Sally MacKenzie Bundle (113 page)

He did not want to take her in this chair. He wanted her in his bed. In the Draysmith bed. He
needed her there to free him from the last of his ghosts.

He put his hands on her face and drew back from her lips.

“I thought I was the one who was supposed to misbehave,” he said.

“What?”

“You said I had promised to misbehave more than you could imagine, but you are definitely the one misbehaving now, Miss Peterson. More than
I
could imagine.”

The minx gave him what looked like a very self-satisfied smile. He spanked her lovely bottom very lightly, and she laughed and stuck out her tongue. He sucked on it gently.

“I am not going to let you seduce me here, my love.” He lifted her off his lap, setting her on her feet. “Some day, but not today.” He shrugged out of his dressing gown. She grinned and reached for the most prominent part of him, but he caught her wrists.

“Behave yourself, my dear.”

“Make me.”

“With pleasure.” He scooped her up and carried her into his room, dropping her into the center of his bed. She laughed and held out her arms to him.

When he felt them wrap around him, he knew he had finally come home.

Don’t miss this sneak peek at
THE NAKED EARL,
coming in 2007 from Kensington…

Robert Hamilton, Earl of Westbrooke, was a light sleeper. His eyes opened the moment his mattress shifted. He turned to see what had caused the disturbance.

Two very large, very naked breasts were right in front of his nose. Damn! He looked up to see to whom they belonged. Lady Felicity Brookton. She gave him an arch look as she drew in her breath to scream.

Bloody hell.

He bolted from the bed and leapt for the window. There was no time for such niceties as breeches or shoes. Once Lady Felicity started her caterwauling, the entire house party would be banging on his door. He’d be securely caught in parson’s mousetrap, condemned to face Lady Felicity at the breakfast table every morning for the rest of his life.

Could there be a more succinct description of hell?

He swung his leg over the sill and dropped down onto the roof of the portico as she emitted her first screech. The sharp surface cut into his bare feet, but
the pain was nothing compared to the panic raging in his chest.

He had to get away.

Thank God he had scrutinized the view from his window when he’d arrived at Tynweith’s house party. He’d made a habit of looking for escape routes since the ladies of the
ton
had gotten so persistent. If they only knew…Well, if he was forced to flee naked from his bed perhaps it was time to do something. A discreet rumor judiciously planted should deter most marriage-minded maidens. He glanced back at his window. Or perhaps they would be happy to have his money and title without having to pay for them in his bed.

He shivered as an early spring breeze rushed over the portico. He couldn’t stand here like a nodcock. At any moment one of Tynweith’s guests would respond to Felicity’s screams, look out the window, and wonder what the Earl of Westbrooke was doing standing naked in the night. He snorted. Hell, all of Tynweith’s guests would assume they knew exactly what he had been doing, and he’d be as securely caught as if he’d stayed between his sheets.

It was much too long a distance to the ground to consider jumping. He had not quite reached that point of desperation.

Felicity screeched again. Someone shouted. He scanned the other windows that faced the portico. There, at the end—flickering candlelight showed an open window. He sprinted for it, hoping the room’s occupant was male.

Lady Elizabeth Runyon stood naked in front of her mirror, hands on hips, and frowned at her breasts. She tilted her head, squinting at them through her
right eye and then her left. Bah! They were small, puny little lemons next to Lady Felicity’s lush, ripe melons. No corset in England could make them more impressive.

She turned sideways, grabbing the bedpost to steady herself. Perhaps this angle was more complimentary?

No.

A gust of cool air blew in from her open window, sliding over her skin, causing her nipples to tighten. She covered them with her hands, trying to push them back into place.

She had an odd tingly feeling, as if a vibrating harp string ran from her breasts to her…her…

She took her hands off her body as if burned. She should put her nightgown back on and climb into bed. Pull the covers up to her chin, close her eyes, and go to sleep. She would if the room didn’t swirl so unpleasantly when she did so. She grabbed for the bedpost again.

That last glass of ratafia had definitely been a mistake. She wouldn’t have taken it if she hadn’t been so bored. If she had to listen to Mr. Dodsworth drone on about his stables one more time…It was drink or scream. The man hadn’t had an original thought—or any thought that did not involve prime bits of blood—since her come out three years ago.

She leaned against the bedpost. How was she going to survive another Season? Seeing the same people, hearing the same conversation, tittering over the same gossip. It had been exciting when she was seventeen, but now…

Was it possible to die of ennui? S

And Meg was no help. Lud! She’d finally persuaded her friend to leave the weeds of Kent for the wonders of London, and Meg turned out to be as big a bore as Dodsworth. Her topic of verbal tor
ture was horticulture. Shrubbery. Damn shrubbery. If Meg had her way, she’d spend every moment in the shrubbery—and not with a gentleman bent on seduction.

Lizzie scowled at the bedpost. She should have poured that last glass of ratafia over Robbie’s head. That would have livened things up. Ha! She pictured the looks of horror that would have adorned the assembled
ton
if Lady Elizabeth Runyon, sister of the Duke of Alvord, pattern card of respectability, had caused such a scene.

At least she would have gotten Robbie’s attention. She’d wager next quarter’s pin-money on that.

She looked at her mirror again. It was very daring standing here naked. She straightened, letting go of the bedpost. Perhaps she should be daring this Season. Wanton, even. Playing by the rules hadn’t gotten her what she wanted—
whom
she wanted—so she’d break them.

She put her hands back on her breasts. She sighed. The poor little things barely filled her palms—they would be lost in Robbie’s larger hands.

Mmm. She half-closed her eyes, biting her bottom lip. Robbie’s hands. His long fingers, his broad palms. On her skin.

She felt very daring indeed. More than daring—hot. She rubbed her thumbs over her nipples. The harp string started vibrating again. She licked her lips, arching her hips, spreading her legs slightly so the breeze might find and cool her where she most needed cooling.

What would it feel like if Robbie touched her
there?

Her hand slid down her body.

“My God!”

A male voice, hoarse and strained. Her eyes flew
open. Robbie’s reflection was staring at her in the mirror. Robbie’s very naked reflection.

She spun to face him, grabbing the bedpost to keep from falling. The room shifted unpleasantly, then righted. She blinked. Yes, Robbie was still there, still naked, standing just inside her window.

She had never seen a naked man before, except in paintings or statues. She stared.

Art did not do reality justice. Not at all.

Then again, perhaps no artist had ever had a model quite as splendid as Robbie.

He looked so different from the civilized London lord she had left downstairs. He was larger. Well, obviously, he could not have grown simply by shedding his clothes, but it certainly seemed as if he had. And he was so…different. His neck, freed from yards of muffling cravat and concealing collar, was a study in angles and shadows. And his shoulders…How had they fit into his coat?

She never would have guessed he had hair sprinkled across his chest. Golden red hair dusting down to his flat stomach, then spreading out below his navel around…

Oh, my.

She’d never seen
that
in any art work. The…appendage was long and thick and stuck straight out.

How did he hide it in his pantaloons?

Lizzie looked back at Robbie’s face. It was far redder than his hair. Could he be injured? The blacksmith’s thumb had swollen to twice its size when he’d hit it with his hammer. Had Robbie bumped this part of his anatomy climbing in the window?

“Are you in pain?” She glanced at her bed. “Lie down. I’ll get a wet compress.”

He made a short noise that sounded like a cross
between a laugh and a moan and jerked around to slam her window shut, pulling the curtains tight.

“No, I’m not in pain. Where’s your nightgown?”

“Are you certain?” His back was almost as beautiful as his front. She studied his tight buttocks. She would love to touch them. “You sound like you are in pain.”

“Just tell me where your blood—blasted nightgown is.” He turned back to her, jaw clenched, eyes focused on her face. “Better yet, just put it on. Now.”

Lizzie did not care for the note of command in his voice.

“No, I don’t want to. I’m hot.” She flushed. “Very hot.” Uncomfortably hot. And damp. Wet, really. She moved her hand down to be certain she wasn’t dripping.

“God, no.” He caught her before she reached her stomach. His fingers—thick, warm—encircled her wrist. She needed them somewhere else. Her breasts ached; her nipples had tightened into hard pebbles.

He shook her arm slightly. “Put on your nightgown.”

He sounded a bit desperate.

She shook her head. She could smell him now. She inhaled deeply. He smelled of Robbie. She giggled. Silly, but true. It was a musky, spicy scent, stronger now that it wasn’t muffled by layers of clothing.

His eyes kept darting looks at her breasts. She felt them swell with his attention. She needed to rub them against the hair on his chest.

Who cared about a nightgown? She didn’t want a nightgown. She wanted his body against hers. His skin on hers. Everywhere. She panted slightly. She was certain a puddle of need was forming at her feet.

She reached for him.

“Lizzie!” He grabbed her other hand, holding both wrists in a firm grip.

“Let me go.” She jerked back. His grasp was gentle but unbreakable. Well, she knew how to get free. She had an older brother. She wasn’t above telling a small lie if necessary. “You’re hurting me.”

He released her at once.

“Ah!”

She lunged, but he caught her by the shoulders.

“Lizzie, you’re bosky.”

“N-no, I’m not. I just want to touch you. Please? Just let me touch you.” His arms were too long. No matter how much she stretched, she could not reach his body.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea. Now put on your nightgown.”

“I
think it would be a splendid idea.” She lunged again. No luck. “Why won’t you let me touch you?”

“Because besides the fact that you appear to be thoroughly foxed, I’m certain there are going to be people at your door and quite possibly your window any moment now. You don’t want them to find us like this, do you?”

She hiccupped. “Yes, I do.” She lurched toward him again. If she didn’t feel his body against hers soon, she would cry.

Robbie gave an odd little growl. “You wouldn’t say that if you were sober.”

“Yes, I would.” She stopped fighting and touched him where she could reach. The muscles in his arms were warm rocks. She could barely get her fingers around his forearm. She stroked his wrist with her thumb and saw sweat bead on his upper lip. She wanted to lick it off.

“I love you, Robbie. I’ve loved you forever.”

His jaw tensed. “No, you haven’t.”

“Yes, I have.”

He shook his head. “Hero worship. Calf love.”

“No. Kiss me. You’ll see.”

He rubbed his face on his arm, wiping off the sweat. “There’s no time for that, Lizzie.”

“Yes, there is. Kiss me.”

“Lizzie.” His hands clenched on her shoulders, but gentled when she drew in a sharp breath. “Lizzie, please. If I’m found here, the scandal will be beyond belief. James will kill me.”

“No, he won’t. You’re his friend.”

Robbie snorted. “You’re his sister. Trust me. He will kill me if he finds out.”

“I don’t see why. He met Sarah naked, didn’t he? How can he complain?”

“That’s different.” “No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is, and if you weren’t so foxed you would see that. Now put your nightgown on.”

“All right, but you’ll have to let me go. I can’t put it on with your hands in the way.”

“True. Just don’t—”

Robbie loosened his grip too soon. Lizzie ducked, closing the distance between them in one step and throwing her arms around his waist.

“Lizzie!” He moved almost as quickly, dropping his hands to her hips, pushing them back.

She had forgotten about his swollen part. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she so ached to feel his entire body against hers. Well, what she could feel felt very, very good. Her hands played over his back, running up and down his warm, smooth skin. She pressed her cheek against his chest and heard his heart pounding. She found a drop of sweat trickling down between his nipples and licked it, running her tongue up the trail to his neck.

“Lizzie!”

“Mmm?” His hands on her hips were wonderful,
but they were too still. She tried to wiggle, to encourage his fingers to roam. Perhaps she could show him the way. She slipped her own hands over his buttocks and around to his stomach, careful not to touch…

“Lizzie!” Robbie leapt back as if scalded.

“Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.” She glanced down and smiled in relief. “No, see—you’re better. The stiffness and swelling are almost gone. You should be able to tuck your…um, well, you should be able to tuck
it
into your pantaloons now.”

“
God
, Lizzie.”

Lizzie frowned, looking up. Robbie’s mouth was so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek. His eyes looked…haunted.

“Robbie, I—”

She jumped. Someone was banging on her door—and someone else was banging on her window.