The Naked Earl. Sally MacKenzieЧитать онлайн книгу.
darkened corridor to observe Lord Peter slip out of the Duchess of Hartford’s bedroom.
Hmm. So Charlotte had started to play games, had she?
A flicker of pain flashed in his gut, but he doused it at once.
Lord Peter sauntered down the hall, apparently not caring who saw him. He did glance back when he reached his door. He froze for a moment, then grinned, his teeth flashing white in the dim light, and nodded at Tynweith before he went into his room.
Cocky.
Tynweith eased open his own door. He heard Grantley stirring in his dressing room. He did not relish seeing his sour valet right now, but he’d never get out of this damned coat by himself.
He shrugged. The stiffness in his shoulders was not due just to his coat’s tight fit. He rubbed the line between his brows.
Lord Peter was little more than a boy. He would amuse Charlotte—if he did amuse her—only briefly. She was too canny to take him as a second husband once Hartford cocked up his toes. Short of a gruesome miracle, there was no hope of Lord Peter inheriting. His father, the Marquis of Addington, was barely sixty and still rode to hounds. The heir had six strapping boys and there was a plethora of nephews crowding the country. The Brants were legendary for producing males—the title had never passed out of the direct line.
And Charlotte would have to marry again, unless she was able to produce the next duke. Hartford’s current heir was not inclined to be generous with her. Claxton had been rather vocal at the wedding—Hartford had threatened to horsewhip him if he didn’t stop maligning Charlotte. He’d stopped his public tirades then, but not his private grumbling. No one in the ton, least of all Charlotte, had any doubt as to Claxton’s sentiments.
No, if she were looking for Hartford’s successor, she would not look to Lord Peter. He was merely a diversion.
Tynweith pressed on his temples. He did not want Charlotte to have diversions.
He’d worked hard to block the thought of her in bed with her wizened husband from his mind. Did he also have to expunge the image of Lord Peter’s very unwizened body entwined with hers? The bloody boy was not much more than twenty.
Bah. The whelp was inexperienced. Only a boy—and boys focused only on their own pleasure. He wouldn’t know how to satisfy Charlotte.
Not like Tynweith could.
He ripped off his cravat. Where the hell was Grantley? He wanted to get out of this coat, out of his eveningwear, into his bed.
He snorted. What he really wanted was to get into Charlotte’s bed.
He balled up the cravat and threw it at the dressing room door. The damn cloth opened in flight and fell limply to the floor.
Surely he would have heard if Charlotte were taking lovers. A juicy piece of gossip like that would have had all the old tabbies—and most of the younger ones—in alt. Lord Peter must be her first.
The ache had moved to the back of his head. He’d have Grantley mix up a powder.
Why the hell was he having this bloody house party anyway? He must have been drunk as an Emperor when he’d hatched the notion. He didn’t give a rat’s ass for any of the over bred cod’s heads cluttering his estate.
“My lord.”
“Grantley. Get me out of this damned coat, man.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Another reason to curse his guests. He couldn’t wear his comfortable old coats and baggy breeches with the ton invading his house. A pox on all of them.
Well, not Charlotte. She was the reason he had invited this plague of idiots. She’d been restless. He’d noticed—and had hoped to tempt her to some dalliance.
Damn Lord Peter.
“You heard about the disturbance this evening, my lord?”
“What? Oh, if you mean the confusion in Lady Elizabeth’s room, yes, Flint told me.” Tynweith paid the butler well. One of his duties was to keep his master informed of everything that happened on the estate.
“Her grace came to Lady Elizabeth’s defense.”
“Yes, I heard. Interesting. I would not have thought the duchess harbored any warm feelings for the Duke of Alvord’s sister.”
Grantley twisted his thin lips into a more supercilious smirk than usual. “I believe her grace was assisting Lady Felicity.”
“Oh?”
“The duchess pointed out that if Lord Westbrooke was found in the room, he would be obliged to wed Lady Elizabeth.”
“Ah. And Lady Felicity would prefer that she be the next Lady Westbrooke.”
Grantley nodded. “One of the upstairs maids observed the woman slip into Lord Westbrooke’s room shortly before the incident.” Grantley’s nostrils flared as if they had encountered an unpleasant odor. “The maid believed Lady Felicity had not been invited to share the earl’s bed.”
“I’m certain she had not. Westbrooke’s been studiously avoiding her since her come out.” Grantley pulled off the blasted coat and Tynweith sighed in satisfaction, rolling his shoulders. “Perhaps I should not have lingered in my study. I seem to have missed a very entertaining tableau. Do you suppose Westbrooke was actually cowering in Lady Elizabeth’s bed?”
“Certainly, my lord. Lord Peter followed him and saw him climb in the window.”
“Climb in the window?”
Grantley smoothed the coat’s lapels. “Yes. From the portico roof.” His mouth pursed so tightly it resembled the sphincter of another orifice. “Unclothed.”
“Naked? The Earl of Westbrooke was capering over my portico roof naked?” Tynweith choked on a laugh. He really had missed an interesting series of events.
“It would seem so, my lord. Will you require anything else this evening?”
Charlotte.
Tynweith bit his lip. Surely he hadn’t said that aloud, had he? No, Grantley’s expression had not changed—it was still his habitual, mildly dyspeptic frown.
“No, that will be all.”
Grantley bowed. “Very well. Pleasant dreams, my lord.”
God, the man was annoying. He’d have gotten rid of him years ago if he weren’t so good at what he did.
And he was not going to have pleasant dreams. He was going to have hot, sweaty dreams of Charlotte—Charlotte whom the wags now called the Marble Duchess.
She wasn’t cold. He knew there was passion in her. He sensed it. She just had not yet found the right man to bring it out. He’d bungled the job all those years ago in Easthaven’s garden. He’d been too ardent—and too insignificant. If he’d been a duke, she’d have suffered his touch.
Well, she’d gotten her duke—a randy 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