Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  “Tell me it’s a good thing the door to Tynweith’s dungeon opens easily,” Meg said.

  “Mmm, I don’t think so. Are you certain you want to go in there?”

  “No.” Meg pushed on the door. It swung open without the slighted protest. “Hullo,” she shouted. “Is anyone there?”

  Silence.

  “I’m not afraid of ghosts.”

  “I’m not afraid of ghosts either, Meg. I don’t believe ghosts have any need to ensure doors are in proper working order. They just go through them, don’t they?”

  “True.” Meg chewed her lip. “However it seems poor spirited to come this far and turn back—no pun intended, of course.”

  “You have heard that discretion is the better part of valor, haven’t you, Meg? As you pointed out just a moment ago, we will be back tomorrow with a number of sturdy men. Perhaps it would be wisest to put off this exploration until then.”

  “No. I’ll be all right. You stay here. If I shout, run for help.”

  “Meg, by the time I make it to Lendal Park and back, you’ll be murdered—or worse.”

  “Lizzie, there is really no fate worse than death.” Meg stepped over the threshold.

  “Meg!”

  Lizzie grabbed for Meg’s arm, but Meg had already moved beyond her reach. Should she follow her? Perhaps she should go upstairs and borrow the suit of armor’s ax.

  “Meg, what are you—what is the matter?!”

  Meg was standing in the door to another chamber. Her face was white as death.

  “It looks as if Tynweith’s dungeon has been used recently.”

  Lizzie had been gone all afternoon. Robbie knew. He’d been looking for her.

  Well, not looking for her precisely. He hadn’t actually wished to speak to her. What could he say? He had said all he could last night. He’d just wished to ascertain she was safe.

  He had not been able to do so to his satisfaction. It had made for a very unpleasant afternoon.

  “You do not care for Arabians, my lord?”

  He had no idea what Dodsworth was talking about. Something about horses and stables. The man had latched on to him during port and had not let go when they’d adjourned to the drawing room and the tea tray had been brought in. More than one of the other house guests had seen his predicament, smiled, and taken themselves quickly out of harm’s way.

  “Arabians are fine.”

  Dodsworth nodded. “I couldn’t agree more. Why, just the other day…”

  At least he was giving poor Miss Hyde a holiday. She was sitting by the fire all by herself, sipping her tea and looking as happy as a little mouse could look.

  He would have been happier if Lizzie hadn’t taken it into her head to walk over to the blasted ruins with only Meg as a companion. He’d finally asked Collins to ask Betty where she was when he couldn’t find her. Why hadn’t she thought to take a footman? He’d been all ready to set out after them when they’d finally returned.

  He’d wanted to ring a peal over her then, but Lady Beatrice and Lady Dunlee had intercepted her before he could say his piece. He’d been choking on it all through dinner.

  “I’m considering renovating my stables. Been thinking about it for a long time, actually, ever since I had the pleasure of viewing our Regent’s striking edifice at Brighton. Built in the Indian style, don’t you know. Breathtaking. I was in awe, I tell you.”

  Robbie grunted and took another sip of his brandy. Dodsworth had already launched into a detailed account of his architectural plans. His precious horses would be living like sultans.

  How could the man not know he was a crashing bore? Obviously no one had told him. Would he even comprehend? It was tempting to try. Perhaps on the last day of the house party.

  His monologue did have its benefits. No need to actually listen to him. A well placed nod here, an interested-sounding grunt there, and Robbie was free to pursue his own thoughts.

  They were not pleasant.

  Lizzie was certain to marry some day.

  Now that he had firmly removed himself from her list of eligible suitors, that day might come sooner rather than later. Perhaps by the end of the Season. There were plenty of men who would be delighted to have her. She would be lost to him forever.

  He had never felt so morose.

  Better to feel angry. She was sitting on the settee by herself, just inviting any dirty dish to come join her. Lord Andrew took her invitation. The bounder sat right next to her. Damn if his leg didn’t brush up against her skirt.

  “Did you have a comment, Lord Westbrooke?”

  “No. Sorry, Dodsworth. Brandy went down the wrong way.”

  Lizzie did not care for the company. The moment Andrew’s arse touched the cushion next to her, she’d put on her haughty face, the expression that said “I’m the sister of the Duke of Alvord—keep your distance.” She only looked like that when she was very nervous.

  Now Lady Felicity had joined them. Lizzie’s smile was more strained. She turned her head, as if looking for help. Meg was talking to Parks by the windows; Lady Beatrice was dodging Lord Botton on the other side of the room.

  “Excuse me, Dodsworth.”

  “Don’t you want to hear how I’m arranging the stalls, Lord Westbrooke?”

  “Love to, but some other time.”

  “…billiards,” Lord Andrew was saying as Robbie came up to the group.

  “I don’t know….”

  “Don’t know what, Lizzie?”

  Felicity smiled up at him. “Lady Elizabeth doesn’t know if she wants to play billiards, Lord Westbrooke. Can you persuade her?”

  Lizzie sent Felicity a very annoyed glance. “I am not very adept at the game.”

  “Ah, Lady Elizabeth, don’t let that concern you.” Lord Andrew patted her hand. Robbie clenched his own hands to keep from grabbing the blackguard and throwing him across the room. “I would be happy to assist you.”

  “Lady Elizabeth is too modest,” Robbie said. “Come, Lizzie, you know you are a more than adequate player.”

  She smiled then, a little of the tension leaving her face. “I did beat you last time we played, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, but only because I let you.”

  “Unfair, sir.” She laughed. “Very well, I will play, but I insist on being your partner. I cannot give you the opportunity to claim your charity gave me a victory.”

  Lady Felicity frowned, but before she could speak, Robbie took Lizzie’s hand.

  “Agreed.”

  Lady Felicity was not going to concede without a protest. She touched his sleeve.

  “Oh, Lord Westbrooke, I thought you could”—she smirked up at him—“play with me.”

  Not while I have breath in my body.

  “Perhaps next time.” He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at the girl’s expression. He hoped Tynweith had a very large billiard table as he intended to put as much space as possible between himself and Lady Felicity. He offered Lizzie his arm.

  Lord Andrew’s demeanor gave no clue as to whether he was annoyed or indifferent.

  “Don’t pout, Fel. We can still have lots of”—the man’s lips slid into a slow smile as he examined Lizzie’s bodice—“fun.”

  Robbie would have been delighted to castrate the man with his cravat pin.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tynweith’s billiard room would benefit from a few more candles. There were far too many shadows for Lizzie’s tastes. She intended to stay as close to Robbie and as far from Lord Andrew as possible.

  “Lady Elizabeth, would you care to go first?” Lord Skunk smiled in a decidedly oily fashion as he held out a cue.

  “Thank you.” She ignored him and chose her own stick from the rack. She wouldn’t put it past him to offer her defective equipment.

  She surveyed the billiard table. Thankfully it looked to be about the same size as the one at Alvord and in good repair. She was nowhere near as skilled a player as James or Robbie, but she wasn’t truly terrible. She willed her st
omach to stop fluttering. She just wished she knew how good her opponents were.

  Her hands needed to stop fluttering, too. Her left hand shook so badly the cue bounced when she tried to line up a shot. She took a steadying breath. She should have let Lady Felicity go first.

  “A little agitated, sweetings?” Lord Andrew murmured by her ear.

  Lizzie gritted her teeth. Sweetings? She would like to take this cue and thrust it up his….

  No, she would express her displeasure by potting his ball.

  She took another breath and tried to ignore the man. He was far too close to her. She wished he would step back. She looked at Robbie—he was busy fending off Felicity.

  Well, the sooner she began, the sooner the game would be over—and as soon as the last point was scored, she was pleading the headache and fleeing to her bedchamber.

  She lined her cue up, drew back, and—

  “Eep!”

  She hit the ball at an angle, missing Lord Andrew’s completely and sending hers into the far pocket.

  “Oh, dear.” Lady Felicity giggled. “Too bad. That’s minus three points.” She moved the hand on the wall counter back past zero.

  Lizzie glared at Lord Andrew. He lifted a brow and smiled slightly, then turned to get Felicity a stick.

  “What happened?” Robbie asked quietly.

  “Lord Andrew touched my—” Lizzie flushed. She glared at the man’s back and whispered. “I’m certain he touched my, um, my skirt just as I took my shot.”

  Robbie also glared at Lord Andrew’s back.

  “Next time I’ll come stand beside you to be certain the bast—um, blackguard keeps his hands to himself.”

  “Oh, Lord Westbrooke, would you help me with this shot, please?” Lady Felicity leaned against the table.

  “Sorry, I’m certain that would be against the rules. Can’t aid the opposition. Ask Lord Andrew for help.”

  Lady Felicity batted her eyelashes. “Please? This is just a friendly game. No need to be overly concerned with rules.”

  Robbie smiled. “Still, I must regretfully decline. Lord Andrew, would you like to help Lady Felicity?”

  Lord Andrew grinned. “Do you want my assistance, Fel?”

  “No.” Lady Felicity’s lower lip jutted out. If she weren’t careful, her face would freeze in a perpetual pout. “I suppose I can do it myself.”

  She chose a shot that required her to lean toward Robbie, displaying her breasts to her best advantage. They swayed over the table, but stayed in their bodice—barely. Lizzie glanced at Robbie. He looked more disgusted than entranced.

  “Ha!” Lady Felicity’s ball struck Lizzie’s, sending it into the side pocket. “That’s two points for me.”

  “For us, Fel. We are a team, remember.” Lord Andrew recorded her score. “Your turn, Westbrooke.”

  “Guard my back,” Robbie muttered as he studied the table.

  “With pleasure.” Lizzie readied her cue to whack Felicity if she should encroach on Robbie’s space.

  Really, the girl had more arms than an octopus. She was constantly trying to touch some part of Robbie’s person while he was shooting. Lord Andrew’s attacks on her were slightly more discreet, but equally annoying. He’d brush up against her when Robbie was lining up a shot. She could tell it distracted Robbie—he was not playing well at all.

  “I wish this cue were a sword,” he murmured. “See if you can end this torture, will you? You’re up after Andrew.”

  “They’re at thirteen. All they have to do is pot the red ball and they’ll have won.”

  “Haven’t you noticed what they’re doing? When they get close to sixteen, they take a penalty. See, watch Andrew.”

  Sure enough, the man sent the cue ball into a pocket.

  “Too bad.” Felicity moved the counter’s hand back. “Two point penalty.”

  “I’d have to score a seven—a perfect shot.”

  “You can do it. You’ve done it before. Look, you’re lined up perfectly to take Andrew’s ball.”

  Lizzie nodded. “All right, I’ll try. Keep him from bumping me.”

  “I shall be delighted to do so.”

  Lizzie concentrated on her shot. She needed to hit Andrew’s ball and the red ball in one stroke, sending them both into pockets without potting the cue ball. Robbie was right. She could do it. She just needed to focus.

  Lord Andrew was headed toward her. She felt Robbie move to intercept him. Robbie couldn’t hold him off forever unless they got into a brawl. Lady Felicity started to walk around the table to reach Robbie.

  She didn’t have much time.

  She focused her attention on the little white cue ball, the tip of her cue stick, and the angle she needed for the two to connect. She narrowed her eyes, held her breath, and took her shot.

  It was beautiful. Lord Andrew’s ball in the left side pocket, red ball in the far right corner pocket, cue ball hovering on the edge—and then rolling back to the center of the table.

  “I did it!”

  “Alleluia!” Robbie grinned and looked as if he would kiss her. He bent toward her, but stopped himself at the last moment.

  Lizzie wanted to grab his head and pull his face down to hers, but he moved away too quickly. Good thing. Once the thrill of winning abated, rational thought returned. She looked around. Lady Felicity was glaring at her; Lord Andrew had a slight smile and a calculating look.

  “That was”—what? Exciting? Entertaining? Horrifying?—“interesting,” she said, “but I’m rather tired. Meg and I went for a long ramble this afternoon. I believe I’ll retire for the evening.”

  “I’ll escort you.” Robbie had her hand on his arm before he’d finished his sentence.

  “Yes, thank you. That would be lovely.” She nodded to Felicity and Andrew. “Good evening.”

  She let out a long breath as soon as the door closed behind them.

  “I’m glad that’s over.”

  “You and I both.” Robbie scowled down at her. “How could you have encouraged Lord Andrew like that?”

  Lizzie felt her mouth drop open. “What?” A hot flush swept up her neck that had nothing to do with love or attraction. Robbie was glaring at her. The pompous nodcock was glaring at her!

  She snatched her hand off his arm. If she’d still had a billiard cue, she’d have used it to knock some sense into his thick skull.

  “Encouraged? Encouraged? How did I encourage him? As I remember, I was sitting by myself in Lord Tynweith’s drawing room, minding my own business, when Lord Andrew approached me.”

  “Exactly. You should not have been sitting by yourself. You know the man is trouble. He was extremely offensive at luncheon. You should have been sitting with one of the other ladies.”

  “Lady Felicity, perhaps?”

  Lizzie turned and started down the corridor to the stairs. She wanted to get to her room as quickly as possible.

  The cod’s head kept pace.

  “No, of course not Lady Felicity. Meg—or Lady Beatrice. The woman is your chaperone, after all.”

  “I am twenty years old. I do not need a chaperone.”

  “You most certainly do need a chaperone. No, you need a keeper! What were you thinking, walking across the countryside with only Meg as your companion this afternoon?”

  They had reached Lizzie’s door.

  “I was thinking I wanted to get away from mutton-headed nodcocks like you.” She poked him in the chest. “I’ve managed to survive three full Seasons in London’s ballrooms without serving the tabbies anything significant to chew on over their scandal broth.”

  “We are not discussing London’s ballrooms; we are discussing this current, slightly scandalous house party. Tynweith’s gatherings have a reputation. Frankly, I was shocked when I heard you’d agreed to come.”

  “Oh?” Lizzie grabbed her doorknob tightly to keep from slapping the supercilious expression off Robbie’s face. “So kind of you to put aside your misgivings to attend.” She opened her door and stepped into her
room. “You should not have bothered.”

  “I had to come, Lizzie. James couldn’t. Someone had to be here to keep an eye on you, to see that you don’t get into trouble.”

  Anger pounded in Lizzie’s temples. “I am not a child.”

  “Of course not. If you were, you wouldn’t have to worry about rakes of Lord Andrew’s stamp. I’m certain James would be appalled if he knew what was going on here.”

  Lizzie took a deep breath. She did not shout. “Thank you, Lord Westbrooke, for so kindly meddling in my affairs. However, I take leave to tell you I already have one older brother—I do not need another.”

  “You certainly need someone to keep track of you if you don’t want to permanently ruin your reputation.”

  Robbie kept talking, but Lizzie stopped listening. She grabbed hold of her door with both hands and slammed it in the beef-witted, cork-brained cabbage-head’s face.

  He should be here by now. Charlotte consulted her watch again. It was past midnight.

  She took a sip of brandy. She’d persuaded Flint to give her a bottle—her flask was running low.

  Where was he? She hadn’t seen him since luncheon. He hadn’t been present at dinner.

  She took a larger swallow of brandy. He had said he would come, hadn’t he? Perhaps not in so many words, but surely it was understood.

  She began to pace.

  How was she to get with child if he didn’t come?

  A bubble of hysteria lodged in her throat. It was Thursday night. If she were home, Hartford would be paying her his weekly visit, fumbling under her nightgown.

  How many more Thursdays would he be able to attempt the deed? His breathing had been labored last week and his skin had definitely had a gray tinge. And he had been unable to animate the relevant organ. It had flopped between her thighs like a dead fish.

  She bit her lip. Time was definitely running out.

  She heard a scratching at her door. Thank God!

  “Finally. I thought you had forgotten, Lord—”

  She looked at the man on her threshold. It was not Lord Peter.

  “I’m delighted you are so eager to see me, Duchess.”

  “Lord Tynweith!”