Sally MacKenzie Bundle (9 page)

“I really do not need a chaperone.”

“Hmm. An adequate chaperone would have kept you from your encounter with Robbie in the bushes. Be certain to stay out of Tynweith’s gardens.”

“Of course.”

Meg nodded. “Right. Then at the same time you are frustrating Robbie by keeping your distance, you must convince him you are in danger of contracting another alliance. He must expect that anyway after his recent behavior. You most certainly do not want to give him the impression you are pining for him.”

“All right.” That was going to be difficult, since she
was
pining for him. “In whom am I supposed to be interested?”

“Whoever would most annoy Robbie. Unfortunately, you do not have a wide selection at this house party.” Meg grinned. “How about Mr. Dodsworth?”

“Mr. Dodsworth! Have you spoken to Mr. Dodsworth?”

“Well, no. It is rather difficult to squeeze a word into the man’s equine monologues. I have listened to him, however.”

“Really?”

Meg’s grin widened. “For a few moments. I have become adept at appearing fascinated by a gentleman’s conversation while thinking of something else entirely. It’s all in the gaze. If you fix your eyes on the man and nod occasionally, he thinks you are hanging on his every word. I’ll be happy to teach you the trick. It’s what got me through many an interminable dinner party.”

“Well, Robbie would never believe I was interested in Mr. Dodsworth.”

Meg laughed. “True. Perhaps Lord Peter? He is quite the Adonis.”

Lizzie wrinkled her nose. “And he knows it. No, he is much too beautiful for my tastes.”

“Then how about our host, Lord Tynweith?”

“Too old. He must have close to forty years in his dish.” Lizzie was not enthusiastic about approaching any of the men at the house party—well, she was not enthusiastic about approaching any man other than Robbie. She must get over her reluctance. “Perhaps Mr. Parker-Roth would do.”

“Who is Mr. Parker-Roth?”

“One of Robbie’s friends. He’s here—he just arrived late.”

“Well, if he is Robbie’s friend, he will not do at all.”

“He won’t? Why not? He may not have a title, but his family is old and wealthy.”

“That’s not the problem. If Mr. Parker-Roth is a friend, Robbie will either feel he is a good match for you and step aside, or he’ll know the man would never steal a woman he wanted and not feel threatened. We want Robbie worried. We want to provoke him to action.”

Lizzie contemplated the action she would most like Robbie provoked to. She straightened her spine and forced herself to contemplate Meg’s plan instead.

“I’ll try.”

“Splendid.” Meg stood and smoothed her skirt. “You should begin immediately. It is time to get ready for dinner. Choose one of your more revealing gowns.”

Dinner? Lizzie hugged herself tightly. “I don’t believe…” How could she sit down to the same table with Robbie? “I have a slight headache. I think I’ll have a tray sent up to my room.”

Meg glowered at her. “You can’t hide in your room, Lizzie. Lady Dunlee, Lady Felicity, the duchess—they will all remark on your absence.”

“Let them.” The thought of seeing Robbie again made Lizzie’s stomach heave. She would not be able to swallow a morsel.

“Absolutely not. They are dying for the opportunity to gossip about you. You cannot allow them that pleasure. You must act as if nothing out of the ordinary has occurred.”

The thought of facing those harpies further unsettled her stomach.

“I’m not certain I can.”

“Of course you can. You have to. I will be there to lend you my support and Lady Bea”—Meg paused, and then shrugged—“Lady Bea will be there also. We can only hope she has not imbibed too much brandy.”

“I shall certainly avoid the ratafia.”

“I would hope so.” Meg headed for the door. “Remember, choose one of your most revealing gowns.”

“Meg…”

“No, Lizzie. Stiffen your spine. Think of it as a game, if you must. Or a punishment. It sounds to me as if Robbie deserves a little suffering after his behavior in the bushes.”

“Well, yes.” Robbie should definitely not have behaved as he had. He’d probably not given it a thought after she left him—at least once his face had stopped stinging.

“I believe the azure blue silk would be just the thing—and perhaps I will have Betty make an strategic adjustment or two.”

Chapter Five

“She’s in the garden, my lord.” Flint cleared his throat. “The
special
garden.”

“Ah. Thank you, Flint. And she’s alone?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Splendid.”

Baron Tynweith strolled down the broad gravel walk, past the knot garden and the parterres. The trees and bushes were neatly trimmed into spheres, cones, and pyramids. He had been told his garden was too symmetrical, too unnatural. Too French. He didn’t care. It pleased him. He enjoyed the feeling of order—of control, perhaps—that the straight lines and sharp angles gave him.

He passed under an arch of honeysuckle and ivy and into the topiary gardens. He ignored the plantings on the right. They were his father’s and grandfather’s. He had left them unchanged. Amazing, really. He had been so angry when he had inherited, it was a wonder he had not taken the entire estate to hell.

He turned to the left, walked between two high hedges, and entered the special garden.

He cringed now to look at it. What had he been thinking?

He knew what he’d been thinking. The moment the last shovel of dirt had hit the coffin of his carping, overbearing, perfectionist father, he’d set out to insure the dead man never stopped spinning in his grave. The topiary garden was an obvious target. For the last ten years of his life, the old bastard had spent every waking moment supervising the gardeners, making certain they trimmed the fanciful shapes—the horses and dogs and women—exactly as he wanted.

Tynweith grimaced, looking at an especially fanciful arrangement of a dog, a horse, and a woman. He suspected Jacks, his head gardener, also harbored some anger toward his father. He’d been quite delighted, after he’d recovered from the shock, to fashion this twisted mirror garden.

He found Charlotte observing a leafy tableau featuring two women and a snake.

“Admiring the foliage, Duchess?”

She gasped and spun around to face him.

Damn, she made his blood quicken. She’d been a debutante when he’d first met her. It had been his first Season as baron, his first Season free of his father. He had been wild.

He’d seen her the moment he’d walked into Easthaven’s ballroom. She’d been standing by the door to the garden, next to her beak-nosed mother, staring out at the crowded room, not talking to anyone. She’d looked so small, so blond, so self-possessed. So cold. The wags had dubbed her the Marble Queen before she’d risen from her first curtsy.

He’d wanted her.

He’d gotten Lady Easthaven to make the introductions. The Duchess of Rothingham had wrinkled her nose at a mere baron approaching her daughter—well, it was also possible she had heard of his rapidly deteriorating reputation—and would have denied him a dance if she could have. But Charlotte had said yes before her mother could say no.

He still didn’t know why she’d agreed. She had hardly spoken to him. Hardly touched him. Yet he could hardly keep from dragging her out into the darkened garden.

He’d seen an exotic mix of fear and passion behind her controlled façade. It fascinated him. Drew him. He told himself that she presented a challenge, and he could no more turn down a challenge than he could stop breathing.

He had managed to get her into the garden, but he had shown little finesse. Well, no finesse. He had jumped her like the animal he was and she had slapped him soundly.

She was eyeing him nervously now. “I’m looking for Lady Felicity.”

“Hmm. An odd place to look. I thought I’d made the point of mentioning this part of the gardens is not suitable for the fairer sex.”

Charlotte flushed slightly. “I took a wrong turn.”

“Well, since you are here, may I show you around? Unless, of course, your maiden sensibilities will be offended.”

“I am not a maiden, my lord.”

“No, you aren’t, are you? Then I need not send for the hartshorn.”

She stared back at him, her cold society face firmly in place. The corners of her mouth twitched up briefly in her bored half smile. “I have my vinaigrette handy.”

“Ah, that is a relief. Then I don’t need to mind my manners, either.”

A flicker of alarm lit her eyes as he placed her hand on his arm.

“I understand you saved one of my guests from certain ruin. Quite kind of you to exert yourself.”

Charlotte covered her mouth with one gloved hand as she yawned delicately. “It was nothing.”

“Still, I thought you hated Lady Elizabeth.”

“My lord, hatred is by far too exhausting an emotion.”

“Really? I’m delighted to hear it. I feared you hated me, also.”

That got her to glance at him. She would have removed her hand from his arm, but he would not release her. She shrugged.

“I am here, am I not? I could easily have declined your invitation to this house party had I harbored a strong aversion to your company.”

“I had wondered why you accepted.” He steered her past one of Jacks’s more inspired creations involving a naked woman and a ram with remarkable horns—and other startling endowments. Charlotte paused, her attention caught.

“I do think my gardener has a special talent, don’t you? Warped, perhaps, but still, remarkable.”

“Um.” Charlotte stared at the figures. Her small pink tongue darted out to wet her lips.

So, she liked it, did she? Interesting. He had always suspected she had untapped depths.

“Actually, my dear, I believe you accepted my invitation so you could have a little fun while your husband was elsewhere.” He stroked her fingers. “While the cat’s away, you know.”

She tried to snatch her hand back. He kept it on his arm.

“I assure you, Lord Tynweith, ‘a little fun’ was not my intention.”

“No? I saw Lord Peter leaving your room last night—very late last night.”

Charlotte shrugged. “I do not believe you’ll tattle to Hartford.”

“No, you’re right. I won’t tell your husband.” He turned his attention back to the shrubbery. “I can’t imagine Lord Peter could entertain you for more than an evening. Frankly, I can’t imagine the boy could entertain you at all.”

Charlotte was studying the leafy woman’s bound hands. “Entertainment is not important, my lord.” Her eyes flicked over at him, then fastened on the shrubbery again. “As I’m certain you realize, I do not find such activities entertaining at all. Necessary, but not entertaining.”

“Necessary?”

“Of course. It is the only method I know of to become pregnant. My husband needs an heir.”

“Ah, so you plan to present him with a cuckoo.” He steered her toward more foliage in flagrante delicto.

“Believe me, Lord Tynweith, my husband is diligent on his own behalf. Any child may well be his. I’m just looking for some insurance. The men in Lord Peter’s family are prolific. They also, without exception, manage to produce males.”

Tynweith guided Charlotte between two closely spaced hedges. The tour could wait. He had more pressing business to attend to.

“Where are we?” Charlotte frowned. “There is nothing to see in here.”

Tynweith rubbed her shoulders. “Let me help you, Charlotte.”

“My lord!”

“Shh.” He laid his finger gently over her lips. “I believe that a woman greatly increases her chances of conceiving if she enjoys the coupling process.”

“Well, I shall just have to hope that your belief is in error.”

“Charlotte, Charlotte.” He bent to whisper in her ear. “Do you not see that there is another possibility?”

She moved her head away from his mouth, but did not try to break his hold.

“What do you mean? What other possibility?”

He moved his lips over her forehead, barely touching her skin.

“You only need to find the right man, sweetings. The man who will make your heart quicken.” He brushed his mouth over the sensitive spot just behind her ear and smiled when he heard her indrawn breath. “The man who will make your breasts swell and your nipples harden to tiny pebbles.” He ran his fingers over her bodice. “The man who can make you hot and wet and ready. Who can prepare your field so when he plows it and sows his seed, the plant will take root and flourish.” His mouth hovered over hers. She did not pull back. Her cheeks were nicely flushed.

“I don’t know what you are speaking of,” she whispered.

“I know you don’t. Let me show you. Let me come to your bed tonight.”

“Lord Peter—”

“Send him away. Tell him you are indisposed. He is a boy, Charlotte. He cannot satisfy you.”

“I—”

He rubbed his thumbs over her jaw. “Did he make you pant with need, love, so that you begged him to take you? Were you so desperate to feel him inside you that you were weeping, here”—he touched her eyes—“and here.” He ran his hand down the front of her dress to the top of her legs.

She was panting now. He smiled.

“And when he finally took pity on you and came into you, did he give you what you wanted? Did he tease you and stroke you there until your body shattered and clenched around him? Or did he climb into your bed, spread your legs, and ram into you, finding his own release, but leaving you…”

“Bored.” She whispered. “Relieved he was done.”

“I would never bore you, Charlotte.”

“You were rough in Easthaven’s garden.”

“That was seven years ago. I was an idiot. Ignorant. I knew only hunger. I hadn’t learned patience.” He touched his mouth to hers. “And you were just a virgin.”

She still didn’t know how to kiss. Her lips were motionless beneath his. He licked them.

“We can have so much more fun now,” he murmured and then let his tongue find its way into her sweet, wet mouth.

She stood quietly in the circle of his arms, her hands against his waistcoat, not pushing him away, but not pulling him closer. Patience, he reminded himself. She doesn’t know the passion inside her yet. Waken it slowly.

He ran his hands over her soft bottom and then released her.