Tynweith leaned back in his chair. If he were a good host, he would find a tactful way to bring this musical torture to an end.
He was not a good host. He was far too lazy. He contemplated following Lord Dunlee’s example and vanishing. If he couldn’t join him for a smoke, he could retreat to his study. He had some paperwork that needed doing.
Right. As if he could concentrate on paperwork.
Charlotte and Lord Peter were missing, too. Charlotte had pleaded fatigue after dinner and retired to her room. Lord Peter had disappeared as soon as Lady Caroline opened her mouth to begin her auditory onslaught.
Were they in bed together already?
God! Lady Caroline screeched again. He glanced to his right. Lady Elizabeth looked almost as pained as he felt.
He’d expected her to sit next to Westbrooke, but no, she hadn’t contested Felicity for that choice location. She had chosen to sit by him. He smiled at her. She smiled back with a funny little expression he presumed she thought looked coy.
Something unusual had definitely occurred between her and the earl. At every other gathering of the ton, Lady Elizabeth acted as if Westbrooke were the only male in attendance. Tonight, however, she’d had words with him in the drawing room. Then she’d come looking for Tynweith to take her in to dinner—and she’d flirted with him from soup to sweets.
It should have been a balm for his wounded pride, but he knew it was an act. She’d kept looking at Westbrooke when the man was looking at Lady Felicity. She had not been happy to see Felicity’s head so close to the earl’s. Tynweith chuckled. She would have been even less happy had she known where Felicity’s hands were. Tynweith had had the dubious pleasure of sitting next to the girl at other dinner parties. He knew exactly where her fingers liked to roam.
“What is so humorous, Lord Tynweith?”
“Nothing appropriate for your ears, Lady Elizabeth.” He leered at her. “Pardon me for entertaining such…private thoughts in your presence.” He dropped his voice lower. “Though your presence, of course, provokes all manner of private thoughts.”
She blushed and smiled uncertainly back at him, clearly uncomfortable. He almost laughed again.
It might be amusing to play with her. She had spent three Seasons in London, but she was still as naïve as the greenest debutante.
Was she finally going to do something to provoke Westbrooke?
Definitely amusing.
Perhaps they could help each other. He’d noticed at dinner Charlotte had not cared for the way Lady Elizabeth had flirted with him. Was she jealous? He smiled. He would love to make Charlotte jealous.
Of course, now she was upstairs, spreading her legs for Lord Peter.
Lady Caroline was drawing to a close, thank God. Ah, no. A pause only. He closed his eyes, trying to project the image of a man deep in musical admiration.
He should hate Charlotte, the little bitch. She was as bad as Felicity, chasing after titles or prestige or family connections.
But he couldn’t hate her. He wanted her too much.
It was her contrasts that drew him. She was so cold-blooded and determined—and so terrified of passion. But he knew she was passionate—he had felt her response in the garden. It was a small flame now, flickering, close to dying, but he would blow on it and turn it to a raging fire. He grinned. Yes, he would love to blow on a number of things relating to the Duchess of Hartford. Blow and lick and suck and…
He clasped his hands over a revealing section of his pantaloons.
Could he use Lady Elizabeth to get into Charlotte’s bed?
He looked at the girl. She batted her eyelashes at him. Perhaps. And if Charlotte still refused? Lady Elizabeth had fine blue eyes. They were almost the same shade as Charlotte’s.
He could do worse. He needed a wife. If Lady Elizabeth had eliminated Westbrooke as a possible husband, she might be willing to consider him. She’d already turned down more attractive alternatives. The Duke of Easton, the Marquis of Benningly, the Earl of Calder. Her list of rejected suitors sounded like a reading of Debrett’s Peerage.
He wasn’t getting any younger. He did not want to be an octogenarian like Hartford, still scrambling for an heir.
“Are you enjoying Lady Caroline’s fine singing, Lady Elizabeth? We are so fortunate Lord Westbrooke brought her talents to our attention.”
Lady Elizabeth snorted. “I don’t know what possessed Robbie. He usually shows more sense.”
She really was rather pretty. Slim with lovely small breasts. He eyed her dress. Very lovely breasts. She didn’t usually display them so publicly.
She was much too tall, of course, but still, once the candles were snuffed, he could imagine she were Charlotte. He had done it often enough with whores. And she was welcome to picture Westbrooke in his place, if she liked.
The two of them, swiving imaginary lovers. Well, it was probably quite a common pastime in the ton. Once he had his heir, he’d be done with her, and they could go their separate ways. She’d be welcome to invite anyone she cared to into her bed then.
He fingered the brooch he’d dropped into his pocket right before he’d come down for dinner.
Then again, perhaps she was not as naïve as he thought. She had been in the secret bower with someone. Unlikely they’d only been discussing the weather.
Whom had she been with? Westbrooke was the obvious guess, but if it had been he, surely he would have offered for her, especially after the odd occurrence last night in her bedroom. And if not Westbrooke, then who? Did everyone but he have a willing bed partner?
Perhaps it was time to solve this particular puzzle.
“Would you care to see my conservatory, Lady Elizabeth?”
Lizzie stepped out of the music room with Lord Tynweith. Botheration! Robbie had not seen her leave. He was trapped between Lady Felicity and Lady Dunlee at the front of the room, his back to her.
“I don’t show many people this particular room, you know.”
“No?” Would Robbie even care she was gone? He hadn’t noticed her flirting with Tynweith at dinner. He’d been too busy entertaining Lady Felicity. Lizzie’s fingers had itched to take the girl’s knowing expression and smash it into a nice big bowl of turtle soup. And then the idiot man had condemned them all to listen to Lady Caroline sing. He knew the girl had a terrible voice. She’d heard him liken it to a cat’s in heat.
“No. Only special guests.”
“Oh.” There was an odd note in Tynweith’s voice. She finally looked at him closely. There was an odd expression on his face as well. Almost a wolfish look.
Ridiculous. The man was close to forty years old. How dangerous could he be? Frankly, she had chosen to flirt with him rather than Lord Peter because of his advanced years.
His mouth slid into a smirk; his eyes examined her chest.
Perhaps his years were not quite advanced enough. Now that she considered the issue, Hartford had married Lady Charlotte when he was twice Tynweith’s age.
“Actually, Lord Tynweith, I find I’m a bit fatigued.”
“Really, Lady Elizabeth? Then the restful environment of my conservatory is just what you need.”
“I don’t think….”
He had taken her hand and placed it on his arm. She felt muscle under her fingers.
He wouldn’t attack a guest, surely? No, the thought was absurd. He was just trying to be outrageous. His house parties had a reputation for being a little fast. A little dangerous. For affording many opportunities for romantic trysts. It was one of the reasons she had accepted the invitation. She’d hoped to have a tryst or two with Robbie.
She had definitely not considered trysting with Lord Tynweith or any other gentleman.
She took a steadying breath. She had decided to be daring, hadn’t she? Daring was not hiding in her room. She sent a sidelong glance at her host. If he turned slightly amorous, well, she needed experience.
Perhaps. He was almost forty years old. His hair was beginning to thin, he had lines around hi
s mouth and eyes, and his waistline was expanding.
“Here we are.”
He guided her across the threshold and closed the large wooden door behind them.
“Is that wise, Lord Tynweith?”
“Nervous, Lady Elizabeth?”
“No, of course not. I merely thought it would be more proper to keep the door open or at least ajar.”
He grinned at her. He was definitely looking wolfish.
“Ah, but then this is not a terribly proper room.”
“I see.” She tried to keep her voice calm.
She examined her surroundings. Two candles in wall sconces lit the area—a landing, really—where they stood. There was not a great deal of space, just enough for a stone bench and two small tables. A few steps led down into a very leafy room. Occasional lanterns provided some light—and created many pockets of darkness. The walls were mostly glass—she could see the moon and the shadowy bulk of trees outside. She drew in a deep breath and smelled dirt and flowers and greenery.
“I don’t see anything especially improper.” She hoped her voice sounded confident. It was a little unnerving, being in this quiet, shadowy room with a man who had a reputation for giving parties that skated on the edge of propriety. And he definitely had some very improper bushes on his estate.
“No? Let me show you.” He took her hand. She considered protesting, but objecting now seemed a trifle missish. She should have refused to leave the music room with him. She should have—no. She was no longer a debutante. She was twenty years old. Experienced. Daring.
And the longer she stayed away from the music room, the greater the odds Robbie would notice.
She allowed her host to guide her down the stairs. The moment her foot cleared the last step, however, she moved away to examine a potted tree with broad, waxy looking leaves.
“Meg would love this room. Mr. Parker-Roth would, too. Has he seen it?”
Tynweith stood very close behind her. He was almost touching her. She could hear him breathing.
He was making her extremely apprehensive.
She reminded herself again she had decided to be daring. She reminded herself she was looking for experience.
She reminded herself he was old.
“I believe I said I invited only special guests to tour the conservatory. ‘Special’ does not include men.”
“I see. That kind of special.” She felt his breath on her neck. She shivered and pushed the leaves she was examining aside, slipping around the tree.
“Indeed.” He followed her. She moved behind a bush with pink flowers. A vine tangled in her hair. She brushed it aside. Her heart was pounding, and her palms were beginning to perspire.
Perhaps she did not want experience. She could be daring another day. With another man. With Robbie. Daring with Robbie was much safer.
“I’m quite certain I’m not that kind of special, either.”
“No? Perhaps we should see.” He stepped around the bush and drew his fingertip across her collarbone. “This is a lovely dress, my dear. Much more enticing than your usual style.”
“Thank you. I think.” She put a bushy, needle-leafed plant between them. He was extremely agile for an older man. “Lord Tynweith, I believe you are operating under a misapprehension.”
He reached for her again, but she dodged his hand.
“It was most certainly an error in judgment on my part to accompany you from the music room. Please accept my apologies. I’ll just retire to my chamber now. Alone.”
He smiled, shaking his head. “You’re very good. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a blushing little virgin.”
“I am a blushing little virgin.” She backed up. He followed her. “Well, not little, precisely.” Lady Felicity’s chest flashed into her mind. All right, so she was little in some areas. “But blushing certainly. And a virgin, most definitely.”
“I thought Lord Westbrooke visited your bed last night.”
She tripped on a root. He reached out to steady her, but she avoided his hand.
“Only in a manner of speaking.”
“Really? Now I wonder what that means.”
Lizzie had no desire to explain further. “I hate to be rude, but it is really none of your concern, my lord.”
“True. Then let us not discuss Westbrooke. I agree he is a boring topic. Let’s discuss your behavior at dinner instead. I was flattered to have so much of your attention.”
“Uh, yes.” Could she manage to reach the door and get out of this plant-infested purgatory? It would help if she could turn around, but she did not want to present Tynweith with her back. Better to keep an eye on him.
Or should she stand her ground and push past him? Could she cajole him into letting her go? Flirt with him even? She had seen many young ladies wrap men around their little fingers with skillful flirting and well-placed flattery.
No. Definitely no flirting. Her ill-advised attempt at that activity had landed her in her current predicament. And she felt no desire to try on Tynweith any of the cajoling tricks she’d used with Robbie the night before. Robbie was…comfortable. Safe. Oh, it was too hard to figure out with this stranger stalking her. She felt excitement and desire with Robbie, not nervousness or fear.
She was more than a little nervous at the moment.
Her posterior encountered a sturdy branch and she changed course, veering to the right. Tynweith stayed with her. He could easily close the gap between them, but he apparently preferred to taunt her.
Could she explain that her behavior had been designed solely to make Robbie jealous? It seemed exceedingly rude to say so.
“And then when you agreed to accompany me from the music room—well, you raised hopes I had never thought to entertain.”
“Oh.” She felt terrible now. She had not considered his feelings at all when she’d decided on this course of action. “I do apologize.” She had to explain, no matter how embarrassing it was. She took another step backward.
She stopped. Something was poking her in the small of her back. Something pointed. A dagger?
At least Tynweith had stopped also. He wasn’t going to force her to impale herself on the thing. She looked at him more closely. It was hard to see in the shadowy light, but she’d swear he had a gleam of mischief in his eyes.
She reached around behind her. The thing was rounded at the tip. She ran her hand up its length. It was smooth, and too wide to be a dagger or sword. A cylinder of some kind, with two ball-like objects beneath, attached to a statue.
“All right. I give up.” Lizzie was no longer nervous. Annoyance was now her predominant emotion. Tynweith looked as if he would burst if he held his mirth in any longer. “I was never good at guessing games. What is it?”
“Look.”
“You won’t attack me if I turn my back on you, will you?”
“Of course not.”
Lizzie hesitated. Tynweith folded his arms and lifted an eyebrow. He did not look threatening any longer.
She turned—and gasped.
She had backed into the very swollen male organ of a naked statue.
Where the hell was Lizzie?
Robbie stood in Tynweith’s corridor and tried not to look like he wanted to murder someone, preferably Tynweith. Lizzie must have grown tired and gone up to bed.
Listening to Lady Caroline sing certainly was tiring.
So where the hell was Tynweith? The man was their host, damn it. He should not vanish in the middle of his guest’s performance.
Robbie glanced over his shoulder and moved farther down the corridor. He had only escaped the ladies’ clutches by hinting he had some business of a very personal nature to attend to. If they saw him loitering in the hall, they would become suspicious.
“Thank you, Lord Tynweith. I will definitely consider your proposal.”
Proposal?! That was Lizzie’s voice. She should not be considering any proposals from a rake of Tynweith’s stamp. Where was she?
He hurried toward her voi
ce. She must be close by. She had not been shouting. He had heard her quite clearly. Too clearly. Tynweith must still be with her. He would enjoy explaining to the man, with his fists if necessary, that Lizzie was not available for dalliance.
He turned a corner. There she was, standing far too close to Tynweith. The blackguard was holding her hand.
“Lizzie.”
She startled and turned to him. Damned if she didn’t blush. She looked guilty. He narrowed his gaze. Were there leaves in her hair?
What the bloody hell had she been doing with Tynweith?
He looked at the man. Tynweith lifted an eyebrow and smiled slightly. Self-satisfied devil. He would kill him right where he stood. Immediately. The man did not merit a challenge.
“Ah, Westbrooke. I see you survived your musical experience.”
“You are holding Lady Elizabeth’s hand.”
Tynweith made a show of looking down. “Why, so I am. Do you object, Lady Elizabeth?”
Lizzie’s eyes darted to Robbie and back to her hand. She flushed.
“No, Lord Tynweith. I do not object.” Her voice got a little louder. “Lord Westbrooke apparently believes he is my brother, the way he meddles in my affairs.”
Robbie saw a red haze. He wondered if his jaw might shatter, his teeth were clenched so tightly. “I do not think I am your brother.”
Lizzie shrugged. “Chaperone, then.”
“You need a chaperone. Lady Beatrice is totally incompetent for the task as evidenced by your presence here, in this shadowy corridor with him.”
“Don’t insult Lord Tynweith. He is our host—our generous, attentive host.”
“Generous? Attentive? What kind of attentive?” In two seconds—less—he was going to plant his fist in Tynweith’s face. He’d so enjoy seeing that self-satisfied smirk erupt in blood.
“Lord Westbrooke? Are you there?”
Damn. Lady Felicity had tracked him down. Didn’t she believe in giving a man a few minutes of privacy to visit the necessary? She sounded close. He glanced over his shoulder. She wasn’t in sight yet.
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