The Naked Earl. Sally MacKenzie

      “Yes, my lady.”

      “I see. Then let me rephrase my question yet again.” Lady Beatrice bit off each word. “How many mornings has Lady Elizabeth greeted the day hunched over that, that receptacle?” She gestured at the chamber pot. “This type of malady usually manifests itself in the morning, does it not?”

      “My lady!” Betty drew in a sharp breath. “I don’t know what ye mean.”

      Lizzie didn’t know either, but she wished Lady Bea would take her riddles elsewhere—along with the increasingly offensive chamber pot. She looked hopefully at Betty. For some reason her maid’s cheeks were bright red.

      “So your mistress has not been shooting the cat regularly before breakfast?”

      “Of course not, my lady.”

      “There’s no ‘of course’ about it. I sincerely doubt Lord Westbrooke is a eunuch.”

      “What?” Lizzie sat up abruptly, causing the contents of the chamber pot to slosh dangerously. Robbie a eunuch? She didn’t completely understand the specifics but—the image of Robbie as he had appeared the night before flashed into her mind. No sultan would put such a man in charge of his harem.

      Betty’s face had turned a dark purple, rivaling the puce in Lady Bea’s gown.

      “Ye can’t mean—”

      “I most certainly can. Surely the rumors flying through this house party have reached your ears—wherever those ears were resting last night.”

      An uncomfortable silence greeted this statement. Lizzie squeezed her eyes shut. Lady Bea could not be suggesting…

      Her stomach twisted again. Sarah had been queasy in the mornings with her pregnancies.

      The room started to spin. Someone—Meg?—took the chamber pot from her hands and pushed her head down between her knees.

      Surely she could not be with child? There must be more to the process than merely touching hands or the entire female populace would be increasing. True, Robbie had not been wearing gloves….

      A slightly hysterical giggle bubbled up in her chest. No, he had not been wearing gloves.

      “Lizzie!” Lizzie cringed as Meg’s voice hissed in her ear. “What have you been up to?”

      Lizzie grunted. Perhaps if she closed her eyes and kept them closed, everyone would go away. She buried her face in her hands for good measure. This was a dream, that was it. A bad, bad dream. She would wake up in a few moments, shudder, and get on with her day.

      “Don’t think you can hide from me.” Meg’s voice was still buzzing in her ear like an annoying insect. “I mean to find out exactly what happened in here last night.”

      “Mmphft.”

      Meg laughed. “And don’t think you can hide from Lady Bea, either. She looks very determined.”

      She sounded very determined also.

      “You may go, Betty, but I shall have more to say to you later. And take that disgusting chamber pot away—far away—and dispose of it.”

      “Yes, my lady.”

      Lizzie kept her face in her hands. She heard Betty leave the room. There was a long pause. She began to wonder if the gods had smiled on her and she’d been left to suffer in solitude. Well, not complete solitude. Meg had not left her place on the bed next to her. But perhaps Lady Bea had departed?

      She lifted her head cautiously. No. Lady Beatrice was still there, scowling at her.

      “Would you like to explain what exactly is going on, Lady Elizabeth?”

      Oh dear. She felt as if she were fourteen, being called on the carpet by her brother for some infraction.

      No, that was ridiculous. She was twenty years old, a woman grown. This was her fourth Season. A lady of her age and experience did not need a chaperone, and certainly should not be cowering in fear of a dressing-down. Lady Bea was more of a companion really, an older woman to satisfy society’s strict notions of propriety.

      Lizzie straightened her spine, took a sustaining breath, and looked Lady Bea in the eye.

      Her stomach clenched immediately. She dropped her gaze to stare at her hands.

      “Uh. I think…I believe…I’m just not accustomed to…”

      “I should hope you are not accustomed to such activities, miss. I can’t imagine what your brother will say. The least you could have done was gotten Westbrooke’s betrothal ring on your finger before you got his—”

      “Lady Beatrice, I believe you are laboring under a misapprehension.”

      “Oh? And what would that misapprehension be? Are you prepared to tell me that Lord Westbrooke has nothing to do with your current malaise?”

      “Yes. Definitely. It is all my own doing.” Lizzie cleared her throat. “Last night, well, I believe I had one glass of ratafia too many.”

      “Hmph.”

      Lady Beatrice stared at her, most directly at her stomach. Lizzie placed her hands over that area and tried to breathe slowly.

      “You are positive your current indisposition has nothing to do with a certain lord?”

      “Yes!” Lizzie took another deep breath and struggled to recover her composure. “Yes, indeed. Most assuredly. Lord Westbrooke’s presence—”

      Meg made a very unusual noise, something between a squeak and a whoop. Lizzie and Lady Bea both turned to stare at her. Meg grinned back at them.

      “So Robbie was actually in your room last night, Lizzie? I had heard the rumors, but I hadn’t believed them. How splendid! Not that I’m really surprised, though I would have thought he’d have chosen a more conventional setting for his proposal. When is the wedding?”

      “Uh.”

      “Yes, miss, when is the wedding?” Lady Bea frowned so that her brows met over her nose. “While it is fortunate that Lord Westbrooke apparently restrained his animal urges, the fact remains that he was here in your bedchamber.”

      Lizzie studied her fingernails. “Robbie did not propose.”

      “What?” Meg’s voice squeaked with indignation. “What do you mean, he didn’t propose? He must have proposed! You’ve loved him forever. And he loves you. How could he not have asked you to be his countess? Why else would he have sought you out in your room?”

      Lizzie blinked at Meg. Robbie loved her? Where had Meg gotten that notion? Lizzie had hoped—prayed—for years that he did—that he would—but when she was being completely honest with herself, she had to admit he didn’t treat her much differently than her brother did. Meg must be confusing that brotherly sentiment with the kind of love Lizzie wanted—romantic love. Kisses-and-wedding love.

      “He didn’t seek me out, exactly. His being here was more of an accident.”

      “An accident? How could Robbie have come to your room by accident?” Meg scowled. “Surely he wasn’t looking for some other lady’s room?”

      Lady Bea snorted. “Fleeing more like—and from his own room. It is too bad Lord Needham won’t rein in his daughter, but then that would require him to drag himself out of his brothels and gambling dens, wouldn’t it? Lady Felicity is far from the dirtiest dish in the Brookton cupboard.”

      Lizzie nodded. She reminded herself of that fact whenever she wanted to strangle the other girl. The Earl of Needham was a large pill for any prospective suitor to swallow. True, the earl’s vast wealth had to make marriage to his daughter more palatable, but the embarrassment of having a father-in-law in trade—and such a trade—had made many a man choke on his proposal. It didn’t help that Felicity refused to consider any matrimonial applicants below