Sally MacKenzie Bundle (21 page)

“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!”

What was the baron doing here at this hour? She had to get rid of him. She looked over his shoulder. Still no sign of Lord Peter.

“If you are looking for Addington’s whelp, he will not be coming. He had another, ah, engagement. He asked me to take his place.”

“What?” Lord Peter was not coming? He’d asked Lord Tynweith…. Charlotte felt her cheeks burn. Lord Peter had been discussing what he’d done…had been discussing her…with Tynweith?

“May I come in? I’d rather not stand here in the hallway. Someone might come along and wonder what I was about.”

“Yes. All right. Come in.” She definitely did not want any of the house guests—especially Felicity—speculating as to why their host was visiting her room at night. Frankly, she did not want to speculate herself. She trusted he would get to his point eventually. He always had in the past.

“Where is your maid?”

“Marie knows she is not needed.”

He picked up the brandy bottle.

“Still drinking, Charlotte?”

“Yes.” Surely he was not angry that Flint had been kind enough to supply her with her own bottle? “Would you like some?” She looked around the room. “I don’t see an extra glass. Perhaps you could get one?” And she could lock the door behind him. He was making her very nervous. Her stomach was shivering in an extremely unsettling fashion.

He smiled. “I don’t need a glass.”

“You don’t?” Was he going to drink directly from the bottle?

He approached her. She backed up—into her closed door. He put his hands on either side of her head.

Her stomach clenched. He was too close. She closed her eyes. She felt his breath on her cheek. It smelled of brandy, but she knew he wasn’t drunk.

“Charlotte, love. You know I’m happy to help you. Happy and willing”—he kissed the corner of her closed eye, just a butterfly brush—“and able”—his lips skimmed the spot under her right ear—“and anxious, too, actually.”

He spoke right above her lips. If she moved her head, tilted her chin just the slightest, their mouths would meet.

She kept her head perfectly still.

“Help me?” she whispered.

“Have a child.”

Her eyes flew open. “You are joking.”

“You know I am not. We spoke about it in the garden yesterday, remember?”

How could she forget? “Lord Peter—”

“—isn’t here. I am.” His lips pulled into a slow smile. “And I assure you, I possess the equipment necessary to accomplish the task. I am delighted—ecstatic—to put it at your disposal.”

“Oh.” She wet her lips. She saw his gaze sharpen, focus on her mouth. His eyes looked…hot.

In some odd manner, he was causing
her
temperature to rise. Precipitously.

It could not be healthy. She needed to put some distance between them.

Tynweith chose that moment to kiss her.

Oh dear.

His lips were gentle, slow, unlike Hartford’s or Lord Peter’s. Well, neither of them had bothered much with her mouth. One quick mashing of lips against teeth and they were off to more interesting territory, leaving her with an unobstructed view of the bed canopy.

This was different. Tynweith was in no hurry. He kept his hands on the door. The only part of him touching her was his mouth. He played with her lips, sucking, licking. And then his tongue slipped inside. It swept through her, filling her, stroking her.

She braced herself against the door, trusting it to keep her upright.

She had never felt this way before.

“Are your nipples hard little nubs, sweetings?”

They were.

“Is the secret place between your legs wet? Aching?”

It was. God, it was.

“Your body is ready for my seed, Charlotte. Shall I plant it now? Shall I give you a child?”

She was mindless with need. What was the matter with her? She felt ill, feverish. Out of control.

She did not care for this feeling at all. It was unsettling. Frightening. She knew in her gut if she let Tynweith do what he wished, something important would change.

She should say no and send him on his way.

Her body was weeping for her to say yes.

She needed a child. If dampness was the key, she would conceive tonight.

She sighed, letting her resistance drain away.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, please.”

“Then let me get this lovely dress off you. It is very much in the way, don’t you agree?”

“My nightdress—”

“Is totally unnecessary. You are going to be naked, love. I am going to see every inch of your lovely body. I am going to touch every inch. Won’t that be wonderful?”

No, it would be frightening. Or frighteningly wonderful.

Her body silenced her mind. She pushed herself away from the door—and felt his fingers on her dress. She stared at his cravat while he loosened her fastenings and let her clothing slip slowly down to her feet.

She closed her eyes. She was standing before him in only her stockings. She felt the cold air and the heat of the fire on her skin.

She had never been naked with a man before.

He touched her gently between her legs and she shuddered.

“Beautiful.”

His voice was husky, strained. She looked at him. The heat she’d seen before had ignited. His eyes blazed—but still he didn’t put his body against hers.

“I think it’s time we went to bed, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Her knees were wobbling.

“Walk.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. Please. For me. I want to watch you.”

Hartford and Lord Peter had snuffed the candles and come to her in darkness. All the light, all the looking…She felt exposed. Shy.

“I’m skinny.”

“No, you’re beautiful. Perfect.” He brushed his lips over hers and she felt another rush of dampness between her thighs. “I have lusted for you from the moment I saw you. I’ve pictured your body under mine with every woman I’ve mounted. I am dying to see how far my imagination has fallen short of reality.”

“If it has.”

“Oh, it has.” He traced her lips with his finger. Her mouth felt swollen. It opened quite without her volition and he kissed it gently. “I was too rough in Easthaven’s garden, Charlotte. I will not be rough tonight. I will be slow and courteous.” The corner of his mouth crooked up. “At least the first time.”

“Oh.” Usually she wanted the business over as quickly as possible, but strangely, she was not interested in speed at the moment.

She stepped away from him. She felt his gaze slide over her skin, touching her everywhere. Her nipples tightened. He smiled.

“Get into bed, Charlotte.”

She nodded and walked the length of the room. He was just behind her. Still he didn’t touch her.

She climbed up onto the mattress and reached for the bedclothes.

“No.” His hand covered hers and then took the blanket and sheet from her, pulling them down to the bottom of the bed. “We don’t need these.”

“I’m cold.” She wasn’t, but she should be. She was naked. She tried to cover her breasts and her most private part with her hands.

His eyes laughed at her.

“You are? You’ll be very warm in a moment.”

“No, I—”

She stopped speaking. Tynweith was untying his cravat. He pulled it free and took her hand from her breast, looping the cravat loosely around her wrist.

“You must not cover your beauty, Charlotte.” He tied the other end to the bedpost.

“What are you doing?” Her breath came faster, with fear as much as desire.

“Don’t be alarmed. You can get free easily if you want. Try—you’ll see.”

She tried. Tynweith was right. “So why…?”

“To remind you not to hide. To encourage you to trust me.”

He slid one of her stockings slowly off her leg and tied her other wrist with it. Then he bent and blew over her nipples. She arched up. Still he would not touch her.

“I need to feel you….”

He laughed. “Patience, love. You will feel me soon. Everywhere. On your skin—and in your body.”

He removed his coat, his waistcoat, his shirt, slowly, methodically while he walked around the bed, looking at her. Occasionally he would bend over and blow on her skin, but he still would not touch her.

She was on fire. Her nipples ached; the opening between her legs throbbed. She had never felt this way before.

She had never wanted to see her lover’s body before either. Why should she? Hartford’s was shrunken and bony. Lord Peter’s was like a Greek statue and just as hard and cold. But Tynweith’s…

His chest was broad, but welcoming. Dark hair narrowed down to a line disappearing under the fall of his pantaloons.

The fall was bulging. She was actually happy to see that—she shivered with delight. The most delighted part of her wept with eagerness. Her hips arched and twisted on the bed.

“Now?”

“Not yet, love. I think you offered me some brandy, didn’t you?”

“Forget the brandy. Take your pantaloons off.”

Tynweith laughed. “Charlotte, how bold!”

She flushed. “I’m sorry, I—”

He bent over her, putting his finger on her lips. “No, don’t be sorry. I want you to be bold.” His eyes gleamed. “I should reward your boldness, shouldn’t I?”