Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  “I tripped. I did not throw myself.”

  A muscle jumped in Robbie’s jaw. “What do you call that dress, then, if not throwing yourself at men? It’s indecent.”

  Lizzie wanted to cover her chest with her hands. She clenched them into fists instead. Who was Robbie to tell her how to dress anyway? If he wanted to dictate her attire he could offer for her.

  “It is not indecent. My chaperone has no objections to it whatsoever. In fact she said it was quite the thing.” What Lady Bea had actually said was it was just the thing to bring this fat-pated, buffle-headed idiot to his senses, but Lizzie wasn’t going to tell him that. He didn’t have any senses to be brought to, anyway.

  Robbie’s teeth looked as though they were clenched as tightly as her hands. “Lady Beatrice is not a suitable chaperone.”

  “Don’t insult Lady Beatrice.”

  “I am not insulting Lady Beatrice.” His jaw flexed. “She is a charming woman—just a mutton-headed chaperone, especially if she thinks a dress that displays your, um, charms for any man to ogle is acceptable attire for a duke’s sister. People will think you are a member of the fashionable impure, a high-flyer, a—”

  Lizzie was so angry she wanted to spit. She leaned forward—and watched Robbie’s eyes drop to the neck of her dress. Someone was definitely doing some ogling.

  He jerked his eyes away quickly.

  “People are welcome to think what they will,” she said. “I am certainly wondering what a certain person was thinking this afternoon in Lord Tynweith’s shrubbery.”

  Robbie’s ears turned bright red. “Keep your voice down. Lady Dunlee just looked this way.”

  “Do not worry. I do not intend to prolong this conversation.” Lizzie took a deep breath. She was shaking, she was so incensed. “I do have one question. This afternoon I was wearing a brooch on the quite modest neck of my dress. I appear to have lost it. Did you happen to find it?”

  “A brooch?”

  “Yes. With my initials.”

  “No, I didn’t find your brooch. Why would you think I did? Ask one of Tynweith’s servants.”

  “I don’t believe Tynweith’s servants frequent the section of the garden where I lost it, though I may be mistaken. I seem to be mistaken about many things these days.” Lizzie stepped back and pasted a false smile on her face. “Now, if you will excuse me, I believe Tynweith’s butler is about to announce dinner. I’m sure you’ll understand if I prefer a different escort. Present company has a deleterious effect on my appetite.”

  Lizzie was delighted to see as she left that Robbie’s face was almost as red as Lady Beatrice’s dress.

  Bloody hell. Robbie stabbed his slice of venison as if the beast were still on the hoof. Lizzie was sitting on Tynweith’s left and batting her eyelashes at the man while he peered down her dress.

  “I had the oddest dream last night, Lord Westbrooke. I blush to tell you what it was. Perhaps you have heard a rumor or two?”

  Robbie left the meat on his plate. He’d choke if he tried to consume it now—he was struggling to swallow Lady Felicity’s whopper. Was she really going to pretend she had dreamt the entire bedroom incident? Did she think to persuade him that he, too, had been asleep when he’d stared at her pendulous breasts, leapt from his window, and scampered naked over Tynweith’s roof?

  “No, Lady Felicity, I can’t say I’ve heard a word about your activities, real or imagined.”

  “No?”

  “No.” Robbie examined his plate. Nothing was appealing. Sitting next to Lady Felicity had definitely cost him his appetite. “How does one’s dream become a rumor, may I ask? Who’s to spread the tale of something that happened only in your mind?”

  “Well, the activity wasn’t confined to my mind, I’m afraid. The dream was so vivid, I thought it was real. I disturbed Lady Elizabeth and a few other guests, I regret to say.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes.” She dropped her voice and leaned close. “Shall I tell you my dream? You played a role in it. It really was quite shocking.”

  “Um.” Robbie eyed her sizable breasts nervously. It was an amazing feat of cloth engineering that they remained even partially covered. Her corset pushed them into such mounds her dress hovered just over her nipples. He could speak with authority on that. After last night’s incident, he knew exactly where in the geography of her bosom the small mole now displayed for his inspection appeared. “I really don’t believe that is necessary. In fact, I think I would much prefer not knowing.” He tried to smile. “I do apologize for disturbing your slumber.”

  He might not have spoken for all the attention she paid his words.

  “But it was so…stimulating.” Lady Felicity’s voice dropped even lower to a throaty whisper. “We were in bed, you and I. Naked. Completely naked. I could see your chest, your muscles…” Her eyes stripped him of coat, waistcoat, shirt, and cravat. “Everything.” She met his eyes, then moistened her lips, licked them, really, before letting them slide into a slow smile. “It was the most wonderful dream I have ever had.” Her eyes focused his mouth. “I don’t suppose you had a similar dream?”

  “No. Not at all. Definitely not.” Could he get up now and leave the room? Claim a sudden case of nausea? It would be true. “Perhaps it was something you ate. Sometimes food or drink ingested right before bed can cause nightmares.”

  “Nightmares?” She tittered. “Oh, Lord Westbrooke, it wasn’t a nightmare, I assure you.”

  For you. He nodded and prayed for deliverance. It came. Lady Dunlee, his dinner partner on his other side, apparently grew tired of Felicity monopolizing his attention. She tapped him on his arm.

  “I haven’t had the opportunity to talk to you, Lord Westbrooke.” Lady Dunlee displayed her usual tight little smile. “I looked for you this afternoon, but I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

  Because I was attacking Lizzie in the shrubbery. Robbie hoped his ears weren’t as red as they felt. “You were looking for me, Lady Dunlee?”

  “Of course. My dear daughter, Lady Caroline, missed you dreadfully these last weeks. I understand you traveled to your Scottish estate?”

  Fled, more like. “Yes, Lady Dunlee. I did spend the last few weeks in Scotland. But I’m back now and intend to stay in England at least until the end of the Season.” Keeping an eye on Lizzie. Damn. Lizzie was still flirting with Tynweith. The Duchess of Hartford, on Tynweith’s other side, was looking extremely displeased. Her head was tilted politely toward Lord Dunlee, her neighbor on her right, but her eyes were fixed on Tynweith and Lizzie.

  At the moment, Robbie was in complete charity with the duchess.

  “…and my dear daughter Caroline is also an extremely accomplished singer. I’m certain you must have heard her perform.”

  Only when I haven’t had adequate warning. “Yes, Lady Dunlee. I believe I have had that, um, pleasure. Ulp.”

  Lady Dunlee’s eyes widened. “Excuse me? What did you say, Lord Westbrooke?”

  “Help.” Robbie smiled at the woman while he grabbed Lady Felicity’s hand under the table and removed it from his pantaloons. “Lady Caroline’s talents always help the evening’s entertainments.”

  Lady Dunlee nodded. “Indeed.” She nodded down the table to where Tynweith’s cousin, their hostess, sat. “You might mention to Mrs. Larson that you would enjoy some music.”

  “A splendid idea. I just might do that.” When hell freezes over.

  He turned back to Lady Felicity.

  “Could you please keep your hands to yourself?” He kept his voice low, but tried to put enough emphasis into his whisper to convey his annoyance.

  She pouted at him. “I thought you’d enjoy a distraction. Lady Dunlee does drone on so about her fat daughter.”

  He couldn’t deny the truth of that statement.

  “I have not given you permission to touch my person. It is shockingly improper.” He must sound like some ancient chaperone, but really, what did a man say to a woman who had accosted him under the dinner table
?

  “Most men don’t complain.”

  “How many men have you treated in such a manner?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t keep a tally. It helps pass a boring meal, don’t you agree?”

  “No, I do not.” Anger made his voice rise above a whisper. “I prefer to eat my meal in peace without having to worry someone’s fingers are feeling my—”

  Thankfully, he noticed the silence before he completed his sentence. He coughed.

  “That is singers. I mean to say, someone’s singers are feeling my lack of attention. I wouldn’t want any of our talented ladies to think their musical abilities are not properly displayed and appreciated.” He smiled at Lady Dunlee. She nodded carefully back at him. He sighed.

  Hell had frozen solid.

  “Mrs. Larson, Lady Dunlee tells me her charming daughter has a lovely voice.”

  Chapter Seven

  Charlotte looked down at the food on her plate. The thought of putting even the smallest morsel in her mouth made her stomach rebel. She pushed the items around with her fork while she pretended to listen to Lord Dunlee.

  “And then I told Lord Huffington…”

  She tilted her head in his direction and smiled. Thankfully, the man was content to continue his monologue with only the slightest encouragement from her. He was probably delighted to hear his own voice for a change. Lady Dunlee did not impress Charlotte as a woman who listened to anyone but herself.

  Tynweith was still staring down Lady Elizabeth’s dress. Who would have guessed the girl was such a lightskirt? Perhaps now that her aunt had retired as her chaperone, her true character was coming out. Lady Beatrice was obviously not inclined to rein her in. The woman was too busy guzzling Tynweith’s brandy.

  The baron was showing his true character as well. Thank God she had refused his oh-so-generous offer to come to her bed. She speared a bite of venison and moved it to the middle of her potatoes à la Hollandaise. He had been so persuasive in the garden, acting as if he actually cared for her. She snorted. He didn’t. He merely wanted a willing female. Anything in skirts would do. He was no different from any other man.

  “Excuse me, your grace,” Lord Dunlee said. “Did you say something?”

  “Oh, no, my lord. A crumb tried to go down the wrong way. It’s nothing. Please continue.”

  The man flushed. “You are certain I’m not boring you? Lady Dunlee does tell me I drone on at times.”

  Charlotte had a hard time believing that. She glanced at the woman who now had captured Lord Westbrooke’s ear. No one could squeeze more than a word or two into any conversation with Lady Dunlee.

  “No, really. Do continue.”

  She looked at Tynweith while Lord Dunlee’s words flowed over her again. The baron had finally raised his eyes from Lady Elizabeth’s breasts. He was now studying her lips.

  He was welcome to her. Really, it was only courteous. If the girl was making the rounds of the house party, the host should have his turn.

  She impaled the next bit of venison with such force her fork scraped against her plate. She took a deep breath and put her utensil down.

  “Don’t care for your food, Duchess?”

  “It is fine, Lord Dunlee. I’m just not feeling quite the thing. A little tired, I believe. I think I’ll retire to my room after dinner.”

  “A good plan, especially if Lady Dunlee foists my daughter on the company. She’s a good girl, but she can’t sing worth a farthing. I plan to sneak out to blow a cloud.”

  Lord Westbrooke’s voice rose then. He was glaring at Felicity. “I prefer to eat my meal in peace without having to worry someone’s fingers are feeling my—” He coughed.

  Lord Dunlee made an odd noise, as if he were swallowing a laugh. Charlotte swallowed a sigh. Had Lord Westbrooke never been seated next to Felicity at table before? She watched as the earl tried to extricate himself from his faux pas, cavalierly sacrificing all their ears for his cause.

  “I do advise escape,” Lord Dunlee whispered as they rose to adjourn to the music room.

  “Thank you. I am tired.” She happened to look down the table and catch Lord Peter’s eye. He raised his brows and grinned.

  Oh, God. Unless she missed her guess, this musical interlude meant Lord Peter would be visiting her sooner than she had expected. Well, perhaps then he would leave sooner, too.

  She allowed Lord Dunlee to escort her to the stairs.

  “Sleep well, Duchess.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  She so wished she were going up only to sleep. Unfortunately, she had unpleasant business to conduct before she could rest.

  The thought of Lord Peter sharing her bed was extremely depressing. Last night she’d not looked forward to his arrival, but at least she hadn’t dreaded it. To be truthful, she had wondered if the intimate exercises might be more pleasant with a younger man. And Felicity had raved about Lord Peter’s bedroom skills. She smiled slightly. She knew enough not to trust Felicity’s words completely, but she had hoped there was some truth to them.

  There was not. The procreative process was uncomfortable and unpleasant no matter whom one invited into one’s bed. While Lord Peter had been quicker than Hartford, he had also insisted on multiple encounters. The time wasted was probably the same.

  She entered her room and headed immediately for the drawer with her brandy flask. She took a long swallow. The warmth of the liquid spread throughout her, steadying her nerves.

  She hoped the time with Lord Peter had not been wasted. She prayed his seed would take root. It had to. Time was not something she had a lot of. Hartford’s skin had definitely had a gray pallor when she’d left him in London.

  She took another drink. And then there was Tynweith. His words from the garden had been whispering in the back of her mind all evening. Was he correct? Did dampness and heat and need increase one’s chances of conception? Did those things really prepare the field for a successful plowing?

  Ridiculous. The tumultuous feelings she had experienced in the garden could not help. If anything, they must hurt. A quiet, stoic manner was best. It only made sense. Just as a seed planted on a still, calm day had a much better chance of growing than one tossed into a raging storm.

  She took one last swallow of brandy as she heard a tap at the door. Lord Peter had arrived. She closed her flask and prepared herself to be stoic.

  Tynweith cringed as Lady Caroline reached for a high note. It eluded her grasp for the fourth time.

  They’d been doomed the moment Westbrooke had suggested singing. Lady Dunlee’s calculating little eyes had lit up and she’d latched on to the earl’s arm with an unbreakable grip. She was not to be denied. They must adjourn forthwith to the music room. There was no time for the gentlemen to enjoy their port. A musical feast awaited them.

  Now Westbrooke had a prime seat, right in front of the performer and next to her proud mother. Served him right for inflicting this punishment on them all, but why Lady Dunlee thought the earl would be tempted to offer for her daughter after listening to this screeching was beyond Tynweith’s comprehension. Any man wishing to preserve his hearing would flee at the first opportunity.

  Tynweith grinned. Westbrooke certainly looked anxious to flee. He had consulted his watch several times already. He’d tried to be surreptitious about it, but he’d failed miserably. Lady Dunlee was glaring at him again. Perhaps she would decide he wasn’t worthy of her talented child.

  Perhaps that was Westbrooke’s goal.

  To add to his torture, Lady Felicity, who’d rushed to sit on his other side, had started whispering in his ear. The man was having a miserable time.

  He was not the only one. Lady Caroline hit another wrong note, and Tynweith’s hands twitched. He wanted so badly to cover his ears, but that would not be the mark of a gracious host. Mousy Miss Hyde, Nell’s companion, was trying valiantly to accompany the girl on the pianoforte, but was not having much success. She cringed every time Lady Caroline made a mistake—which resulted in her hittin
g the wrong keys, adding to the cacophony.

  Perhaps if he focused on something else, he would not notice the pain. He surveyed the rest of the music room. Most of his guests appeared to be more successful than he at ignoring the caterwauling. Lady Beatrice was talking to Flint, probably trying to persuade the butler to bring her more brandy. The woman must have a hollow leg—she could out drink most men of his acquaintance. Viscount Botton, an aging Lothario at least an inch shorter and easily half Lady Beatrice’s weight, flitted around her like the annoying gnat he was. Tynweith frowned. It had really been too bad of him to invite Botton. He knew Lady Beatrice could not abide the man—few people could—but as Nell had said, he had to even out the numbers and Botton was at hand.

  Nell sat with Sir George Gaston. It had been understood when she’d agreed to act as his hostess that the baronet would be invited. Larson had had the good sense to die and leave Nell a widow; Gaston was still waiting for his wife to be as accommodating. Lady Gaston was a shrew, prone to a variety of maladies that Gaston’s presence exacerbated. She must be happy he frequented Nell’s bed instead of hers.

  Miss Peterson was in close conversation with Mr. Parker-Roth by the windows. Interesting. He didn’t know Miss Peterson well since she was new to London, but Parks hadn’t shown any interest in a female since Lady Grace Dawson had jilted him a few years ago.

  Mr. Dodsworth was watching Miss Hyde. Poor woman. Perhaps it was a blessing she’d been coerced to play for Lady Caroline—it freed her from Dodsworth’s grip. It did look as though she were the man’s newest victim. Dodsworth had latched onto her before dinner, taking her aside to show her the wall of horse paintings Tynweith’s father had commissioned George Stubbs to produce. Miss Hyde had followed him meekly—she couldn’t say boo to a goose—and had stood next to him, her head moving in nervous little bobs, obviously agreeing with everything he said, until Flint had announced dinner.

  His other guests, with the exception of Lady Elizabeth who sat at his side, had vanished. Lady Caroline’s proud papa, Lord Dunlee, obviously knew his daughter’s musical limitations too well. He’d gone out onto the terrace to enjoy a cigar.