“Robbie…what are you doing?”

The last word came out in a squeal.

“Shh.” He had never felt so powerful, so alive. “Not so loud. We don’t want to attract attention.” Thankfully, Felicity must have moved on. If she heard them, found them…well, if he wasn’t more careful, Lizzie was going to find herself chained to him for life.

“I don’t mind.”

“Hmm? What don’t you mind?”

“I don’t mind if we attract attention.”

“Lizzie, sweetheart…the scandal.”

She smiled up at him, her eyes glowing. “There won’t be a scandal, Robbie.”

“There won’t?” She must be more drunk with lust than she’d been with ratafia the night before. Her face was flushed, her hair was coming out of its pins, and her breasts…her breasts were completely, beautifully exposed. He traced a circle around one nipple and watched it pucker in response. “You look rather scandalous to me.”

She rubbed against him. “I feel very scandalous.” She ran her hands up his waistcoat. He watched her pink tongue moisten her lips and bent to capture that tongue again.

She giggled and pulled back before his mouth touched hers. “There won’t be any scandal because we’re betrothed.”

He felt the blood drain from his face. He felt limp—everywhere. He couldn’t wed Lizzie. She was passionate. She would want children. She would not want a useless excuse for a man.

Despair, all too familiar, choked him.

“Aren’t we betrothed?”

He hated seeing that lost look in her eyes, but he would hate more the disgust and pity he would see on their wedding night when he had to admit he was incapable of consummating their union.

He tried to smile, tried to sound blasé.

“I’m sorry—did I propose?”

The sting of her hand hitting his cheek actually felt good.