Sally MacKenzie Bundle (26 page)

There were some things even she didn’t care to know.

She arranged the items in what she hoped was a convincing display.

Apparently the dungeon was notorious among the male portion of the
ton.
Andrew certainly knew all about it. It was one of the main attractions of Tynweith’s parties. Tess had said Dodsworth accepted his invitation primarily to meet “My Lady Birch.”

It was now Felicity’s turn to meet the lady.

She took out a few of her hair pins and scattered them over the floor. Then she loosened the neck of her dress and jerked it down. She wished she had a mirror handy, but unfortunately the dungeon was not equipped with one. She would just have to hope she looked properly mauled.

She selected one of the smaller birch bundles and tested its weight in her hand. How would it feel against her skin? Her nipples tightened in expectation. She hadn’t tried that game before. Too bad Andrew wasn’t here.

Would raising a welt be enough or did she need to draw blood? She pulled her dress lower and hit her upper arm and breast, catching the nipple. She drew in a sharp breath as the birch twigs stung her skin. Very nice.

She hit herself again, harder. A crisscross of red welts contrasted splendidly with her white skin. She did wish she had a mirror, but it couldn’t be helped. Still, as best she could tell, she looked quite good. Lady Dunlee would have a host of details with which to regale the tabbies of the
ton.

She tossed the switch at her feet and took the key the local girls had given her out of her pocket. She was right handed, so the left manacle would be best. She looked up to where it was hanging from the wall. There were two sets—one for men, one for women. The girls had said the women’s pair wasn’t high off the ground, but she would have to stretch. It would be more comfortable if she removed her arm from her sleeve.

Should she shed her dress entirely? It would look even more scandalous. But the dungeon was a bit damp and chilly. She wriggled her left arm out and shivered. That was enough. No need to be more uncomfortable than necessary.

She reached up, closed the manacle over her wrist, and locked it. Her raised arm made her breast with its bright red welts lift nicely out of her corset. Excellent. She tossed the key onto the table. It landed in plain sight.

She settled down to wait. It shouldn’t be long. Charlotte would have sent Lord Westbrooke to the dungeon by now. He should be appearing at any moment. As soon as she heard his footstep in the corridor, she would moan and cry piteously. He would rush to her aid, and, if Charlotte played her role correctly, Lady Dunlee, Lady Beatrice, Mrs. Larson—all the house guests—would come in shortly to see him with his hands on her. Then it was just his word against hers.

Yes, he was an earl, but she was the daughter of an earl. Papa might be cut by the
ton,
but he still held the title. And how could Westbrooke deny the evidence? She was manacled to the wall, the key well out of her reach, her dress pulled down almost to her waist, and her breast red with his beating. She would be nicely panicked. She’d sob into Lady Dunlee’s arms; tell her how Westbrooke had suggested this game, how she had been happy to please him—everyone knew she’d been pursuing him for years—but then his passions had become too intense for her.

Lady Dunlee would believe her, and that was all that mattered. Even if the other ladies doubted her veracity, the circumstances of the scene were damning by themselves. And it didn’t hurt that no one really knew what Westbrooke’s sexual preferences were. He was so secretive. For all they knew, he could be as enamored of flagellation games as Dodsworth.

The plan was foolproof. Westbrooke was as good as snared.

She shifted. Her left hand was beginning to tingle and feel numb. Her shoulder was starting to ache as well.

No matter. She would distract herself. She had plenty of delightful thoughts to take her mind off some minor discomfort.

She would spend the last few minutes before Westbrooke arrived planning the many ways she would spend his lovely money.

“Lord Westbrooke, could we pause a moment?”

Lady Caroline was panting. Her cheeks had passed a becoming pink and turned to bright red. Beads of perspiration dotted her forehead. Even the feather in her bonnet was drooping.

Robbie didn’t care. He didn’t want to see the damn ruined chapel. It looked like every other patch of weeds and decaying masonry to him. He wanted to be with Lizzie.

“Certainly, Lady Caroline.”

He looked back at the rest of the party. There was Lizzie, standing with Mrs. Larson, Meg, Parks, and Sir George.

Bloody hell! Lord Andrew had joined the group.

“Look, Lord Westbrooke. I think this is where the altar must have been.” Lady Caroline had walked across the stone floor to a raised platform. “Can’t you just imagine the knights praying here before they rode out to battle?”

“Battle?” He’d like to do battle. He’d like to run Lord Andrew through with a lance.

Meg and Parks separated from the group, going off to inspect some weeds no doubt. At least Andrew couldn’t harm Lizzie with Mrs. Larson present.

“Oh, Lord Westbrooke, there are some words carved in this stone. I think it must be Latin.”

Robbie grunted. Wouldn’t the girl be done soon?

“Could you come see? Perhaps you can tell me what it says. I can’t read Latin.”

“Certainly, Lady Caroline.” Of course she couldn’t read Latin—he’d be surprised if she could read much English beyond that necessary to understand the fashion plates. Lady Caroline did not strike him as a scholar.

He took a last look at Lizzie and Lord Andrew. The man appeared to be behaving himself. How could he not? Mrs. Larson and Sir George were standing right there.

“Lord Westbrooke?”

“Coming.”

He forced himself to turn away. He was being absurd. Yes, Tynweith’s house parties had the reputation of being fast, but they were not really dangerous except perhaps for naïve young debutantes who had more hair than wit. Lizzie was not totty-headed. She would not go off alone with a man of Andrew’s stamp.

“Over here, Lord Westbrooke. See? What does it say?”

Lady Caroline actually looked excited. He smiled and bent to examine the inscription. She was almost pleasant when she dropped her society airs.

“Is it a blessing? A mention of an especially brave knight?”

Robbie ran his fingers over the carving to be certain.
“Antonio erat hic.”

“Yes? What does it mean?”

“Anthony was here.” Robbie grinned. “Sorry. I suspect some bored young schoolboy carved this when he escaped his tutor one day. Perhaps one of Tynweith’s ancestors. You can ask him if he has a forebear by that name.”

“Oh.” Lady Caroline looked crestfallen for a moment and then perked up. “Perhaps there are crypts. Do you think there might be? Could a knight be buried right under our feet?”

Robbie hated to disillusion her. “I doubt it. We can look, but I suspect any bodies are buried at the village church.”

For the next few minutes, he helped Lady Caroline brush aside dead leaves and encroaching ivy. Surprisingly, the ivy was the only thing encroaching. He had not been pleased with the girl when she’d burst into Lizzie’s room with Felicity, the two of them looking for his naked self, but now she appeared to be truly enthusiastic about exploring the ruin. When they disturbed a field mouse in a tangle of dried vines, she screamed but did not try to leap into his arms.

He was almost in charity with her when he finally persuaded her to return to the rest of the party.

His feelings of good will did not last long. Something had happened while they were poking around the ruins. People were standing in tight knots, talking and shaking their heads. He picked up his pace.

“Please, Lord Westbrooke, you go too fast.”

“My apologies, Lady Caroline.”

He tried to slow his steps so the girl’s fat little legs could keep up with him. He scanned the groups for Lizzie. He did not see her. Lord Andrew was missing also, but so were the duchess and Lady Felicity.

“You missed all the excitement, my lord.” Lady Dunlee was the first to greet him. She was standing with Lord Botton and Mr. Dodsworth. Her eyes gleamed with suppressed gossip.

“Excitement?”

“Indeed.” Lord Botton spoke as Lady Dunlee was opening her mouth. “Hartford came to collect his wife. Took her back to Lendal Park. Was quite vocal about what he planned to do with her once he got her there.” Botton giggled. “Said he planned to start on the way.”

“In the carriage, while the horses were moving.” Dodsworth’s voice held a note of wonder. “He was going to f—”

“Mr. Dodsworth! Please!” Lady Dunlee put her arm around Lady Caroline. “There are ladies present—including an impressionable young lady.”

Dodsworth had the grace to flush. “My pardon, Lady Dunlee, Lady Caroline. No insult intended. Forgot myself.”

“Obviously.” Lady Dunlee sniffed.

“Did Lady Elizabeth return with them?”

The group stared at Robbie as if he were mad.

“Be a bit in the way, don’t you think?” Lord Botton coughed into his hand. “You did understand what the duke had in mind?”

“Bed play,” Dodsworth said helpfully, “only not in a bed. In a carriage. Hartford was going to f—”

“Mr. Dodsworth!”

“Sorry, sorry. I just can’t get over…It never occurred to me…. In a carriage…. Horses, you know…I just never thought…Perhaps I could finally…” He turned bright red. “Very stimulating thought, that’s all.”

Lady Dunlee narrowed her eyes. “Have you been drinking?”

“No! No more than anyone else, that is. I just—”

“If you will excuse me?” Watching Dodsworth tie himself in verbal knots or speculating on the duke’s sexual preferences wasn’t getting Robbie any closer to locating Lizzie. He spotted Parks and Meg. Perhaps they would know where Lizzie was. They had been with her not so many minutes ago.

“Parks.”

“Westbrooke. You missed quite a spectacle.”

“It was terrible.” Meg looked ready to hit someone. Robbie stepped back slightly so he did not present a target. “That old man is despicable.”

“That old man is a duke, Miss Peterson.”

“I don’t care, Mr. Parker-Roth. Duke or drayman, no one should be so rude. The poor duchess.”

Meg was warming up for a long diatribe. Robbie was certain Hartford was lower than pond scum, but he didn’t have time to listen to a verbal drubbing.

“I’m actually more concerned with Lizzie at the moment, Meg. I don’t see her. Do either of you know where she is?”

“I believe Lady Elizabeth was going up to the battlements,” Parks said.

Meg nodded. “Yes. We couldn’t get the door opened yesterday.”

“She and Mrs. Larson both wanted to go, I believe,” Parks said. “Sir George and Lord Andrew are escorting them.”

Panic grabbed Robbie’s chest. “Mrs. Larson is standing over there with Tynweith, Parks.”

“Hmm. So she is. And I see Sir George there, too. So that leaves…”

“Lord Andrew.” Bloody hell. “If you’ll excuse me?”

Lizzie did not care for preceding Lord Andrew up the stairs. He said he wished to be in a position to catch her if she stumbled. She believed he wished to observe her ankles.

She paused on the last turn. “We are almost to the top, my lord. Shall I step aside now and let you pass?”

“No, no, Lady Elizabeth. Please keep going.”

“But you will need to be in front when we reach the door. It is stuck quite securely. You will want to use your complete strength to open it.”

He smirked. “We’ll see.”

“What do you mean, ‘we’ll see’? I assure you, I could not get it to budge.”

His smirk grew. “Lady Elizabeth, just because
you
cannot open the door, does not mean
I
cannot. I do not anticipate any difficulty. And this way I will not block your first view of the battlements.”

Lizzie suppressed a strong urge to put her hands on Lord Andrew’s shoulders and push hard. He would get a taste of her strength and she would get the opportunity to hear the satisfying sound of his conceited head hitting the steps all the way to the ground.

She turned and continued climbing.

“Here we are, my lord. How do you intend—oh!”

Lord Andrew stepped onto the stair right behind her and put both hands on the door. She was trapped by his body. More than trapped. He was pressed up against her—she felt his length all along her back. She did not like it. A whisper of panic fluttered along her spine.

Thankfully he made short work of the refractory door. One push and the job was done. She would have been exceedingly annoyed if she’d not been so happy to be free of him. She stepped quickly over the threshold and onto the battlements.

The wind whipped over her, stealing her breath and threatening to take her bonnet. She laughed, and the wind stole her laughter, too.

She loved this weather. The clouds, roiling masses of gray, hung so low she could almost touch them. She took a deep breath. The air was damp, chill, wild. She smelled the storm coming, tasted its flat, metallic flavor.

She leaned on the parapet. Eddies of dead leaves swirled around her skirts. In the distance, the village church steeple jutted up into the sky as if it would prick the storm clouds and let loose the rain. To the west, the brownish yellow walls of Lendal Park caught a stray ray of sunlight.

She straightened to take in the view from the other side of the tower and collided with a large, solid object.

“What?” She tried to turn, but found her way blocked by Lord Andrew’s chest. The wind must have masked his footsteps. She twisted to see his face over her shoulder. “My lord, you are crowding me.”

“That is my intention.” He shoved her up against the parapet so her breasts flattened against the stone. She felt something sharp at the back of her neck, then the scrape of his fingers on her skin. There was a rending sound and her dress sagged.

“Lord Andrew!” She tried to push away from the wall—she couldn’t. Her hands were trapped under her. She threw her hips back instead.

“Mmm. That feels good.” His voice was thick. He thrust his hips forward and a hard ridge pushed into her bottom.