style="font-size:15px;"> Two very large, very naked breasts dangled in front of his nose. Damn! He looked up to see to whom they belonged. Lady Felicity Brookton. She gave him an arch look as she drew in her breath to scream.
Bloody hell.
He bolted from the bed and leapt for the window. There was no time for such niceties as breeches or shoes. Once Lady Felicity started her caterwauling, the entire house party would be banging on his door. He’d be securely caught in parson’s mousetrap, condemned to face Lady Felicity at the breakfast table every morning for the rest of his life.
Could there be a more succinct description of hell?
He swung his leg over the sill and dropped down onto the roof of the portico as she emitted her first screech. The sharp surface cut into his bare feet, but the pain was nothing to the panic raging in his chest.
He had to get away.
Thank God he had scrutinized the view from his window when he’d arrived at Tynweith’s house party. He’d made a habit of looking for escape routes since the ladies of the ton had gotten so persistent. If they only knew…. Well, if he was forced to flee naked from his bed perhaps it was time to do something. A discreet rumor judiciously planted should deter most marriage-minded maidens. He glanced back at his window. Or perhaps they would be happy to have his money and title without having to pay for them in his bed.
He shivered as an early spring breeze rushed over the portico. He couldn’t stand here like a nodcock. At any moment one of Tynweith’s guests would respond to Felicity’s screams, look out the window, and wonder what the Earl of Westbrooke was doing standing naked in the night. He snorted. Hell, all of Tynweith’s guests would assume they knew exactly what he had been doing, and he’d be as securely caught as if he’d stayed between his sheets.
It was much too long a distance to the ground to consider jumping. He had not quite reached that point of desperation.
Felicity screeched again. Someone shouted. He scanned the other windows that faced the portico. There, at the end—flickering candlelight showed an open window. He sprinted for it, hoping the room’s occupant was male.
Lady Elizabeth Runyon stood naked in front of her mirror, hands on hips, and frowned at her breasts. She tilted her head, squinting at them through her right eye and then her left. Bah! They were small, puny little lemons next to Lady Felicity’s lush, ripe melons. No corset in England could make them more impressive.
She turned sideways, grabbing the bedpost to steady herself. Perhaps this angle was more complimentary?
No.
A gust of cool air blew in from her open window, sliding over her skin, causing her nipples to tighten. She covered them with her hands, trying to push them back into place.
She had an odd tingly feeling, as if a vibrating harp string ran from her breasts to her…her…
She took her hands off her body as if burned. She should put her nightgown back on and climb into bed. Pull the covers up to her chin, close her eyes, and go to sleep. She would if the room didn’t swirl so unpleasantly when she did so. She grabbed for the bedpost again.
That last glass of ratafia had definitely been a mistake. She wouldn’t have taken it if she hadn’t been so bored. If she had to listen to Mr. Dodsworth drone on about his stables one more time…It was drink or scream. The man hadn’t had an original thought—or any thought that did not involve prime bits of blood—since her come out three years ago.
She leaned against the bedpost. How was she going to survive another Season? Seeing the same people, hearing the same conversation, tittering over the same gossip. It had been exciting when she was seventeen, but now…
Was it possible to die of ennui?
And Meg was no help. Lud! She’d finally persuaded her friend to leave the weeds of Kent for the wonders of London, and Meg turned out to be as big a bore as Dodsworth. Her topic of verbal torture was horticulture. Shrubbery. Damn shrubbery. If Meg had her way, she’d spend every moment in the shrubbery—and not with a gentleman bent on seduction.
Lizzie scowled at the bedpost. She should have poured that last glass of ratafia over Robbie’s head. That would have livened things up. Ha! She pictured the looks of horror that would have adorned the assembled ton if Lady Elizabeth Runyon, sister of the Duke of Alvord, pattern card of respectability, had caused such a scene.
At least she would have gotten Robbie’s attention. She’d wager next quarter’s pin money on that.
She looked at her mirror again. It was very daring standing here naked. She straightened, letting go of the bedpost. Perhaps she should be daring this Season. Wanton, even. Playing by the rules hadn’t gotten her what she wanted—whom she wanted—so she’d break them.
She put her hands back on her breasts. She sighed. The poor little things barely filled her palms—they would be lost in Robbie’s larger hands.
Mmm. She half-closed her eyes, biting her bottom lip. Robbie’s hands. His long fingers, his broad palms. On her skin.
She felt very daring indeed. More than daring—hot. She rubbed her thumbs over her nipples. The harp string started vibrating again. She licked her lips, arching her hips, spreading her legs slightly so the breeze might find and cool her where she most needed cooling.
What would it feel like if Robbie touched her there?
Her hand slid down her body.
“My God!”
A male voice, hoarse and strained. She screamed as her eyes flew open. Robbie’s reflection was staring at her in the mirror. Robbie’s very naked reflection.
She spun to face him, grabbing the bedpost to keep from falling. The room shifted unpleasantly, then righted. She blinked. Yes, Robbie was still there, still naked, standing just inside her window.
She had never seen a naked man before, except in paintings or statues. She stared.
Art did not do reality justice. Not at all.
Then again, perhaps no artist had ever had a model quite as splendid as Robbie.
He looked so different from the civilized London lord she had left downstairs. He was larger. Well, obviously, he could not have grown simply by shedding his clothes, but it certainly seemed as if he had. His neck, freed from yards of muffling cravat and concealing collar, was a study in angles and shadows. And his shoulders…How had they fit into his coat?
She never would have guessed he had hair sprinkled across his chest. Golden red hair dusting down to his flat stomach, then spreading out below his navel around…
Oh, my.
She’d never seen that in any artwork. The…appendage was long and thick and stuck straight out.
How did he hide it in his pantaloons?
Lizzie looked back at Robbie’s face. It was far redder than his hair. Could he be injured? The blacksmith’s thumb had swollen to twice its size when he’d hit it with his hammer. Had Robbie bumped this part of his anatomy climbing in the window?
“Are you in pain?” She glanced at her bed.
