old codger. Better Hartford, though, than Alvord. Hartford would not live many more years—perhaps not even many more months.
He climbed into bed and blew out his candle.
When the duke died, Tynweith planned to be the first in line for the duchess’s hand.
Would she have a mere baron this time? He smiled up at his bed canopy. Yes. He meant to have her panting for him.
He was going to get into Charlotte’s bed during this house party, even if he had to drag Lord Peter out.
Chapter Three
“Up early, Westbrooke?”
Damn. Robbie’s appetite fled. He wished he could do likewise.
“I might say the same of you, Lord Peter. I did not think to see you before noon.” He’d hoped not to see anyone. He did not care to make idle conversation. He chose some toast and eggs from the sideboard and took a seat at the table.
Lord Peter grinned. He had obnoxiously white, straight teeth. “You wouldn’t find me up so early in the normal course of things. Usually can’t abide mornings.” He cut a large bite of beefsteak, speared it, and pointed the bloody morsel at Robbie. “I just had an, um, especially stimulating evening, as I’m certain you can understand.” He popped the meat in his mouth and chewed vigorously, waggling his brows in a knowing way at the same time.
God. Robbie stared down at his plate. The eggs looked distinctly unappealing. He broke off a corner of toast instead.
“There is something invigorating about balancing the body’s humors, don’t you agree? Not that I enjoy bloodletting, of course. But other methods of ridding oneself of excessive fluids can be quite enjoyable.”
Robbie grunted. The toast was dry as dust. He poured himself some tea.
Lord Peter took a swig of ale and then leaned close, dropping his voice. “I highly recommend married women, Westbrooke, for adjusting one’s humors. No need to worry about pulling out at the most interesting moment. Much tidier and pleasurable to deposit the fluids inside a female body, don’t you know? And I’m certain it must be better for the female. Calms their nervous agitation.”
“Lord Peter!” Robbie did not consider himself a prude, but he had no desire to hear what the other man had been doing with the Duchess of Hartford. He assumed it was the duchess. The only other married female at the house party was Lady Dunlee. He could not see the young lord mounting Lady Caroline’s mother—and he assumed Lord Dunlee might lodge a strenuous objection to such an attempt.
“I offered to withdraw, of course. Wanted to be a gentleman about it. But the lady insisted I remain throughout the proceedings.”
“Perhaps it would be more gentlemanly not to discuss the experience.”
Lord Peter frowned and straightened. “I’m not one to bruit my conquests about. I thought we could speak man to man. It’s not as though you were languishing alone in your bed last night. Just thought I’d give you some friendly advice for when you’re ready to fish in other streams.”
“What?”
Lord Peter rolled his eyes. “I saw you go in Lady Elizabeth’s window, Westbrooke. I know you were naked in her bed.” He took another swallow of ale. “Damn, I’d never have guessed the girl would behave in such a fashion. I always thought her a pattern card of respectability, and yet, there she was, cool as a cucumber, only inches from having her perfect reputation shredded.” He shook his head, then grinned. “Have you two been trysting for a long time?”
Robbie’s right hand clenched into a fist. Lord Peter’s straight nose begged to be broken. Red blood streaming down over his snowy white cravat would be an interesting contrast in color.
“I am not trysting with Lady Elizabeth.”
“No? What do you call it then? F—”
Lord Peter did not finish his sentence. He was lucky to finish his breath. He might be on the verge of finishing his life.
Robbie twisted his hand again, pulling the man’s cravat even tighter around his throat. Lord Peter’s face turned an attractive shade of purple.
“Lady Elizabeth’s reputation is spotless. She is a wonderful girl, and I will personally kill anyone who says—who hints—otherwise. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
Lord Peter gagged and nodded.
“Excellent. You will not be tempted to forget that, will you?”
Lord Peter shook his head no.
“I’m so glad we understand each other.” Robbie let the man go. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I seem to have lost my appetite. I believe I will go for a stroll.”
He left Lord Peter gasping like a trout in a fisherman’s basket.
“Wake up, slugabed.”
“Uhh.” Lizzie turned on her side and pulled her pillow over her head. Did Meg have to shout? “Go away.”
“I will not. It’s past noon—you should be up and dressed.”
Lizzie heard Meg open the window draperies. Light tried to get past her bed curtains. She burrowed farther into the bedding.
“What happened in here last night?”
“Nothing. Go away.”
“There were too many people clustered around your door for ‘nothing.’ I think I was the only member of the house party not milling around in my nightclothes in the corridor. The noise woke me from a very pleasant dream.”
“I’m so sorry.” Lizzie moved the pillow away from her mouth far enough to be heard distinctly. “Now go away!”
“Not until you tell me everything that happened.”
Meg had always been a stubborn busybody.
“Nothing happened.” Lizzie’s head started to throb. “Not that you care. I could have been murdered in my bed.”
“You will be murdered in your bed if you don’t tell me everything. When you said the ton lived on gossip, I didn’t realize you intended to feed them their main course.” Meg threw open the bed curtains and yanked the pillow away.
“Ohh.” Sunlight pierced Lizzie’s head like shards of glass. She covered her eyes with her arm.
“And here comes Betty with your morning chocolate—even though it’s no longer morning. Perhaps it will help you feel more the thing.”
The thick, overly sweet scent enveloped Lizzie.
“Meg.” She swallowed. She scrambled into a sitting position. Her mouth was watering, but not in a pleasant sense. “I think I’m going to be…”
Meg took one look at her and dove for the chamber pot, shoving it into her hands seconds before the previous night’s turbot a la Anglaise made an unfortunate reappearance.
