Читать книгу The Naked Earl - Sally MacKenzie - Страница 9

“What were you thinking?” Charlotte drew Felicity into her room. Sometimes she wanted to shake the girl. If she were serious about catching Lord Westbrooke, she’d have to start using her head for something other than keeping her ears apart. Men were supposed to think with their nether regions, not women.

Felicity stopped just inside the door. “Aren’t you expecting company?”

“Yes, thanks to you.” Charlotte took a deep breath, repressing her annoyance. Perhaps it was just as well. She needed to get Lord Peter into her bed. The evening’s drama had served to force her over her initial reluctance. She glanced at her watch.

“He’ll be here soon.” And gone soon, too, she hoped. “I told him I had to speak to you first.” And she wanted to fortify her nerves with a sip or two of brandy.

“Peter’s not a patient man.”

Charlotte shrugged. “He’s not a bright man, either. If I hadn’t distracted him and reined you in as well, Westbrooke would be engaged now—and you would not be the woman sporting his betrothal ring. Have you never learned discretion?” She headed for her bureau. Why had she agreed to help Felicity trap Westbrooke?

The answer was simple. Trapping the earl for Felicity meant the Duke of Alvord’s sister could not wed the man. Taking Westbrooke off the marriage mart might even send Lady Elizabeth into a permanent decline—and that would hurt Alvord.

Three years ago when Alvord had chosen an American interloper as his duchess, Charlotte had been livid. She’d been determined to marry a duke, and the only marriageable one available after Alvord wed had been Hartford—eighty-year-old Hartford. As she was walking up the aisle at St. George’s to meet her decrepit bridegroom, she’d sworn to make Alvord pay. Now, perhaps, he would.

She waited for the thrill she always experienced at the thought of finally getting her revenge. It didn’t come.

She felt nothing.

She jerked on the bureau drawer, pulling it open more forcefully than she’d intended. She caught it before it came out entirely and dumped her belongings onto the floor.

What was the matter with her? She took out her small silver flask and closed the drawer carefully. It was the house party. That was it. She’d been feeling on edge ever since she’d arrived. She should have known being around Tynweith would do this to her.

She uncorked her flask and breathed in the pungent scent of brandy.

No, the truth was, she had more pressing concerns on her mind than revenge.

Hartford was failing. He needed an heir. Time was running out.

An all-too-familiar knot formed in her stomach.

“Discretion wasn’t part of the plan.” Felicity flung herself into a chair by the fire. “I was supposed to be discovered in bed with Westbrooke. Who knew he’d take to the window?”

“You might have guessed. He’s made an art of avoiding parson’s mousetrap. He’s made an art of avoiding you.” Charlotte raised her flask to her lips, then paused. “Care for brandy?”

“No.”

“Suit yourself.” She took a long drink. The liquid was comforting, as always. She closed her eyes, savoring the warmth that spread through her chest.

If she didn’t need Lord Peter’s services so badly, she would have stayed in London.

“You’d better go easy on the drink. You’ll be passed out before your paramour arrives.”

“I’ll be fine.” She wished she could pass out, but Lord Peter would probably prefer a sentient partner. Not that her alertness would make any difference, if her experience with Hartford was a guide.

She sat on the chaise across from Felicity. “I wonder what Lady Elizabeth thought when Westbrooke appeared naked in her room.”

Felicity snorted. “I’m surprised Miss Prunes and Prisms didn’t scream loud enough to wake deaf old Mr. Maxwell in London. She is such a prude.”

“I thought she was, too, but now I’m not so certain. She was as cool as ice when everyone was crowded round her, your hand on the bed curtains ready to open them wide. She never flinched. I would not have guessed there was a naked man in her bed.” Charlotte took another sip of brandy. “Are you sure Westbrooke was there?”

“Yes, I’m sure. There was nowhere else he could be. Lord Peter followed him. He saw him go in that window.”

“Hmm.” Charlotte shook her head. “I just can’t picture Lady Elizabeth greeting a naked Lord Westbrooke. Of course, her brother always acted very proper, and you know what everyone said about him.”

“That he was a regular satyr.” Felicity’s mouth slid into a sly smile. “He seems content enough now to stay home with his wife.”

“She’s breeding again, you know.” The anxious knot twisted in Charlotte’s stomach again. She took a deep breath.

Lord Peter would solve her problem.

“I’d heard. That’s why Lady Beatrice is acting as Lady Elizabeth’s chaperone this Season—that and the fact Knightsdale’s sister-in-law has finally been dragged to Town.” Felicity picked up a miniature from an end table and studied it. “This looks like you.”

Damn. She should have put that picture in a drawer.

“It is me.”

“Do you make a habit of taking your picture with you? I would have thought your glass would suffice.”

“It’s not mine.”

She watched Felicity’s eyes widen, then quickly narrow. Charlotte bit her tongue. She should have lied.

“What do you mean, it’s not yours? How did it get here?”

She shrugged. “Our host has an odd sense of humor.”

Felicity’s nose twitched like a hound scenting a fox. “But why does he have a miniature of you?”

“I have no idea. Perhaps you should ask him.”

“Hmm.” Felicity put the picture back on the table and picked up the porcelain shepherdess standing next to it. “Perhaps you should have chosen him to come to your bed.”

“Oh, no. Lord Peter suits my purposes far better.” Lord Peter was more than a decade younger than Tynweith, and more importantly, his family was known to produce males. He should give her a son. A daughter would not do.

“Are you going to tell him what your purposes are?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Charlotte could not imagine that conversation. “Probably not. There is no need for him to know.”

“You’re going to make him think you lust after his body when all you want is his seed?”

“I don’t mean to make him think anything. Thinking is not required for the procedure.”

Felicity laughed. “No, I suppose not.”

“I am offering him some free sport—why should he complain?”

“True. And Hartford? Will you tell him?”

“Definitely not.”

“Won’t he be suspicious?”

“I don’t see why. Most babes look the same—and I can’t imagine he’ll survive the child’s infancy.” God, she hoped he didn’t. She hadn’t thought he’d live this long. “If he does, Lord Peter’s coloring is much like mine. He’ll just think his little sprig resembles mama.”

“Well, yes, but if a man doesn’t plow the field, he can’t plant a seed, can he?”

“That is not a problem.”

“You mean he still…?” Felicity’s eyes widened and her mouth twisted up in a look of disgust.

“Yes, he still does.” Every Thursday evening—except the last two Thursdays. He’d tried, but he had not been able to rise to the occasion.

Her stomach clenched. She sipped some more brandy.

If she were able to get with child during this house party, Hartford should not suspect a thing. He had been able to accomplish the deed three Thursdays ago. Her courses were not terribly regular. She could be increasing now for all she knew.

“I just thought…well a bit of younger seed may help the plant grow faster.”

Felicity grinned. “At least the planting will be more enjoyable.”

“Perhaps.” Charlotte doubted it. The act of coupling was uncomfortable, messy, and embarrassing by its very nature. How could substituting the male change that? “I do hope Lord Peter will not want to make too much of a production of the thing. You told me he wouldn’t.”

“He won’t. Peter has a reputation for being quick.” Felicity laughed. “Very quick. A good man for a tryst at a ball. He can get the job done easily while sitting out a set—or even between sets if need be.”

“Lovely.” Charlotte closed her flask regretfully. Lord Peter should be arriving soon.

Felicity examined the shepherdess in her hands. “So, how am I to get Westbrooke’s ring on my finger?”

“Perhaps you should target Lord Peter instead. He is a marquis’s son.”

“Fifth son.” Felicity shook her head. “No, I definitely want Westbrooke’s title and money.”

“Well, if he really was in Lady Elizabeth’s room, I imagine there’ll be a betrothal by breakfast.”

Felicity clenched the shepherdess. “There had better not be. Westbrooke is mine.”

“Careful!” Charlotte sat up abruptly. “Tynweith might well be a bit possessive of his trinkets.”

Felicity looked at the figurine in her hand, then put it carefully back in its place. “If he treasures the knickknacks, why put them in the guest rooms?”

“I assume he harbors the mistaken impression that his guests are civilized.”

Lizzie’s hand shook as she lit a candle. At least the events of the night had cleared her head. She no longer felt muzzy with wine.

She eyed the bed. So far, no motion or sound had come from behind the curtains. Had she imagined the evening’s odd occurrences? There was only one way to find out. She reached out to pull back the cloth.

“Eek!”

Robbie’s hand twitched aside the curtain just as her fingers touched it. He glared at her.

“Shh! You’ll get everyone back in here. And watch that candle. You don’t want to set us both aflame.”

“No.” Lizzie already felt flames burning in some very odd locations. Her breasts and her…belly. Robbie might be glaring, but he was still naked. Her sheet covered him from the waist down, but his lovely neck, arms, and chest were exposed. The candlelight created interesting shadows begging to be explored.

She was very hot indeed.

Robbie turned away from her and tugged on the sheet. She watched his muscles bunch in his back and arms.

“Could you give me a hand here, Lizzie?”

“What?” Robbie needed a hand? Where? She would love to give him a hand—both her hands. She’d love to run them over his shoulders, down his back, under the sheet at his waist….

He tugged again. “It’s not coming loose.”

“What?”

“Can’t you say anything other than ‘what’?” He jerked on the sheet once more. “This. The sheet. It’s not coming loose. Could you pull it out at the corners? I’m going to have to borrow it to get back to my room.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.”

Lizzie put down her candle and pulled the sheet free of the mattress. Robbie wrapped it around his waist and slid off the far side of the bed.

“I don’t know why Charlotte came to our rescue, but I’m not complaining,” he said as he tucked the ends of the sheet more securely around his waist. “It would have been extremely awkward if Felicity had opened the curtains and everyone had seen me in your bed.”

“Uh.” Lizzie wasn’t thinking about their close brush with discovery. She was thinking about Robbie’s chest and shoulders. About the muscles in his upper arms. About how she wished the sheet would slip free of his waist.

Would he jump again if she touched him?

She started moving around the bed.

He started moving toward the window, giving her a wide berth.

“I do apologize for disturbing your sleep.”

“I wasn’t sleeping.” She flushed.

His face turned red, too. Obviously he’d remembered what she had been doing.

“Still, I apologize for invading your room. I was in desperate straits, believe me.”

Lizzie reached for his arm, but he jerked it away. He tried to take a longer stride, tripped on his sheet, and caught himself on the wall.

“Why did you come to my room?”

He grabbed the windowsill and turned. “I wasn’t coming to your room, Lizzie. I was fleeing mine. As I’m sure you guessed from all the commotion, I woke up to find Felicity in my bed—quite uninvited, I assure you. I had to exit quickly.”

“So you went out the window?”

He shrugged, making the muscles in his chest move in a most intriguing fashion. “I had no choice. I’m certain Lord Peter was stationed in the hall ready to nab me at Felicity’s first scream.”

Lizzie nodded. “Felicity is rather determined.”

“Determined!” Robbie ran a hand through his hair. His arm muscles bunched and shifted delightfully. “She’s beyond determined. She’s a bedlamite.”

Lizzie bit her lip and clutched her nightgown to keep her fingers from misbehaving.

“Once I was out on the portico roof, I had very few options. Yours was the only open window. I was hoping it was Parks’s. He got in late, after most people had retired.”

“I know. His room is next to mine.”

“Yes, well, I realized that rather quickly.” Robbie leaned out the window and looked right and left.

“Would you have wed Felicity if her plan had worked?”

He looked back at her and frowned.

“I suppose so. I don’t know. The thought is appalling. You can be sure I will find a way to secure my bedchamber door from now on.” He sat on the sill and swung his legs over it. “I am sorry for all the, um”—his gesture encompassed the room—“commotion. I think—I hope—there will be no lasting repercussions.”

“Repercussions?”

He shrugged.

A naked shrug was definitely more interesting than a clothed one.

“Rumors, that sort of thing.” He looked everywhere but in her eyes. “I’m certain it will all blow over if we don’t let ourselves get flustered by the gabble grinders.”

“Yes. Of course. Certainly.” Surely he didn’t think she was as bad as Felicity? She would never try to trap him into matrimony.

“Good. Then I’ll see you in the morning, shall I?” Robbie dropped down to the portico’s roof. “Sleep well.”

“Sleep well.” Lizzie hung out her window, watching him mince back to his room. He took a longer step and his sheet slipped. She held her breath, but he caught it quickly, allowing her only a glimpse of the top of his muscled buttocks.

When he reached his window, his hands went to his waist. Was he going to discard the sheet? It would definitely be easier to climb in without it.

She hung farther out her window. Yes, he was opening it….

He glanced back and saw her just as the cloth slid past his waist. He caught it.

She could have cried in frustration.

He waved.

She waved back.

He waited. It was clear he was not going to attempt to reenter his room while she was watching. She pulled back from the window….

…And leaned out again. All she saw was the sheet slithering over the windowsill.

She sighed and shut the window, drawing the curtains closed. Now that Robbie was gone, she could think more clearly. She glanced at the mirror and flushed. In her high-necked white nightgown, she looked the perfectly proper virginal sister of a duke, but earlier….

What had possessed her? She covered her face with her hands. Her cheeks were hot to the touch. Perhaps she was feverish. She had a brain fever, that was it. An alcohol-induced brain fever. She didn’t know herself. She had never behaved in such a way before. She certainly had never entertained such feelings before.

She had not even known such feelings existed.

What could he possibly think of her?

Lud!

She blew out her candle and stared up at her bed canopy. The firelight filled it with shadows.

Was she compromised? No one had actually seen Robbie in her room, though Felicity, Lady Beatrice—no doubt the entire house party—must believe he’d been naked in her bed.

What if Felicity had opened the curtains? Then she would have been compromised—spectacularly compromised. Robbie would have had to offer for her—Lady Beatrice would not have let him out of the room until he had done so.

She turned over and buried her face in her pillow. She breathed in Robbie’s scent.

He hadn’t offered for her. He could have, once everyone had left.

She stretched out on her side and hugged her pillow to her chest. Perhaps he intended to offer tomorrow. Perhaps he simply felt a marriage proposal should be presented in more formal attire—or at least some attire. She rubbed her cheek on the pillow. She would have been glad to hear his offer naked. Very glad.

If he were going to offer. She shifted to her back again. Perhaps he had no intention of doing so. He had seen her, all of her. Clearly, he had not been impressed. He must prefer more buxom women—though he most definitely did not prefer Felicity.

Her head hurt. There was nothing she could do tonight. Perhaps everything would make more sense in the morning.

She certainly hoped so.

Robbie sighed with relief as soon as his feet touched the floor of his room. He shuffled over to check his door. It had a lock, but the key was missing.

“Collins!” No answer. His valet was not on the cot set up in his dressing room. Envy twisted his gut. As he’d suspected, the man was probably in a snug corner of Tynweith’s estate cavorting with Betty, Lizzie’s maid. Just as he’d like to be cavorting with Lizzie.

He pushed a sturdy chest in front of the door. That should do the trick until the key was located. Then he unwrapped Lizzie’s sheet from around his waist and stuffed it in the bottom of his wardrobe. Collins could give it back to Betty tomorrow and then all would be well.

He hoped. What a nightmare. His heart had stopped when he’d seen the bed curtains bunch in Felicity’s hand. If Charlotte hadn’t stopped her….

Bloody hell, if Felicity had opened those curtains, half the ton would have been treated to the sight of the Earl of Westbrooke naked in the Duke of Alvord’s sister’s sheets. The story would have spread like the Great Fire of London, and the scandal…? God! The scandal would have been enormous. Bloody enormous. The ton would have buzzed with it for the entire Season. Next Season, too. And Lizzie’s reputation…well, Lizzie would not have a reputation, unless….

No, he would not think about that.

He inspected his bed for stray maidens, snuffed the candles, and climbed in. He’d been sleeping soundly before he’d had to flee over the rooftop. He’d been in the middle of a pleasant dream. He closed his eyes.

Damn.

He jerked them open and stared up at the bed canopy.

He could see Lizzie’s naked body as clearly as if she were standing before him—the graceful line of her back, the generous curve of her buttocks, her long legs, her sweet breasts, her milky skin glowing in the firelight.

The blasted fickle part of him was hard as rock…now. It made a splendid tent in his blankets. But put a female between his sheets and the damn thing turned limp as stewed cabbage.

His shy little organ would not perform in the presence of company.

Once upon a time he’d been able to…well, twice. It was the third time that had created the problem.

He’d gone with some fellows to the Dancing Piper. He’d been hardly seventeen—it had been his first visit to a brothel. His other two forays into Venus’s delights had been with Nan, a cheerful, uncomplicated country girl.

MacDuff had introduced him to Fleur. She’d had coal-black hair, startling blue eyes, and a lush figure. She’d been alluring, seductive, mysterious—everything Nan was not. He’d been flattered when she’d agreed to go upstairs with him.

He flung his arm over his eyes.

What an idiot he’d been, but then he’d not been thinking with his head.

She’d moaned and writhed more than Nan ever had. He’d felt extremely cocky in every way. When he’d climbed between her thighs, he’d thought himself the greatest bloody lover in England.

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He couldn’t rub away the memory. It was as clear as if it had happened yesterday.

She’d yelled, apparently overcome with need.

“Gawd, give it to me now!”

He’d hesitated. He was not so far gone in lust that he’d lost his mind completely. Something seemed off.

Something was off.

The door flung open, and MacDuff and the other boys rushed in laughing. Fleur laughed, too, letting her legs flop, holding her sides. It had been a grand joke.

He had not seen the humor. He’d leapt off the bed, got tangled in the sheets, and fallen at MacDuff’s feet.

“Fleur, lass,” MacDuff had said, “looks like we saved you from a wee little man.”

“Aye. Thankee kindly, my lord. From the size of him, ye’d think he’d carry a great sword, but ye’ll see now he carries only a little dirk.”

He’d been on his back, the sheets tangled around his feet, his tiny “dirk” exposed for the amusement of the assembled multitude. Covering it with his hands had only added to the merriment.

He clenched his jaw. The damn thing had happened more than a decade ago and still it haunted him. He’d not been able to mount a woman successfully since.

He turned over on his side and pounded his innocent pillow.

He was an intelligent man. He should be able to put the stupid incident in the past where it belonged.

A specific part of him refused to listen to reason.

Bloody useless appendage. It was a damn agent of torture, that was all. It had forced him to worship at Onan’s altar too many times to count.

He snorted. If he’d been discovered in Lizzie’s bed, Lady Beatrice would have cured him of his problem. She would have castrated him on the spot with the handle of her lorgnette.

He flopped onto his back and stared up at the bed canopy again. What was Lizzie thinking now? Surely she must have expected an offer.

At least the commotion in her room appeared to have cleared her head. She’d shown more restraint after everyone had left. Thank God! What would he have done if she’d touched him?

He knew what he’d like to have done. Taken her straight back to bed.

His ridiculous appendage leapt at the thought. He scowled down at the author of his misery. The miscreant had no shame. No one looking at him now would think he could not perform his bedroom duties.

He was going to have to take himself in hand, literally, if he hoped to get any sleep tonight.

Still, he would never have guessed Lizzie was so passionate. She had been so sweetly wanton. God, how he wished he were a normal man….

The truth was, he would disappoint her if he came to her bed. He couldn’t give her passion. He couldn’t give her children.

She would want both—must want both. She needed a man—a husband—who would take care of her in bed and out.

He turned over on his stomach and buried his face in his pillow.

No need to use his hand to find relief. The thought of Lizzie in another man’s arms deflated his uncooperative organ most efficiently.

Baron Tynweith paused in the darkened corridor to observe Lord Peter slip out of the Duchess of Hartford’s bedroom.

Hmm. So Charlotte had started to play games, had she?

A flicker of pain flashed in his gut, but he doused it at once.

Lord Peter sauntered down the hall, apparently not caring who saw him. He did glance back when he reached his door. He froze for a moment, then grinned, his teeth flashing white in the dim light, and nodded at Tynweith before he went into his room.

Cocky.

Tynweith eased open his own door. He heard Grantley stirring in his dressing room. He did not relish seeing his sour valet right now, but he’d never get out of this damned coat by himself.

He shrugged. The stiffness in his shoulders was not due just to his coat’s tight fit. He rubbed the line between his brows.

Lord Peter was little more than a boy. He would amuse Charlotte—if he did amuse her—only briefly. She was too canny to take him as a second husband once Hartford cocked up his toes. Short of a gruesome miracle, there was no hope of Lord Peter inheriting. His father, the Marquis of Addington, was barely sixty and still rode to hounds. The heir had six strapping boys and there was a plethora of nephews crowding the country. The Brants were legendary for producing males—the title had never passed out of the direct line.

And Charlotte would have to marry again, unless she was able to produce the next duke. Hartford’s current heir was not inclined to be generous with her. Claxton had been rather vocal at the wedding—Hartford had threatened to horsewhip him if he didn’t stop maligning Charlotte. He’d stopped his public tirades then, but not his private grumbling. No one in the ton, least of all Charlotte, had any doubt as to Claxton’s sentiments.

No, if she were looking for Hartford’s successor, she would not look to Lord Peter. He was merely a diversion.

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.