The Naked Earl. Sally MacKenzie

not wed the man. Taking Westbrooke off the marriage mart might even send Lady Elizabeth into a permanent decline—and that would hurt Alvord.

      Three years ago when Alvord had chosen an American interloper as his duchess, Charlotte had been livid. She’d been determined to marry a duke, and the only marriageable one available after Alvord wed had been Hartford—eighty-year-old Hartford. As she was walking up the aisle at St. George’s to meet her decrepit bridegroom, she’d sworn to make Alvord pay. Now, perhaps, he would.

      She waited for the thrill she always experienced at the thought of finally getting her revenge. It didn’t come.

      She felt nothing.

      She jerked on the bureau drawer, pulling it open more forcefully than she’d intended. She caught it before it came out entirely and dumped her belongings onto the floor.

      What was the matter with her? She took out her small silver flask and closed the drawer carefully. It was the house party. That was it. She’d been feeling on edge ever since she’d arrived. She should have known being around Tynweith would do this to her.

      She uncorked her flask and breathed in the pungent scent of brandy.

      No, the truth was, she had more pressing concerns on her mind than revenge.

      Hartford was failing. He needed an heir. Time was running out.

      An all-too-familiar knot formed in her stomach.

      “Discretion wasn’t part of the plan.” Felicity flung herself into a chair by the fire. “I was supposed to be discovered in bed with Westbrooke. Who knew he’d take to the window?”

      “You might have guessed. He’s made an art of avoiding parson’s mousetrap. He’s made an art of avoiding you.” Charlotte raised her flask to her lips, then paused. “Care for brandy?”

      “No.”

      “Suit yourself.” She took a long drink. The liquid was comforting, as always. She closed her eyes, savoring the warmth that spread through her chest.

      If she didn’t need Lord Peter’s services so badly, she would have stayed in London.

      “You’d better go easy on the drink. You’ll be passed out before your paramour arrives.”

      “I’ll be fine.” She wished she could pass out, but Lord Peter would probably prefer a sentient partner. Not that her alertness would make any difference, if her experience with Hartford was a guide.

      She sat on the chaise across from Felicity. “I wonder what Lady Elizabeth thought when Westbrooke appeared naked in her room.”

      Felicity snorted. “I’m surprised Miss Prunes and Prisms didn’t scream loud enough to wake deaf old Mr. Maxwell in London. She is such a prude.”

      “I thought she was, too, but now I’m not so certain. She was as cool as ice when everyone was crowded round her, your hand on the bed curtains ready to open them wide. She never flinched. I would not have guessed there was a naked man in her bed.” Charlotte took another sip of brandy. “Are you sure Westbrooke was there?”

      “Yes, I’m sure. There was nowhere else he could be. Lord Peter followed him. He saw him go in that window.”

      “Hmm.” Charlotte shook her head. “I just can’t picture Lady Elizabeth greeting a naked Lord Westbrooke. Of course, her brother always acted very proper, and you know what everyone said about him.”

      “That he was a regular satyr.” Felicity’s mouth slid into a sly smile. “He seems content enough now to stay home with his wife.”

      “She’s breeding again, you know.” The anxious knot twisted in Charlotte’s stomach again. She took a deep breath.

      Lord Peter would solve her problem.

      “I’d heard. That’s why Lady Beatrice is acting as Lady Elizabeth’s chaperone this Season—that and the fact Knightsdale’s sister-in-law has finally been dragged to Town.” Felicity picked up a miniature from an end table and studied it. “This looks like you.”

      Damn. She should have put that picture in a drawer.

      “It is me.”

      “Do you make a habit of taking your picture with you? I would have thought your glass would suffice.”

      “It’s not mine.”

      She watched Felicity’s eyes widen, then quickly narrow. Charlotte bit her tongue. She should have lied.

      “What do you mean, it’s not yours? How did it get here?”

      She shrugged. “Our host has an odd sense of humor.”

      Felicity’s nose twitched like a hound scenting a fox. “But why does he have a miniature of you?”

      “I have no idea. Perhaps you should ask him.”

      “Hmm.” Felicity put the picture back on the table and picked up the porcelain shepherdess standing next to it. “Perhaps you should have chosen him to come to your bed.”

      “Oh, no. Lord Peter suits my purposes far better.” Lord Peter was more than a decade younger than Tynweith, and more importantly, his family was known to produce males. He should give her a son. A daughter would not do.

      “Are you going to tell him what your purposes are?”

      “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Charlotte could not imagine that conversation. “Probably not. There is no need for him to know.”

      “You’re going to make him think you lust after his body when all you want is his seed?”

      “I don’t mean to make him think anything. Thinking is not required for the procedure.”

      Felicity laughed. “No, I suppose not.”

      “I am offering him some free sport—why should he complain?”

      “True. And Hartford? Will you tell him?”

      “Definitely not.”

      “Won’t he be suspicious?”

      “I don’t see why. Most babes look the same—and I can’t imagine he’ll survive the child’s infancy.” God, she hoped he didn’t. She hadn’t thought he’d live this long. “If he does, Lord Peter’s coloring is much like mine. He’ll just think his little sprig resembles mama.”

      “Well, yes, but if a man doesn’t plow the field, he can’t plant a seed, can he?”

      “That is not a problem.”

      “You mean he still…?” Felicity’s eyes widened and her mouth twisted up in a look of disgust.

      “Yes, he still does.” Every Thursday evening—except the last two Thursdays. He’d tried, but he had not been able to rise to the occasion.

      Her stomach clenched. She sipped some more brandy.

      If she were able to get with child during this house party, Hartford should not suspect a thing. He had been able to accomplish the deed three Thursdays ago. Her courses were not terribly regular. She could be increasing now for all she knew.

      “I just thought…well a bit of younger seed may help the plant grow faster.”

      Felicity grinned. “At least the planting will be more enjoyable.”

      “Perhaps.” Charlotte doubted it. The act of coupling was uncomfortable, messy, and embarrassing by its very nature. How could substituting the male change that? “I do hope Lord Peter will not want to make too much of a production of the thing. You told me he wouldn’t.”

      “He won’t. Peter has a reputation for being quick.” Felicity laughed. “Very quick. A good man for a tryst at a ball. He can get the job done easily while sitting out a set—or even between sets if need be.”

      “Lovely.” Charlotte