The Naked Earl Read online

  Tonight. She wrapped her arms around her waist. She would be with him tonight. He would come to her as soon as the house had settled. She shivered in anticipation. Her body remembered the feel of his hands so clearly. She bit her lip to keep from moaning.

  Could they steal a kiss…or more…this afternoon? Surely all the ladies would retire to rest until dinner. The men could entertain themselves. They would expect Edward to have estate business to attend to. They would expect him to spend time in his study.

  She could meet him there. They could couple on the rug in front of the hearth or in his large, leather chair with the footstool. Or they could push his papers aside and mate in the middle of his broad desk.

  Shocking. She could never have conceived of such things twenty-four hours ago. If she had heard even whispers of such activities, she would have been horrified. Now…

  It was amazing what a difference a few hours could make.

  Now she could picture Edward’s body in detail. His shoulders, his chest, the dark hair curling down over his belly. And the rest of him—his thighs, his buttocks, his lovely thick…Mmm.

  Her breasts knew the feel of his mouth now—her nipples tightened with the memory. Her lips throbbed for his—and her nether lips swelled and throbbed, too. The dampness he’d promised her was back. She wanted—no, needed—him to fill her. Now. She could not wait. There must be a shadowy corner somewhere in these ruins. They had half an hour. The way she felt, it would take only half a second. She certainly could not wait until tonight.

  “Hallo! Tynweith!”

  Dear God! It couldn’t be. He was in London. He wasn’t expected—should not travel….

  Life could not be that cruel.

  She turned to look at the castle entrance.

  Her husband, the Duke of Hartford, had arrived.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Do you suppose I might see the battlements, Mrs. Larson? I had hoped to visit them yesterday when Meg and I walked over, but I couldn’t manage to open the door.”

  What Lizzie really wanted to do was talk to Robbie, but she had missed her chance. Lady Dunlee had been too quick. Robbie had barely gotten to his feet before the woman had trapped him into escorting her daughter.

  Perhaps it was just as well. Now was probably not the time to discuss their future. Surely once Robbie knew she was willing to forgo children to wed him, he would propose.

  Mrs. Larson smiled. “Certainly, Lady Elizabeth. You must see it—the view is quite striking. Do you know what the problem was with the door?”

  “I think it was merely stuck. Unfortunately I didn’t have the strength to force it, and there wasn’t room on the step for Meg and me to push together.”

  “Then we shall definitely need the assistance of a strong male. Sir George, may I prevail upon you?”

  “I would be delighted to lend my strength to the endeavor.”

  “As would I, if I may,” Lord Andrew said, coming to stand next to Lizzie. He was just a shade too close—not close enough to cause comment, but close enough to make her feel crowded. She edged away. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him smile slightly. He knew exactly what he was doing.

  Lizzie hoped Mrs. Larson would decline his offer, but she was already thanking him.

  “Splendid, Lord Andrew. And Miss Peterson, Mr. Parker-Roth, would you care to join us as well?”

  “Thank you, no.” Meg grinned. “Lizzie dragged me up those stairs yesterday. If I only have half an hour left here, I would much rather examine the flora growing on the castle grounds. I was studying some very interesting plants before luncheon—I’d like to go back to them.”

  “Mr. Parker-Roth?”

  “I confess to having a greater interest in the view at ground level as well. I’ll accompany Miss Peterson if I may.”

  “Ah, but is Parks interested in viewing the vegetation or the virgin?” Lord Andrew murmured.

  Lizzie looked at Mrs. Larson. She gave no sign of having heard Lord Andrew’s outrageous comment.

  Shouldshe take the man to task? She glanced at his profile. He turned and lifted an eyebrow. His face was expressionless, but his eyes taunted her. He was daring her to make a scene.

  She would not accommodate him.

  “Very well,” Mrs. Larson was saying. “The house party is not over for a few more days, so if you change your minds, I’m certain another outing can be arranged.”

  Meg and Parks left to examine the foliage. Mrs. Larson took Sir George’s arm. Lord Andrew offered his to Lizzie—she ignored it. She stepped closer to Mrs. Larson. The wind whipped her skirts around her ankles.

  Lady Felicity was already disappearing into the tower. Surely she was not going to view the battlements as well?

  “Hallo! Tynweith!”

  “Oh dear.” Mrs. Larson stopped. They all stared at the castle entrance. A short, elderly man leaned on a burly footman’s arm.

  “It looks as if the Duke of Hartford has arrived,” Mrs. Larson said. “If you’ll excuse me?”

  Mrs. Larson hurried over to greet the duke. Lord Tynweith was already there. Lizzie glanced at Charlotte. She was standing perfectly still in the freshly mowed grass, staring at her husband.

  “There’s my lovely duchess.” Hartford’s voice was still loud, but it had a wobbly note Lizzie hadn’t heard before. “Missed our Thursday night appointment, didn’t I?”

  Charlotte started walking slowly toward the duke. Her back was perfectly straight, her head high. Her expression was remote, but pleasant.

  “Good afternoon, your grace.” Her voice was calm. She held out her hand.

  Hartford grabbed her around the waist, yanked her to him, and planted a loud kiss on her mouth.

  She disentangled herself gently. Her cheeks were only slightly flushed.

  “God, don’t you love ’em when they act so cool, Tynweith?”

  Lord Tynweith did not answer. Mrs. Larson put a hand on his shoulder.

  “I’ll send a servant to the house to have a room made up for you, your grace,” she said.

  “Don’t bother. I’ll just share the duchess’s room.” He laughed and winked, squeezing Charlotte’s waist so she lurched in his hold. “And her bed, of course. Still need an heir, you know.”

  Tynweith’s body jerked but he didn’t speak.

  “Yes, well…” Mrs. Larson smiled weakly.

  “I believe I should see if I can be of help.” Sir George left without a backward glance.

  “Got my carriage here, of course,” Hartford was saying. “I’ll take my duchess along now and get to work. No time like the present, heh?” He took Charlotte’s arm. “Come along, my dear. The sight of your cool little body is making me feel like a regular satyr.” He laughed again. “Believe I’ll see how well sprung the carriage really is.”

  The duchess smiled slightly and murmured her good-byes.

  “The poor woman.” Lizzie had never thought to feel compassion for Charlotte, but she did now. To be married to that oaf—it didn’t bear thinking of. “Hartford may be a duke, but he is first and foremost an idiot.”

  “Now, Lady Elizabeth, don’t be so harsh. His grace was so overjoyed to be reunited with the object of his affections, he was overcome by feelings of connubial bliss.”

  Lizzie snorted. “Affection, Lord Andrew? I don’t think so. Lust, more like.”

  “Well, lust is a pleasant feeling. I hope I’m as lusty as Hartford when I’ve more than four score years in my dish.” He offered his arm again. “Shall we continue to the battlements?”

  “Perhaps now that the duke has left, Mrs. Larson and Sir George would like to accompany us.”

  “I think they have other matters to command their attention.”

  Lord Andrew was correct. Mrs. Larson had pulled Lord Tynweith aside and was speaking to him very intently, while Sir George escorted Lady Dunlee and Lady Beatrice out of earshot. Lady Dunlee was almost bent backward, trying to hear her host and hostess’s conversation.

  Tynweith’s face mirrored the
storm clouds beginning to gather above them.

  Lizzie chewed on her lip. Should she go with Lord Andrew? She didn’t like the man, but she had been looking forward to taking in the view from the battlements. There was something so exhilarating about being up high, especially on a stormy day, the clouds rushing in, the wind whipping at her face. She loved to go up to Alvord’s battlements on days like this. She felt free there, as if all the restraints, all the rules and responsibilities, all her worries were blown away.

  She especially needed that feeling now.

  But did she want to put up with Lord Andrew’s unpleasant company to get it?

  “Well, Lady Elizabeth?”

  Discretion was the better part of valor.

  “Perhaps I will view the battlements on a nicer day when Meg and Mr. Parker-Roth return.”

  “Perhaps you are a pudding-heart.”

  “Lord Andrew!”

  “Come, Lady Elizabeth, surely you are not afraid to be in my company for—what—fifteen minutes? What do you think I can accomplish in so short a time?”

  “Well…” Put that way, her hesitancy did seem ridiculous.

  “We have already determined it is a fine day for battlements going. You know Miss Peterson and Mr. Parker-Roth have no interest in ever climbing those stairs. Westbrooke is not available to act as your watchdog. You will have to stand on your own two feet—or slink away like a good little girl to hide behind propriety.”

  “I…”

  “I don’t bite, Lady Elizabeth.”

  “I didn’t think you did, Lord Andrew.”

  “Then be brave—be daring—and walk sedately up the castle steps with me to take in the view of the surrounding countryside.”

  Daring. She had decided to be daring this Season, hadn’t she? And really, what could happen? It was the middle of the day in the middle of a picnic. She looked up at the clouds. The storm would be here shortly. Lord Andrew would not risk soaking his expensive Weston coat and waistcoat to engage in any questionable activities. It was not as if she were a debutante or attending her first house party. Thiswas her fourth Season.

  Really, as Lord Andrew had said, what could happen in fifteen minutes? She should not let her imagination run away with her.

  “Very well, my lord. I expect you to be on your best behavior, however.”

  “Of course, Lady Elizabeth.”

  The slow, slightly leering smile he gave her was not reassuring.

  This dungeon was perfect.

  Lady Felicity hummed as she lit the candles. She wanted to be certain all the spectators could see every detail of this particular play.

  It was a good thing she had hidden away most of her supplies. Who would have thought Lady Elizabeth and Miss Peterson would go exploring? And that the men would take it into their heads to tour the dungeon?

  Felicity giggled. And who would have thought staid Mr. Dodsworth was a devotee of the switch? It made sense, when one thought about it. Tess, the girl at the inn whom Dodsworth favored, had told her she had to shout “Go, Dobbin” each time she hit Dodsworth’s lily white arse.

  How lucky she’d discovered that old history of the castle in Tynweith’s library. Without it, she’d never have been able to come up with this plan. When she’d mentioned it, Andrew had told her of the thriving business the local lightskirts had. Why he hadn’t thought to mention such an interesting fact immediately was beyond her understanding. She shrugged. He was a typical male. His little brain was taken up with basic urges. It took a woman to devise a truly inspired plot.

  She spread her collection on the table. She had a short hunting whip, a longer whip with a frayed leather lash, and bound bundles of birch twigs of assorted lengths. The girls at the inn had lent her their cat-o’-nine-tails, a particular favorite, they’d said, with men who liked to play military games. They’d also given her a few more exotic implements—a scold’s bridle, spiked collars, and an iron device that looked like thumb screws.

  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 theton. 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 theton.

  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 theton, 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?”