Sally MacKenzie Bundle (18 page)

“The little bird?” Mr. Dodsworth took a swallow of ale. “Didn’t know you were keen on ornithology, Lord Andrew.”

“I don’t believe Lord Peter was referring to a bird of the feathered variety, Mr. Dodsworth.” Lady Beatrice scowled at the younger man. “I know your mother, sir. She would be most interested to hear what topics her son considers appropriate for polite conversation.”

Lord Peter’s ears turned red. “Your pardon,” he mumbled to his plate. He shoved a roll into his mouth.

Robbie wanted to stand up and applaud. It was about time Lady Beatrice took on a chaperone’s duties. If only she had been more alert last night. She should never have let Lizzie leave the music room with Tynweith.

He took a bite of his beefsteak. The meat might have been boot leather for all he could tell. Lizzie was seated next to Lord Andrew—Lord Skunk. An excellent sobriquet for the man, even if one ignored his unusual coloration. He sprayed a clinging stench of innuendo and malicious gossip wherever he went. Innuendo? Ha! Ofttimes he not only disseminated the tale, he authored it. Or worse, he was its leading actor. More than one unsuspecting debutante had been sent home to the country to try to clean his stink from her reputation.

Now the blackguard was leering at Lizzie.

Robbie scraped his knife across his plate and made Miss Hyde jump.

He had chosen a seat almost as far from Lizzie as possible. He’d hardly slept last night. The scenes from the conservatory—the sounds, the tastes, the textures—kept flashing through his mind. The silky smoothness of Lizzie’s breasts; the rich taste of her mouth and the tang of her nipples; the smell of lemon and silk and skin; the quick little breaths and moans she uttered as his hands moved over her; the sweet wail of his name as she found her release.

If Felicity were sitting next to him now, playing last night’s games, she would find the fall of his pantaloons ready to burst its buttons.

“Are you enjoying your visit, Lord Westbrooke?”

He looked at Mrs. Larson. She was smiling at him, but a frown etched a furrow between her brows.

“It has been agreeable, ma’am.” Some parts had been much more than agreeable—and some parts had been mortifying.

He had used Lizzie unconscionably in the conservatory. At least he had finally told her part of his secret. She’d looked as stricken as he’d imagined she would when she’d heard it. Surely now she was cured of her desire to wed him.

Good. That needed to be done.

He felt like puking.

“Are you certain?” Mrs. Larson touched his sleeve gently. “You look…well…” She sighed and glanced up the table. Her gaze settled on Felicity before she looked back at him. “I apologize for the events of the other night. Flint told me he gave your man the key to your bedchamber yesterday.”

“Yes, thank you. Do not worry another moment, ma’am. I am well settled. The accommodations are perfectly satisfactory.”

“I hope so.”

Mrs. Larson turned to address Lord Botton on her other side. Robbie took the opportunity to look at Lizzie again. Surely she had the key to her door. He would make a point to ask her. She might need it. Lord Andrew was definitely leering.

Perhaps he had made the wrong choice in sitting so far from her. If he were closer, he could grab the man by the cravat and twist it until his face turned purple. One would think one’s host might notice a guest misbehaving, but Tynweith’s attention was all for his luncheon. He would only bestir himself if Lord Skunk threw Lizzie onto the table and disturbed the dishes.

“If I’d been fully aware of how charming the company was here,” Lord Andrew was saying, “I would have forgone my appointment, I assure you.” The man’s eyes were focused on Lizzie’s bodice.

Lizzie shifted slightly in her chair so she was closer to Sir Gaston.

At least today she had on an appropriate gown. Its neck reached almost to her chin. The blackguard was not going to be able to ogle her lovely breasts. If he wished to scrutinize a bosom, he would have to limit his inspection to Lady Caroline’s. Hers was the only one on display at the moment—well, hers and Lady Beatrice’s, but elderly breasts…ah, the less said, the less thought, the better.

Well, and Lady Felicity’s were available for inspection as well. He was certain Lord Andrew could see them in their entirety if he wished—Felicity was not shy about trotting them out. Of course, the man had probably already examined them quite thoroughly, many times.

Robbie glanced at Miss Hyde. She was nibbling on some carrots, darting glances at the company. He had tried to engage her in conversation, but every time he addressed her, her eyes got a panicked, hunted look. He’d decided it was kinder to leave her alone. And ignoring her made it easier to eavesdrop on Lord Andrew and Lizzie.

The blackguard leaned closer to Lizzie. She tried to move away again, but she had nowhere to go. Another inch and she’d be sitting in Gaston’s lap.

“It is
so
delightful to see you again, my dear. Our paths have not crossed much recently.”

“Very true.” Lizzie’s face was expressionless. Good for her. “And I am not your ‘dear.’”

“No? I’m heartbroken. I’ve missed you so.”

A small, slightly mocking smile creased her lips. “My lord, you are gammoning me.”

“Not at all. I am quite anxious to renew our acquaintance.” Lord Skunk displayed his own cold smile. “I don’t intend to let this opportunity go to waste. We have a number of days to enjoy each other’s company and, um, deepen our friendship, hmm? I look forward to getting to know you more”—his smile widened—“intimately.”

Robbie half rose. He was going to murder the man here and now.

Mrs. Larson put her hand on his arm again.

“Ladies,” she said, “who would like a tour of the house?”

Tynweith headed for his study. He needed to get away from his bloody house guests. Why had he invited them? He loathed house parties. He’d been an idiot to have one. An asinine, buffle-headed nodcock. How many more days till he could shut the door on the last guest and get back to his comfortable life? Four? God, it was an eternity.

He paused in the hall. Was that Dodsworth he heard? Damn! He stepped quickly behind a statue of Aphrodite. Yes, it was Dodsworth droning on about horse breeding to Sir George. Nell had probably asked the baronet to sacrifice some of his time to keep the man company. She knew
he
wasn’t about to do it, even though it was his party. He waited until they had vanished into the back of the house to step out from his hiding place.

Things had reached a low point when a man had to cower behind the statuary in his own home.

He grimaced. He was certainly at a low point. Why had he thought he could get Charlotte into his bed? He was an idiot—and now he was stuck with a house full of idiots. His hand flexed. He would like to hit something.

Charlotte was ignoring him. She’d sat as far from him as possible at luncheon today. She’d barely looked at him. She’d spent the entire meal talking—or rather, listening—to that idiot Dodsworth inventory his stables. It hadn’t been the topic that riveted her—he was certain Charlotte didn’t give a rat’s ass about horses. Nor was it the man. He wasn’t overly vain, but there was no way any female could prefer stout old Mr. Dodsworth—stout, old,
boring
Mr. Dodsworth—to him.

After luncheon she’d vanished. He’d just spent the better part of an hour searching his estate for her. Discreetly, of course. He didn’t want her to think he was stalking her, even though he was.

He hadn’t looked in her room, however. He hadn’t had the nerve. Was she there, in bed with Lord Peter?

Bloody hell.

He wanted to strangle the man. Draw and quarter him. Castrate him with a dull knife. Chop his testicles up and feed them to his dogs. He’d almost cheered when Lady Beatrice had put him in his place at luncheon. One did not discuss the fashionable impure in genteel company.

He smiled at Miss Hyde as he passed her in the corridor. The little mouse ducked her head and scurried along as if she were afraid he was a cat. How could Nell bear to have her underfoot? Just seeing her put his teeth on edge.

No, to be truthful it wasn’t poor Miss Hyde’s fault his teeth were on edge. He’d barely slept last night. Every time he’d closed his eyes, he’d seen Lord Peter between Charlotte’s lovely thighs. It was driving him mad.

Lord Botton popped out of the music room.

“I’m looking for Lady Beatrice, Tynweith. Can you tell me where I might find her?”

“Sorry, Botton, I have not seen her recently. You might look in the gardens. It is a fine day. Perhaps she decided to take the air.”

“Right. Thank you. Interesting gardens you’ve got, don’t you know?” The old roué winked.

“Uh, yes. Indeed. Enjoy them.”

“Oh, I mean to—especially when I find dear Lady Beatrice.” He waggled his eyebrows, then hurried down the hall.

Tynweith watched him go. The man was destined to be as frustrated as he. According to Nell, Botton’s quarry had retreated to her room with a brandy bottle.

He shook his head. Lady Beatrice certainly was not the best of chaperones. Of course, her charges were well past the age when they should need close monitoring. He’d encountered Miss Peterson and Mr. Parker-Roth in a sedate section of his gardens this morning. They’d been arguing about one of his plants. In Latin. At least that is what it had sounded like—he hadn’t actually engaged them in conversation. He’d just nodded and kept walking. No need for a chaperone there.

Apparently Lady Elizabeth and Westbrooke weren’t getting into any interesting trouble either. He’d thought when he’d left them alone in the conservatory last night there’d be an engagement announcement this morning, but no. They hadn’t even sat together at luncheon.

He continued on toward his study.

There was definitely
something
going on between those two. When he could tear his eyes away from Charlotte, he’d watched them. The earl had been quiet, far from his usual witty self. He’d kept sending Lady Elizabeth longing glances—when he wasn’t sending Lord Andrew murderous ones. And Lady Elizabeth had been most subdued as well.

What the hell had happened in the conservatory?

And what was Lord Andrew up to? If Nell hadn’t spoken when she had at luncheon, Westbrooke might have tackled the man. Wonderful. A brawl among the beefsteak. Did he need to see that the two were on separate ends of the table at every meal? What an exhausting thought. He would put Flint in charge of it.

He had almost reached his study. Thank God. Peace—and the chance to mull over his options with Charlotte. It was clear he’d have to abandon his plan to make her jealous. Lady Elizabeth would not be convincing, and frankly he wasn’t certain he would be either.

So how was he going to get into Charlotte’s bed?

Perhaps he’d find the answer in his study.

What he found was Lord Peter lounging in his favorite chair, drinking his brandy.

“What are you doing here?”

“Testy, Tynweith?” Lord Peter grinned and took another swallow. “You don’t sound like the gracious host.”

Tynweith contemplated hitting him. He stepped into the room and closed the door.

“Pardon. I wasn’t expecting to find anyone here. What
are
you doing in my study?”

“Just wanted a private word with you, that’s all.”

“Really?” His stomach clenched. Why would the man want to talk with him in private? They had nothing in common—except Charlotte. Surely the nodcock was not going to talk about her?

Lord Peter grinned. “As I think you’ve surmised, I’m doing the duchess some slight…service.”

God, he
was
going to talk about her. Tynweith grunted and took the chair behind his desk. Best put some barrier between him and his unwelcome visitor.

“I felt sorry for her—stuck with that old man for a husband. Can’t be pleasant. Shriveled up body.” Lord Peter shuddered. “It’s a wonder he can manage the deed, don’t you think?”

Did the bloody idiot expect a response?

“I fail to see why you are discussing this with me.”

Lord Peter continued as if he hadn’t heard. “When she invited me to visit her bed, I didn’t want to decline. She’s not ugly, even if she is a little old.”

Tynweith made a strangling sound. Charlotte old? She was only twenty-four—only a year older than this pup.

“You said something?”

Tynweith clenched his jaw. “No.”

Lord Peter nodded and leaned forward. “You see the thing is I’ve had her two nights now and, well”—he took another swallow of brandy—“it’s just not much fun. She lies there with her eyes closed, still as death, and lets me have at it. I tell you, it’s like swiving a corpse—not that I’ve ever done such a thing, of course.”

He chuckled. Tynweith just stared at him. He was now too angry to speak.

Lord Peter cleared his throat and looked away. “Frankly, I can’t stomach another visit to her bed, but I don’t want to offend her. As I said, I feel sorry for her—and she
is
the Duchess of Hartford. No use making her my enemy, heh?”

Tynweith gripped his hands so tightly together he wondered if he would break a bone. Killing the man was very appealing. He could strangle him in short order. Castration with his penknife would be even more enjoyable.

“You are telling me this, because…?”

Lord Peter shrugged. “She mentioned you last night. I was eager for something to talk about. Casting around really, hoping to get something to spark the fires, as it were. Said I’d come up, and wanted to keep my word—she hadn’t invited me for tea obviously—but I was having trouble, um, rising to the occasion, if you know what I mean. The first night had been a lark—and I never turn down bed games when I’m offered a chance to play. And it is a rare treat not to have to pull out—”

“Lord Peter!” Tynweith took a deep breath. He would not shout.

“Yes, well, she said there was something between you once. Ancient history, I think she said, but she didn’t sound like she meant it. So I thought, as soon as I’d managed to come and knew I didn’t want to come there again, that maybe you’d be interested in taking my place. For old time’s sake, perhaps?”

What to say? Tell the whelp in no uncertain terms that a gentleman never discussed his conquests? But he was happy for the information—a specific part of him was rigid with delight. And even happier that Lord Peter thought Charlotte still entertained some feeling for him.