Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  It would be heaven.

  Could he do it? Perhaps. He felt he could. If only there was a soft bed nearby. It was too far to go to his room. He would never last. He looked around. The ground was covered with sharp stones and dead leaves. There was no space here. Where else? The bench by the door was too hard. Too exposed. What if Tynweith came back? He knew they were here. He might check to see what was taking them so long. Or Felicity. She might find her way into the conservatory.

  God, what if she walked in on them? What if she found him between Lizzie’s white thighs, just as MacDuff had….

  Anxiety spiraled through him. His breath got short, his palms grew damp, his stomach roiled—and a very important part of him shrank. He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against Lizzie’s hair. Damn it to hell. He was small and limp. Useless.

  He swallowed, squeezing his eyes tightly together, clenching his jaw. He sniffed. Bloody hell. He would not cry. He had not cried for years, not since he’d realized his problem was not an aberration but a curse. He’d gotten used to the situation, God damn it.

  It had never bothered him so much.

  It should be different with Lizzie. He cared for her. He loved her.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  Anger made his voice sharp.

  “Your gown is indecent.”

  “What?” Lizzie blinked up at him.

  “Your gown. Look at it.” He held her away from him. “Your breasts are exposed.”

  Her lovely white breasts glowed in the subdued light of the conservatory like rare flowers. Lizzie flushed and struggled to pull her bodice back up where it belonged.

  “They were adequately covered before you got your hands on them.” Her cheeks grew redder. She ducked her head and stepped away from him. “That is, I mean my dress was—is—perfectly acceptable. Definitely within the bounds of propriety.”

  “Ha!”

  She stopped fussing with her clothing and glared at him.

  “Don’t take that tone with me, Lord Westbrooke. My gown is less revealing than most.”

  He didn’t care about most gowns—he cared about this gown. He cared about these breasts and who might be looking at them.

  “I saw Tynweith staring down your dress all through dinner.”

  “You did not! You were too busy flirting with Lady Felicity to notice anything.”

  “Don’t be a ninnyhammer. And it was hard not to notice our host. He was just about drooling. It was quite the spectacle.”

  Lizzie exhaled a short breath. Her brows met above her nose, a deep furrow between them.

  “You are a mutton-headed, jingle-brained nodcock.” She finished with her bodice and tried to put her hair back in order. Somehow it had become severely disarranged.

  “That is hardly helping. You look thoroughly compromised.”

  That earned him another hard look.

  “Perhaps because I am thoroughly compromised. And I assume you are still not proposing?”

  It was his turn to flush.

  “Lizzie…”

  “Lizzie what? Lizzie, would you make me the happiest of men and give me your hand in marriage?”

  She paused, hands on hips, one brow raised.

  “Uh, Lizzie…”

  “No, of course not. It’s Lizzie, thank you for the entertaining interlude. We will have to do it again the next time we find ourselves in some isolated flora.” She poked him in the chest. “Well, don’t count on it, Lord Westbrooke. I am finished frolicking with you in the foliage.”

  He heard the pain in her voice. He had never wanted to hurt her. He caught her hand, wrapped it in his.

  “Lizzie…” He sighed. What could he say?

  Her expression softened. “Is it that you prefer men, Robbie? Is that the problem?”

  “God, no!” He dropped her hand as if it were a hot stone, stepping back so quickly he almost slipped on a loose pebble. She couldn’t think—no, it was too revolting. He wanted to cast up his accounts right there on the nearest potted plant. Not that he was surprised she knew of such things—her cousin had had some very odd proclivities—but that she could imagine he felt that way—

  God, he would be sick.

  “You don’t have to be embarrassed to tell me, Robbie. I’ll keep your confidence. I just would like to know—”

  “Lizzie.” He couldn’t bear to hear her say more. “No. Believe me, I am most certainly not attracted to men.”

  “I would not think less of you if you were.”

  “Well, I am not. Definitely. Without a doubt. Not the slightest. Wherever did you get such a notion?”

  “Lord Tynweith suggested it as a possibility.” She shrugged. “It made sense. I’ve never seen your name linked with a lady’s in any of the London gossip columns, nor have I heard any rumors of a mistress.”

  “My God!” He hadn’t considered this. If Tynweith thought it possible, how many others of the ton also wondered? Collins had mentioned it as well. Was everyone speculating, watching him? “You were discussing this with Tynweith? Are you mad?”

  “No. I just…” She looked down at her hands. He could barely hear her, she spoke so softly. “I guess I only hoped….” She paused, then looked back up, though her eyes only went as high as his chin. “So it is just that you are not attracted to me.”

  “No!” He hated hearing her voice waver with suppressed tears, hated the way her eyes shied away from his. “Surely our recent activities—and what happened in Tynweith’s garden—prove I am attracted to you.” He rubbed his forehead. How could he make her believe him? He could not tell her the truth. “It’s just…complicated.”

  “So, explain. I have no pressing engagements—ha! Definitely no engagement.” She sniffed, bit her lip, then frowned, crossing her arms under her breasts. “I think I merit an explanation, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” She did deserve that. He had taken shocking advantage of her. It was wrong. He had to stop.

  But he didn’t want to stop. He never wanted to stop. How could he give her up now that he had tasted her passion?

  He had to find a way. It was the only honorable course. She needed a real man, a man who could love her properly, who could fill her and give her children. She would not be happy with less. Even if she thought she wanted him, she would soon realize her mistake. She would become frustrated and bitter. He could not bear that.

  “I’m waiting.”

  Perhaps he could explain without telling her everything.

  “The problem, Lizzie, is that I can’t marry anyone.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t marry anyone? You don’t have a secret wife somewhere do you, like Prinny’s Mrs. Fitzherbert?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then I fail to see the problem. You have to marry. You’re the earl. You have to produce an heir.”

  “No, I don’t. I have an heir—my cousin.”

  “Robbie, Sarah is your only cousin.”

  “My only first cousin, but not my only cousin. You’ve forgotten Theobald.”

  Lizzie gaped at him, then snorted. “That idiot? It’s whispered his wet nurse dropped him on his head. Surely you don’t mean to turn over your estates to him?”

  The thought did not make him happy, but there was no alternative.

  “He’s not that bad.”

  “Well, no, perhaps not that bad, but certainly bad enough. Did you know he is obsessed with snuff boxes? He has eight thousand, five hundred and forty-three in his London lodgings, and he would be delighted to show you each one.”

  Robbie chuckled. He would never have thought he’d find anything amusing in this conversation, but the image of Lizzie listening to Theobald hold forth about his snuff boxes was humorous. “Surely you have not taken the tour?”

  “Of course not. It would be completely improper for an unmarried lady to visit a gentleman’s lodgings. He told me about them at one of Easthaven’s balls. All about them. I was actually happy to be rescued by Simple Symington, if you can believe it. It was the first tim
e I was ever happy to see the fat old fop.”

  “Perhaps Theobald’s son will be better.”

  “He’ll never have a son. Any woman foolish enough to marry him would die of boredom before she ever made it to her marriage bed. The butler would find her stiff among the snuff boxes, while Theobold, oblivious, described box one thousand four hundred and seventy-two.”

  Robbie smiled. “I see you do not care for my cousin.”

  “No one does, Robbie. You know it. You cannot leave the continuation of the Hamilton line to him.”

  “I haven’t any choice, Lizzie. What I’ve been trying to tell you is that I can’t marry—I have no need to marry—because I cannot beget children.”

  Lady Felicity stood in the shadows behind a bank of potted trees, watching Lord Westbrooke and Lady Elizabeth leave the conservatory. Westbrooke’s waistcoat was unbuttoned; the neck of Lady Elizabeth’s dress was crooked and her hair was falling down her back. They had obviously been doing more than admiring Tynweith’s plants.

  They were not behaving as lovers, however. They were barely touching, not looking at each other, not talking.

  Interesting.

  Had the experience been so unpleasant? Or so wildly erotic they were both stupefied?

  She hoped the latter. If she had to have Westbrooke’s heir, she’d like the planting to be some of the best carnal play she’d ever experienced. And she had experienced a lot—as much as she could and still be a virgin. Since she was exceedingly creative, that covered a lot of territory.

  But if she wished to be the next Countess of Westbrooke—and she definitely did—she would have to deal with Lady Elizabeth. She did not care for competition.

  Felicity frowned. Was Lady Elizabeth competition? She should be. She was unmarried and the sister of a duke who also happened to be the earl’s good friend. And Lady Elizabeth and Westbrooke were obviously extremely friendly as well. Yet there was no engagement announcement. Why not?

  If Lady Elizabeth wished to be the next countess, she needed to play her cards with more finesse. She needed to get Westbrooke to misbehave before witnesses if he were reluctant to come up to scratch.

  Felicity stepped from behind the leafage. Her quarry and his companion had disappeared down the corridor. She was not about to give Lady Elizabeth advice on how to snare the elusive earl—she intended to catch him for herself.

  She looked at the conservatory door. Another puzzle—why was Tynweith helping Lady Elizabeth? He must have known Felicity was looking for Westbrooke. She knew the earl had come down this corridor. She’d been right behind him. Yet he had vanished and in his place she’d gotten Tynweith. Tynweith who’d whisked her back to the music room, no matter how much she’d tried to drag her feet or get him to go on ahead alone.

  Tynweith was not known for his philanthropy. So why would he help Lady Elizabeth? If he helped anyone, it should be Felicity. She was Charlotte’s friend, and Tynweith appeared to have some connection to Charlotte.

  What was it? Charlotte became very evasive when his name was mentioned. She was usually extremely frank, yet she would not say one revealing word about their host.

  Well, the house party was still young. There was plenty of time to solve these mysteries—and compromise a certain earl. She had to think about that, what the trap would be and how best to bait it. The capture must be spectacularly public and unequivocal. She wanted no loopholes for Westbrooke to wiggle through.

  She headed upstairs to bed. Alone, unfortunately. Lord Peter was probably still swiving Charlotte.

  Felicity had considered inviting him to stop by her room afterward, but she had decided against it. He’d been too obnoxiously proud of himself yesterday for plowing a duchess. Well, Lord Andrew was arriving in the morning. He was entertaining. Very entertaining. He knew quite a number of inventive games.

  Lady Felicity paused on the stairs and smiled. And he had asked for Lady Elizabeth’s hand and been denied. He’d been rather bitter about that if she remembered correctly. Perhaps he would be interested to hear that lovely Lady Elizabeth was no better than she should be. He was known to be a mite vindictive.

  Yes, Lord Andrew should turn out to be very useful indeed.

  Chapter Nine

  Robbie could not have children.

  Lizzie didn’t know how a man knew such a thing, but Robbie must know it. His voice had sounded tortured when he’d told her. She had wanted to cry.

  She sat on the window seat in her room and leaned her head against the glass. It was still cool from the night. It felt good. She had a dull headache and her eyes were dry and gritty, as if there were sand in them.

  It had taken her forever to fall asleep, and then she’d been haunted by bizarre dreams. Nightmares, really. She’d been looking for a baby, sometimes in the countryside, sometimes in the stews of London. She’d argued with so many people—with James, Robbie, some one-eyed hag with broken teeth. One time she’d actually held a baby boy, but another woman had snatched him out of her arms and vanished into the London fog.

  She pressed her forehead harder against the glass.

  Perhaps Robbie was wrong. How could he know for certain? He wasn’t married. Maybe once he wed, he’d discover that he could have children.

  But what if he were right? She squeezed her eyes tightly together, but that didn’t keep the tears from leaking out.

  Did she love him enough to give up hope of ever having a child?

  She did not know.

  She took a deep shuddering breath, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. Betty would be in at any moment with her chocolate. She had better wash her face. She did not want to explain why she had been crying.

  As she got up, she glanced out the window. There were two people outside on the lawn. It was hard to tell from this distance, but it looked like Felicity was with a man. Not surprising. Lizzie just hoped the other girl would find a secluded spot before she did what it was rumored she usually did with men.

  But who was her companion? He was too short to be Robbie, thank heavens, and too broad to be Parks or Lord Peter. Certainly Lord Tynweith would not be showing Felicity his gardens, would he? Who else was there? None of the other male guests would tempt Felicity from her bed—or into her bed, for that matter.

  The man took off his high-crowned beaver and the mystery was solved. Black hair with a narrow white streak gleamed in the sun. Lord Andrew had arrived. “Lord Skunk” the ton called him for his hair, but Lizzie thought the nickname suited his personality as well. The man had offered for her once, even though she had given him absolutely no encouragement. She assumed he could not resist the gleam of her dowry. She had tried to be polite when she refused him, and she had tried to politely avoid him ever since.

  She turned away to splash water on her face. It was going to be extremely difficult to avoid him here.

  “Up early to greet me, Felicity? If I’d realized you were here, I would have come down yesterday and saved you the trouble of getting out of bed.”

  Andrew reached for her, but she stepped back.

  “Not here in full view of the house.”

  “Why not?” He pulled off his hat and looked up at the building. “Never say you’re turning shy?”

  “No, of course not. But Westbrooke’s room faces this direction.”

  “Ah, still trying to catch the earl, are you?”

  “Of course.” She turned and started walking down the lawn. Andrew fell into step beside her. “I could use your help.”

  “Really?” He leered at her. “It will cost you.”

  She did like Andrew. He was not overburdened with scruples.

  “I expected it would.” She stepped onto the wide gravel path and followed it though Tynweith’s Frenchified garden, past the parterres and ridiculous bushy spheres and pyramids, under an arch. She turned left, passing between two hedges into the topiary garden. She knew exactly where she was going. She’d found this spot yesterday when she’d been searching for Westbrooke.

  Andrew st
opped to examine a topiary orgy. Well, hardly an orgy to her mind—if she discerned the sex of the trimmed bushes correctly, there was only one male and three females.

  “Tynweith’s gardener is quite inventive.”

  “Yes, I know. Come on, Andrew.” She ran her hand over his forearm. “There’s a place up ahead where we can…talk.”

  “Where our tongues can be busy, hmm? I’m ready for a very long, very deep discussion.”

  “Good.” She wet her lips, noting the breadth of his shoulders, the muscles in his thighs. He was shorter than Westbrooke, but he seemed much larger. His nose, his hands, his…um. Excitement shivered down her spine, settling between her legs.

  He looked like he should be lifting boxes on a dock, not wineglasses in aristocratic drawing rooms.

  “Here we are.” She stepped through some tall hedges and walked over to the stone bench in the center of the grassy square. They were hidden from the house, but anyone happening through the gap in the hedge would see them. Another shiver of expectation skittered up her spine. Frolicking behind closed doors was so boring. The threat of discovery added spice to any encounter.

  “Tynweith’s damned bushes are quite inspiring, Fel. They give a fellow all sorts of interesting ideas.” Andrew cupped her cheek with one hand and pulled down her lower lip. “I might have trouble deciding how best you can repay me.”

  She tilted her head so she could suck on his thumb.

  “I packed the handcuffs and the switch when I heard you were coming.”

  “Did you?” His eyes got a very sharp, intent look. “Lovely. So what do you need me to do?”

  A very bawdy answer popped into her head, but she repressed it.

  “You know I plan to marry Westbrooke.”

  “All the ton knows it.” He cocked an eyebrow. “And you know I’m not one of his intimates. If you’re looking for someone to persuade him, I’m not your man.”

  Felicity sat down on the bench. It was still cold and damp with dew. It felt quite splendid against her heat. “I’ll handle Westbrooke. I have a different job for you.” She looked up at him. “It involves a woman.”