Sally MacKenzie Bundle (16 page)

An odd, intense light flickered in his eyes. She reached up to touch his lips, to trace their outline. He kissed her fingers.

She held her breath. She didn’t want to startle him, to wake him from this fragile, seductive web she was trying to spin.
Come closer. Kiss me like you did in the garden.

His head dipped toward her.

Closer.
She tilted her face up, waiting….

His mouth brushed lightly over her eyes.

“Mmm.” She wanted to grab his head and hold it still, but she kept her hands flat on his chest and waited. He kissed her cheekbone, her eyebrow, her jaw.

Her lips felt swollen, throbbing. She needed to feel his mouth on them. She was ready to beg, but she stayed still.
Patience.
If she pressed him, she knew he would wake to the impropriety of their activity. He would push her away, rant at her, drag her back to Lady Beatrice.

She did not want to leave the conservatory until he was well and truly addicted.

His hands were moving. Down to her hips, over her seat, feeling her outline. More than her lips throbbed now. She felt hot and damp between her legs; her breasts ached; her nipples tightened. Still she stood quietly, letting him explore at his own pace.

His hands slid up her sides, over her back, to her neck. They cradled her jaw again.

She opened her mouth slightly, touching the tip of her tongue to her aching lips.

“Are you still warm?” His voice was a rough whisper.

“Yes.” She whispered back. “Can’t you feel me? I am very, very hot.” She let her hands wander over his chest. He did not draw away. She slid them around to his back, down to his hips, watching his face. The odd light in his eyes glowed brighter. She stroked his buttocks and felt his muscles move under her fingers.

She felt a hard ridge against her belly, too, but she was careful not to rub against it. Poor man. He was swollen again. She did not want to hurt him. At least he did not act as if he were in pain. She smiled up at him.

“I’m getting hotter. And you? Are you feeling slightly warm?”

He grunted. Words appeared to have deserted him. No matter. His tongue was exceedingly eloquent without uttering a syllable. It swept through her mouth, stroking and teasing, filling her and then withdrawing.

Her knees melted, and she sagged against him. She hoped she didn’t hurt his swollen part, but she couldn’t help herself. He didn’t flinch—that was good. She tilted her head back farther, resting against his chest, and opened her mouth wide to his invasion.

He shifted her so her front was no longer pressed against his body. One arm supported her, cradling her against his chest, while his free hand slid from her jaw, over her throat, to the neck of her dress. It hovered there, just grazing her bodice, teasing her. She arched her back, thrusting her breasts higher. Her nipples ached.

“Impatient, love?” The words whispered over her cheek.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Please. I need…”

“This?” His fingers slipped under the fabric.

She wanted to cry with relief. She was very glad she had not bothered with a fichu.

“Yes. Oh, yes.”

His hand cupped her breast, lifted it, stroked it. Then his finger circled her nipple—around and around without touching the aching center. His mouth left hers and moved to her forehead.

She was panting. Moaning.

“Please.”

He chuckled. “Please what?”

“Please…touch…”

He did. He rolled the hard little nub between his thumb and forefinger.

“Oh!”

She was going mad. The ache between her legs was unbearable. She was hot and wet and…empty. She needed something, but she didn’t know what.

Did Robbie know? Could he give it to her?

“Robbie.” She tried to press herself against him, but he would not let her move. “Robbie, please.”

“
Are
you feverish, love? Now you do feel hot, very hot. I think I might be able to help.”

He bent his head and licked her nipple. Lud, it felt so good. And then he took her into his mouth and sucked.

“Robbie!” She twisted her hips. Why Robbie’s mouth on her breast would make the emptiness between her legs throb was a mystery, but it did.

“Robbie…”

“Shh, love.” He slid his hand down and cupped her ache through her skirts. “Is this what you need?”

“Yes.” She closed her eyes. His touch felt wonderful, but…She arched her back, pressing against his hand. She needed something more, something just beyond her grasp. “Robbie, I…you…please.”

His fingers moved, found the center of her need, and she shattered.

“Robbie!”

He captured her wail in his mouth.

Robbie had never seen a more beautiful sight. Lizzie was limp in his arms, her cheeks flushed, her eyes dazed. He held her close, stroking her hair, and grinned.

God, he felt wonderful.

He had never brought a woman to satisfaction before.

He wanted to do it again. He wanted to feel Lizzie’s passion again, see her overcome with need, hear her moan with desire and gasp her release. He wanted to carry her up to his room, strip off her clothes, kiss every inch of her beautiful body, and then slide his length deep inside her.

It would be heaven.

Could he do it? Perhaps. He felt he could. If only there was a soft bed nearby. It was too far to go to his room. He would never last. He looked around. The ground was covered with sharp stones and dead leaves. There was no space here. Where else? The bench by the door was too hard. Too exposed. What if Tynweith came back? He knew they were here. He might check to see what was taking them so long. Or Felicity. She might find her way into the conservatory.

God, what if she walked in on them? What if she found him between Lizzie’s white thighs, just as MacDuff had….

Anxiety spiraled through him. His breath got short, his palms grew damp, his stomach roiled—and a very important part of him shrank. He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against Lizzie’s hair. Damn it to hell. He was small and limp. Useless.

He swallowed, squeezing his eyes tightly together, clenching his jaw. He sniffed. Bloody hell. He would not cry. He had not cried for years, not since he’d realized his problem was not an aberration but a curse. He’d gotten used to the situation, God damn it.

It had never bothered him so much.

It should be different with Lizzie. He cared for her. He
loved
her.

Damn, damn, damn.

Anger made his voice sharp.

“Your gown is indecent.”

“What?” Lizzie blinked up at him.

“Your gown. Look at it.” He held her away from him. “Your breasts are exposed.”

Her lovely white breasts glowed in the subdued light of the conservatory like rare flowers. Lizzie flushed and struggled to pull her bodice back up where it belonged.

“They were adequately covered before you got your hands on them.” Her cheeks grew redder. She ducked her head and stepped away from him. “That is, I mean my dress was—is—perfectly acceptable. Definitely within the bounds of propriety.”

“Ha!”

She stopped fussing with her clothing and glared at him.

“Don’t take that tone with me, Lord Westbrooke. My gown is less revealing than most.”

He didn’t care about most gowns—he cared about this gown. He cared about these breasts and who might be looking at them.

“I saw Tynweith staring down your dress all through dinner.”

“You did not! You were too busy flirting with Lady Felicity to notice anything.”

“Don’t be a ninnyhammer. And it was hard not to notice our host. He was just about drooling. It was quite the spectacle.”

Lizzie exhaled a short breath. Her brows met above her nose, a deep furrow between them.

“You are a mutton-headed, jingle-brained nodcock.” She finished with her bodice and tried to put her hair back in order. Somehow it had become severely disarranged.

“That is hardly helping. You look thoroughly compromised.”

That earned him another hard look.

“Perhaps because I
am
thoroughly compromised. And I assume you are still not proposing?”

It was his turn to flush.

“Lizzie…”

“Lizzie what? Lizzie, would you make me the happiest of men and give me your hand in marriage?”

She paused, hands on hips, one brow raised.

“Uh, Lizzie…”

“No, of course not. It’s Lizzie, thank you for the entertaining interlude. We will have to do it again the next time we find ourselves in some isolated flora.” She poked him in the chest. “Well, don’t count on it, Lord Westbrooke. I am finished frolicking with you in the foliage.”

He heard the pain in her voice. He had never wanted to hurt her. He caught her hand, wrapped it in his.

“Lizzie…” He sighed. What could he say?

Her expression softened. “Is it that you prefer men, Robbie? Is that the problem?”

“God, no!” He dropped her hand as if it were a hot stone, stepping back so quickly he almost slipped on a loose pebble. She couldn’t think—no, it was too revolting. He wanted to cast up his accounts right there on the nearest potted plant. Not that he was surprised she knew of such things—her cousin had had some very odd proclivities—but that she could imagine
he
felt that way—

God, he
would
be sick.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed to tell me, Robbie. I’ll keep your confidence. I just would like to know—”

“Lizzie.” He couldn’t bear to hear her say more. “No. Believe me, I am most certainly not attracted to men.”

“I would not think less of you if you were.”

“Well, I am not. Definitely. Without a doubt. Not the slightest. Wherever did you get such a notion?”

“Lord Tynweith suggested it as a possibility.” She shrugged. “It made sense. I’ve never seen your name linked with a lady’s in any of the London gossip columns, nor have I heard any rumors of a mistress.”

“My God!” He hadn’t considered this. If Tynweith thought it possible, how many others of the
ton
also wondered? Collins had mentioned it as well. Was everyone speculating, watching him? “You were discussing this with Tynweith? Are you mad?”

“No. I just…” She looked down at her hands. He could barely hear her, she spoke so softly. “I guess I only hoped….” She paused, then looked back up, though her eyes only went as high as his chin. “So it is just that you are not attracted to
me
.”

“No!” He hated hearing her voice waver with suppressed tears, hated the way her eyes shied away from his. “Surely our recent activities—and what happened in Tynweith’s garden—prove I
am
attracted to you.” He rubbed his forehead. How could he make her believe him? He could not tell her the truth. “It’s just…complicated.”

“So, explain. I have no pressing engagements—ha! Definitely no engagement.” She sniffed, bit her lip, then frowned, crossing her arms under her breasts. “I think I merit an explanation, don’t you?”

“Yes.” She did deserve that. He had taken shocking advantage of her. It was wrong. He had to stop.

But he didn’t want to stop. He never wanted to stop. How could he give her up now that he had tasted her passion?

He had to find a way. It was the only honorable course. She needed a real man, a man who could love her properly, who could fill her and give her children. She would not be happy with less. Even if she thought she wanted him, she would soon realize her mistake. She would become frustrated and bitter. He could not bear that.

“I’m waiting.”

Perhaps he could explain without telling her everything.

“The problem, Lizzie, is that I can’t marry anyone.”

“What do you mean, you can’t marry anyone? You don’t have a secret wife somewhere do you, like Prinny’s Mrs. Fitzherbert?”

“Of course not.”

“Then I fail to see the problem. You
have
to marry. You’re the earl. You have to produce an heir.”

“No, I don’t. I have an heir—my cousin.”

“Robbie, Sarah is your only cousin.”

“My only first cousin, but not my only cousin. You’ve forgotten Theobald.”

Lizzie gaped at him, then snorted. “That idiot? It’s whispered his wet nurse dropped him on his head. Surely you don’t mean to turn over your estates to him?”

The thought did not make him happy, but there was no alternative.

“He’s not that bad.”

“Well, no, perhaps not
that
bad, but certainly bad enough. Did you know he is obsessed with snuff boxes? He has eight thousand, five hundred and forty-three in his London lodgings, and he would be delighted to show you each one.”

Robbie chuckled. He would never have thought he’d find anything amusing in this conversation, but the image of Lizzie listening to Theobald hold forth about his snuff boxes was humorous. “Surely you have not taken the tour?”

“Of course not. It would be completely improper for an unmarried lady to visit a gentleman’s lodgings. He told me about them at one of Easthaven’s balls.
All
about them. I was actually happy to be rescued by Simple Symington, if you can believe it. It was the first time I was ever happy to see the fat old fop.”

“Perhaps Theobald’s son will be better.”

“He’ll never have a son. Any woman foolish enough to marry him would die of boredom before she ever made it to her marriage bed. The butler would find her stiff among the snuff boxes, while Theobold, oblivious, described box one thousand four hundred and seventy-two.”

Robbie smiled. “I see you do not care for my cousin.”

“No one does, Robbie. You know it. You cannot leave the continuation of the Hamilton line to him.”

“I haven’t any choice, Lizzie. What I’ve been trying to tell you is that I can’t marry—I have no need to marry—because I cannot beget children.”

Lady Felicity stood in the shadows behind a bank of potted trees, watching Lord Westbrooke and Lady Elizabeth leave the conservatory. Westbrooke’s waistcoat was unbuttoned; the neck of Lady Elizabeth’s dress was crooked and her hair was falling down her back. They had obviously been doing more than admiring Tynweith’s plants.

They were not behaving as lovers, however. They were barely touching, not looking at each other, not talking.