The Naked Earl Read online

  “My lord, I meant no disrespect. Lady Elizabeth is also a young woman who is clearly in love with you. Betty is certain on that point. And you care for her, do you not?”

  “Yes. No.” Robbie wanted to smash something, perhaps Collins’s face. But it wasn’t his valet’s fault that he was defective. “I do care for Lady Elizabeth, but not in that way.”

  Collins just stared at him.

  “Well, not exactly in that way. You don’t understand. The notion is absurd. I cannot wed Lady Elizabeth.”

  “But why is it absurd, my lord? You are almost thirty. You need to produce an heir. Lady Elizabeth would agree in a heartbeat to wed you—Betty says her mistress has turned down other offers, waiting and hoping for yours. There’s no other lady you prefer, is there?”

  “Collins…”

  “And I know—well, at least I think—you do not prefer men, but even if you did, you would need to overcome those feelings to get an heir.”

  “Collins!” Robbie felt as if someone had kicked him in the stomach. “I do not prefer men.”

  “I didn’t think you did.” Collins shifted position, holding Robbie’s coat up almost as a shield. “My lord, I am sorry to be so bold, but I am waiting for your proposal as well. Betty and I would like to marry. If you wed Lady Elizabeth, we will be able to do so easily. If you don’t…well, neither of us wishes to leave our employers, but…. You see the awkwardness of the situation?”

  “Yes, Collins. I do understand. I’ll speak to Lady Elizabeth.”

  “So you will propose?”

  “No. I will discuss your situation with her during the house party. We will find a solution to your problem.”

  “But what aboutyour problem, my lord? Will you find a solution to that as well?”

  Robbie shrugged. His problem had no solution. “Perhaps. Now it is almost time for dinner. Are you going to stand there holding that coat all evening or are you going to help me into it?”

  “Help you into it, of course, my lord.”

  Collins held the coat out and Robbie slipped his arms into its sleeves. He would put on his society clothes and his society smile and his society charm. He straightened his cuffs and looked in the mirror one last time.

  “You look complete to a shade, my lord.”

  Robbie nodded. Indeed. Lord Westbrooke always looked all that was proper. He forced a smile.

  Lord Westbrooke always had a joke. Lord Westbrooke was always amusing. Lord Westbrooke was the master of inane chatter, of the bon mot.

  Society had no inkling of how miserable the witty Lord Westbrooke really was.

  “You look beautiful, Lizzie,” Meg said. “Doesn’t she look beautiful, Lady Bea?”

  “Are you sure I don’t need a fichu?” Lizzie studied her reflection. Betty had been a bit too zealous in altering this dress. There was a shocking expanse of skin exposed. Her poor little breasts were almost popping out. “Perhaps a shawl?”

  “Pshaw!” Lady Bea examined Lizzie’s chest through her lorgnette. Lizzie clenched her hands to keep them from flying up to cover the area under inspection. “Leave the shawl and other drapery in your room.”

  Lady Bea was not a proponent of excessive modesty. Lizzie eyed the plunging neck of the older woman’s coquelicot dress. At least a large rope of diamonds, emeralds, and rubies covered much of the wrinkled and dimpled flesh. With the bunches of lime green ribbons festooning the red cloth, she looked like a very ripe apple hosting an inchworm soiree.

  Lady Bea winked at Lizzie. “That dress is just the thing to bring Westbrooke to his senses.” She chuckled. “Allhis senses.”

  “Um.” Lizzie flushed. After her interlude in the shrubbery, she wanted Lord Westbrooke to keep his offensive senses to himself. “I believe a fichu would be perfect. Betty, could you get my favorite brooch for me?”

  Lady Bea pointed her lorgnette at Lizzie. “Timidity never won any battles, missy, or any husbands.”

  “So you are saying society’s dictate that unmarried women be meek and well behaved is humbug?” Meg asked, grinning.

  “Of course. Most of those asinine rules were conceived by dried up old maids.”

  Lizzie looked at Meg. She appeared to be biting her tongue as hard as Lizzie was. Surely Lady Bea, with over sixty years of unmarried life in her dish, would qualify as an old maid.

  “I still can’t believe that idiot has not yet offered for you, Lizzie. It’s not as if there is anything standing in his way.” Lady Beatrice frowned. “I never thought he was such a cod’s head.”

  “We have a plan to make Lord Westbrooke come up to scratch, Lady Bea,” Meg said. “Lizzie is going to make him jealous. We thought he might need a goad to get him moving toward the altar.”

  “Hmm. Some men respond better to a carrot.”

  “A carrot?” Lizzie asked.

  “A taste of what they will get if they step into parson’s mousetrap.”

  Lizzie flushed. Robbie had already had a large taste of that.

  “A kiss here; a cuddle there. They get a craving for you. An addiction. It takes over their bodies—especially a prominent part of their bodies—and their minds. You become all they can think of. You invade their dreams. Finally, they are willing to do anything to have you—even become a tenant for life.” Lady Bea sighed, then frowned. “Just be certain you get a ring on your finger before you give Westbrooke, or any man, much more than a taste, Lizzie.”

  “My lady, I can’t find the brooch.” Betty had Lizzie’s jewelry case open and a worried look on her face. “When did ye last wear it?”

  “I had it just this afternoon, Betty. Are you sure it isn’t here?”

  “As sure as I can be, my lady. It’s the brooch with yer initials ye’d be wanting? The one Lady Gladys gave ye for yer come out?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. I know I wore it this afternoon.”

  “Could it have come off somewhere? Ye did say the clasp was weak. Ye were going to get if fixed when ye got back to Lunnon.”

  “Yes, but the clasp wasn’tthat weak. I can’t imagine—”

  Lizzie flushed. Maybe she could imagine. There had been a significant rearranging of her dress in the shrubbery. It was possible the brooch had become detached at that point.

  It was too late to go looking for it tonight. It would be safe where it was. No one else would be making use of that odd little bower in that even odder garden.

  “Never mind, Betty. I’ll find it in the morning.”

  “And you don’t need it tonight.” Lady Beatrice headed for the door. “Come on, before all the brandy is gone.”

  “So what exactly happened last night, Westbrooke?”

  “Nothing.” Robbie watched the door to the drawing room. Where was Lizzie? He took a sip of brandy, smiling slightly. He would wager she would avoid the ratafia tonight.

  Lady Felicity hadn’t made an appearance either. He knew not to hope she’d left the house party so soon. Collins had best procure a key from Tynweith’s butler. He wanted the door to his room securely locked before he climbed into bed tonight.

  “Nothing? Then how do you explain the wild story my valet told me this morning? Something about you cavorting naked in Lady Elizabeth’s room. Not quite your style, I would have said.”

  Robbie glanced at his friend Parks—John Parker-Roth. The man kept a straight face, but his damned eyes gleamed behind his spectacles.

  “Why didn’t you come out and gape with the rest of the house party, Parks? Your room is right next door. Didn’t you hear the commotion?”

  “Certainly. And I did poke my head out when I got up to pour more brandy. Didn’t look as though another body was required in the corridor. I had better things to do than gawk and gossip.”

  “Had your nose in some plant book, did you?”

  “Repton’sFragments on the Theory and Practice of Landscape Gardening. Shall I tell you about it?”

  “God, no.”

  Parks laughed. “It’s not too technical. There are quite a few pictures.”
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  “Pictures of shrubbery.” Robbie remembered a certain section of shrubbery and flushed. Parks’s gaze sharpened. The man never missed a thing.

  “Hmm. I wonder what is so embarrassing about shrubbery? Take care or your face will be as red as your hair.”

  “Stubble it, Parks. And my hair is brown.”

  “No,my hair is brown. Yours is red.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake! We’ve had this stupid argument ever since Eton.”

  Parks’s face grew serious. “Yes we have, but you’ve never missed your sense of humor before. What’s wrong, Westbrooke?”

  “Nothing. I’m just not nine years old any longer.”

  “No, you’re almost thirty—two months younger than I, if I recall correctly.Did something happen in Lady Elizabeth’s room last night?”

  “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.

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

  “Thatis 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—herother 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 assembledton ’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 canI 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 bethat 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’sFragments 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—”

  “Itripped. 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—”