Sally MacKenzie Bundle (12 page)

“No. No, everything is fine. I’m tired, that’s all. Slightly blue-deviled. My apologies for being a bore.” Robbie took another swallow of brandy—and almost sprayed it over Parks’s cravat.

“What
is
the matter?” Parks took out his handkerchief and dabbed a few stray droplets from his waistcoat.

“
That
is the matter.” Robbie gestured at the drawing room door. Lizzie had just arrived.

“What? Oh, I grant you Lady Beatrice’s attire is somewhat alarming, but I thought you’d be used to it by now. She has been on the Town for an age and her taste in clothing hasn’t changed.”

“Not Lady Bea.” What was the matter with Parks? The man wasn’t usually a clod pole.

“No?” Parks studied the women, then shrugged. “If this is a riddle, Westbrooke, I’m afraid I can’t answer it. Who is the beauty, by the by?”

“Lizzie, you dolt!”

Parks turned back to stare at Robbie. “I know Lady Elizabeth, Westbrooke, and she does look especially fine this evening. That shade of blue is very complimentary.” He glanced back at the women. “But I was referring to her companion.” He grinned. “Not Lady Beatrice—her
other
companion.”

“That’s Meg.” Robbie had barely noticed the color of Lizzie’s dress. His eyes had focused on its bodice. Or lack of bodice. What had Lizzie been thinking? Her perfect breasts mounded up so any dissipated rakehell could easily imagine what they would look like naked. Her nipples were almost exposed, for God’s sake.

“Meg?”

“What?” Robbie glanced impatiently at Parks. “Oh, Miss Margaret Peterson. Sister of the Marchioness of Knightsdale. Vicar’s daughter. This is her first Season, even though she’s Lizzie’s age. Couldn’t tear herself away from Kent and the countryside. Obsessed with plants.”

“Really? That sounds intriguing.”

“Only to you.” Robbie straightened his waistcoat. Someone needed to talk sense to Lizzie. Lady Beatrice obviously would not. He’d known the woman was a terrible choice for chaperone. “Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

“He’s coming,” Meg said.

“Yes, I see that.” Lizzie took a deep breath. Calm. She must be calm. And daring. That was her new plan for this Season. Be daring.

“A good sign.” Lady Beatrice nodded, sending her red and green plumes bobbing. “He was watching the door, waiting for your arrival. The man’s obsessed. Don’t know why he hasn’t offered yet. Perhaps I’ll have a word with him.”

“No!” That would be all she needed, to have Lady Beatrice discuss Robbie’s matrimonial plans—or lack thereof—with him in Tynweith’s drawing room for the assembled
ton
’s amusement. “No, please. I’m certain that’s not necessary.”

“Well someone should light a fire under that young man’s arse.”

“Lady Beatrice!” Lizzie glanced around. No one was tittering or staring at them. “Please keep your voice down.”

“Hmph. Don’t know why I should. Man needs someone to tell him what’s what.”

“No, really.” Lizzie tried to keep her own voice down, though it was hard to know how softly she spoke, mortification was throbbing so loudly in her ears. “It’s quite all right.”

“Perhaps your dress will inspire him. Remember to lean toward him when you talk. Let him see what he can’t have until he marries you.”

“Uh.” The memory of Robbie’s touch made Lizzie’s breasts throb. “Yes. No. Didn’t you want some brandy?”

“Yes, I did. You might want something, too. You look a trifle”—Lady Beatrice examined Lizzie’s face and neck—“hot.” She raised one eyebrow, and suddenly Lizzie was certain Lady Beatrice knew exactly what she’d been doing with Robbie in Tynweith’s garden. Exactly.

Impossible. An elderly virgin would not know of such things. Lizzie certainly hadn’t known of them until Robbie’d demonstrated.

Lady Bea leaned closer. “Remember, Lizzie, it’s a better notion to get a wedding ring—or at least a betrothal ring—before one gets”—she looked pointedly at Lizzie’s stomach—“other things.”

“Yes, Lady Beatrice. I mean, I don’t understand—”

Lady Beatrice patted Lizzie’s arm. “I’m quite certain you can puzzle it out.” She started to walk away, then paused. “And stay away from the ratafia.”

“Yes. Definitely. Do not worry.” Lizzie blew out a long breath as Lady Bea moved off to find the brandy.

“That woman is insufferable. How can you bear her, Meg? How can
I
bear her? I will never survive this Season with my sanity intact.” Lizzie gripped her skirts. “Aunt Gladys was an unexceptionable chaperone. Don’t you think she could have waited a year to retire to Bath?”

“Hmm?”

“Meg?” Lizzie glanced at her friend. Meg was staring at the two men making their way across the drawing room.

“Who’s the man with Lord Westbrooke?” Meg’s voice sounded odd. Breathless. Her cheeks were flushed.

“Mr. Parker-Roth.” What was bothering Meg? Lizzie examined Parks. He was handsome enough, she supposed, but he wasn’t Robbie. He was a few inches shorter and broader, with wavy brown hair, green eyes, and spectacles. “You’ll probably like him, Meg. He’s mad about plants, too.”

“Oh.”

“I do hope you’ll manage to be more articulate when you are introduced.”

Meg glared at her.

Lizzie turned to find Robbie glaring at her as well.

“Where did you get that dress, Lizzie?”

“Good evening to you, too, Lord Westbrooke.” Lizzie turned pointedly to face the other man. “How are you, Mr. Parker-Roth? I don’t believe I saw you last night.”

Lizzie blushed the moment the words left her lips.
Had
he been in the corridor with the rest of the house party? Surely not—but his room was right next to hers.

He smiled, but his eyes kept drifting to Meg. “No, I arrived quite late. I had some business that needed my attention before I left my estate.”

“I see.” All Mr. Parker-Roth appeared interested in seeing was Meg. His eyes had strayed to her again. “Have you met my friend, Miss Peterson?”

He grinned at her then, as if she were a prize pupil who had finally hit upon the key question. “No, I don’t believe I have.”

“Well, meet her then.” Robbie sounded impatient. “Parks, Miss Peterson; Meg, Parks.”

“Parks?” Meg’s voice was soft, almost shy.

“My nickname, Miss Peterson.”

“Ah, for Parker-Roth.”

“No, Meg—for greenery.” Robbie laughed. “Parks is as keen on weeds as you are. Maybe keener. Actually, I think MacDuff did try to dub you Weed at Eton, didn’t he, Parks? Lord Weed. You took exception and thrashed him soundly as I recall. Got a standing ovation.”

Parks frowned. “I really don’t think the ladies need to be treated to our boyhood tales of mayhem, Westbrooke.”

Robbie shrugged. “No need to stand on ceremony with these ladies. I’ve known them both since they were infants.”

“Well I have not. I’m certain Lady Elizabeth and Miss Peterson will think me a complete barbarian if I model my behavior on yours.”

“You could never be
that
barbaric, sir.”

“Very funny, Lizzie.” Robbie turned to Mr. Parker-Roth. “Not to worry, Parks. As you see, Lizzie is inclined to be generous. If you want to impress Meg, just talk to her about your horticultural activities. I’d wager she would love to hear all about that book you were reading last night. What was it called? Garden fragments or something?”

Meg smiled. “Never say you have Repton’s
Fragments on the Theory and Practice of Landscape Gardening,
Mr. Parker-Roth.”

“Actually, yes.”

“See, I knew you two would have something of interest to discuss—as I have something of interest to discuss with Lizzie. So, if you’ll excuse us?”

Robbie took Lizzie’s arm and moved her a step or two away. She dug in her heels and glanced back at Meg. Her friend was already in deep discussion with Parks. Obviously Meg was going to be no help in keeping Robbie at a distance.

“Step out into the garden, Lizzie. I want a word with you.”

“I am definitely not going into any more gardens with you, Lord Westbrooke. My last such excursion had very unsettling results.”

Robbie flushed. “If you are going to throw yourself at men—”

“I
tripped.
I did not throw myself.”

A muscle jumped in Robbie’s jaw. “What do you call that dress, then, if not throwing yourself at men? It’s indecent.”

Lizzie wanted to cover her chest with her hands. She clenched them into fists instead. Who was Robbie to tell her how to dress anyway? If he wanted to dictate her attire he could offer for her.

“It is not indecent. My chaperone has no objections to it whatsoever. In fact she said it was quite the thing.” What Lady Bea had actually said was it was just the thing to bring this fat-pated, buffle-headed idiot to his senses, but Lizzie wasn’t going to tell him that. He didn’t have any senses to be brought to, anyway.

Robbie’s teeth looked as though they were clenched as tightly as her hands. “Lady Beatrice is not a suitable chaperone.”

“Don’t insult Lady Beatrice.”

“I am not insulting Lady Beatrice.” His jaw flexed. “She is a charming woman—just a mutton-headed chaperone, especially if she thinks a dress that displays your, um,
charms
for any man to ogle is acceptable attire for a duke’s sister. People will think you are a member of the fashionable impure, a high-flyer, a—”

Lizzie was so angry she wanted to spit. She leaned forward—and watched Robbie’s eyes drop to the neck of her dress. Someone was definitely doing some ogling.

He jerked his eyes away quickly.

“People are welcome to think what they will,” she said. “I am certainly wondering what a certain person was thinking this afternoon in Lord Tynweith’s shrubbery.”

Robbie’s ears turned bright red. “Keep your voice down. Lady Dunlee just looked this way.”

“Do not worry. I do not intend to prolong this conversation.” Lizzie took a deep breath. She was shaking, she was so incensed. “I do have one question. This afternoon I was wearing a brooch on the quite modest neck of my dress. I appear to have lost it. Did you happen to find it?”

“A brooch?”

“Yes. With my initials.”

“No, I didn’t find your brooch. Why would you think I did? Ask one of Tynweith’s servants.”

“I don’t believe Tynweith’s servants frequent the section of the garden where I lost it, though I may be mistaken. I seem to be mistaken about many things these days.” Lizzie stepped back and pasted a false smile on her face. “Now, if you will excuse me, I believe Tynweith’s butler is about to announce dinner. I’m sure you’ll understand if I prefer a different escort. Present company has a deleterious effect on my appetite.”

Lizzie was delighted to see as she left that Robbie’s face was almost as red as Lady Beatrice’s dress.

Bloody hell. Robbie stabbed his slice of venison as if the beast were still on the hoof. Lizzie was sitting on Tynweith’s left and batting her eyelashes at the man while he peered down her dress.

“I had the oddest dream last night, Lord Westbrooke. I blush to tell you what it was. Perhaps you have heard a rumor or two?”

Robbie left the meat on his plate. He’d choke if he tried to consume it now—he was struggling to swallow Lady Felicity’s whopper. Was she really going to pretend she had dreamt the entire bedroom incident? Did she think to persuade him that he, too, had been asleep when he’d stared at her pendulous breasts, leapt from his window, and scampered naked over Tynweith’s roof?

“No, Lady Felicity, I can’t say I’ve heard a word about your activities, real or imagined.”

“No?”

“No.” Robbie examined his plate. Nothing was appealing. Sitting next to Lady Felicity had definitely cost him his appetite. “How does one’s dream become a rumor, may I ask? Who’s to spread the tale of something that happened only in your mind?”

“Well, the activity wasn’t confined to my mind, I’m afraid. The dream was so vivid, I thought it was real. I disturbed Lady Elizabeth and a few other guests, I regret to say.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” She dropped her voice and leaned close. “Shall I tell you my dream? You played a role in it. It really was quite shocking.”

“Um.” Robbie eyed her sizable breasts nervously. It was an amazing feat of cloth engineering that they remained even partially covered. Her corset pushed them into such mounds her dress hovered just over her nipples. He could speak with authority on that. After last night’s incident, he knew exactly where in the geography of her bosom the small mole now displayed for his inspection appeared. “I really don’t believe that is necessary. In fact, I think I would much prefer not knowing.” He tried to smile. “I do apologize for disturbing your slumber.”

He might not have spoken for all the attention she paid his words.

“But it was so…stimulating.” Lady Felicity’s voice dropped even lower to a throaty whisper. “We were in bed, you and I. Naked. Completely naked. I could see your chest, your muscles…” Her eyes stripped him of coat, waistcoat, shirt, and cravat. “Everything.” She met his eyes, then moistened her lips, licked them, really, before letting them slide into a slow smile. “It was the most wonderful dream I have ever had.” Her eyes focused his mouth. “I don’t suppose you had a similar dream?”

“No. Not at all. Definitely not.” Could he get up now and leave the room? Claim a sudden case of nausea? It would be true. “Perhaps it was something you ate. Sometimes food or drink ingested right before bed can cause nightmares.”

“Nightmares?” She tittered. “Oh, Lord Westbrooke, it wasn’t a nightmare, I assure you.”

For you.
He nodded and prayed for deliverance. It came. Lady Dunlee, his dinner partner on his other side, apparently grew tired of Felicity monopolizing his attention. She tapped him on his arm.

“I haven’t had the opportunity to talk to you, Lord Westbrooke.” Lady Dunlee displayed her usual tight little smile. “I looked for you this afternoon, but I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

Because I was attacking Lizzie in the shrubbery.
Robbie hoped his ears weren’t as red as they felt. “You were looking for me, Lady Dunlee?”

“Of course. My dear daughter, Lady Caroline, missed you dreadfully these last weeks. I understand you traveled to your Scottish estate?”