up and motioned for silence. Then Lucy heard it, too—the sound of booted feet in the corridor outside the room. Over the footfalls came the sound of Henny’s distinctive giggle, and her voice, clear as a bell. “In here, sir. Your pleasure awaits.”
“Damn her eyes! Quick!” Nick jumped to his feet, grabbed Lucy’s wrist, and towed her across the room toward the enormous wardrobe. “In here.”
Lucy balked. She was not about to climb into the dark confines of a wardrobe with a man who sparked such dangerous feelings within her. “But you locked the door,” she protested.
The doorknob rattled. A deeper voice sounded in the hallway. “Step lively, wench. I’ve not got all day. The duchess had to attend to a contretemps in her kitchen, but she will expect me back to dine.”
Lucy gasped. Mr. Whippet! Wellington recognized the impatient masculine voice outside as well and growled again. Understanding dawned, clear as a summer morning. The macabre bedchamber, the drawing room that was being used by a . . . Lucy gulped. By a group of people. The maid, who was no maid at all. And the lecherous Mr. Whippet.
“This is a . . . ”
She looked toward the gardener, who had opened the door of the wardrobe and cleared a space inside, and her spine tingled. “This is a . . . that is, it’s a . . . ”
Nick grinned. “Yes, I know.”
Lucy felt the heat of anger flood her body from head to toe. Was it possible to kill a man while trapped with him inside a large piece of furniture? The scoundrel didn’t appear the least bit embarrassed. A key rattled in the door again, and Lucy found herself caught between the proverbial devil and the deep blue sea. Yet her decision was not a difficult one; better the devil that thought himself a hero than being discovered by Mr. Whippet.
She didn’t protest when Nick hustled her and Wellington into the wardrobe. Nick followed her inside and shut the door, drenching them in blackness as thoroughly as the rain had drenched their clothing. The well-made wardrobe allowed not a sliver of light to penetrate the dark interior. Nick shifted his weight toward her, and the wardrobe, which had looked so enormous from the outside, suddenly grew far too small for Lucy’s comfort. By necessity, they sat side by side, the outside of her leg brushing his, his shoulder rubbing against hers, the smell of damp rising from the rough wool of their wet clothing. A slow ache grew in her midsection. For a moment, Lucy let herself remember what it had felt like in Lady Belmont’s garden when he had trapped her against the wall, his body moving inexorably closer, closer . . .
She heard the door to the bedchamber open, and Henny and Mr. Whippet entered the room. Lucy could hear their voices, slightly muffled, through the walls of the wardrobe.
“Take off your clothes.” Surprisingly, the voice was Henny’s, not Mr. Whippet’s. The instructions were followed by a sharp crack that made Lucy jump. Wellington roused and snuffled, repositioning his head against her shoulder. The gardener gave a muffled laugh, and a second wave of understanding washed over Lucy. Another loud crack sounded, the snap of a whip.
“Now, down on all fours.” From the rich pleasure in her voice, Henny was enjoying herself quite thoroughly. Mr. Whippet protested, but the whip cracked a third time. “Now, slave boy. Bark like a dog.”
Beside Lucy, the gardener shook with silent laughter, and Lucy felt the movement where their bodies pressed together. She suppressed the giggle that rose in her own throat. Nick shook harder, and Lucy gave his leg a pinch.
“Shh.” She kept her voice low, although Mr. Whippet’s antics might have drowned out a small cannon. “We’ll be found out.”
“Ow. Stop pinching me.” He captured her hand in his, and the urge to giggle died in her throat, quenched by the warmth of his fingers as they caught her own. His touch felt familiar and yet strange, like a lover dreamed
“Damn her eyes! Quick!” Nick jumped to his feet, grabbed Lucy’s wrist, and towed her across the room toward the enormous wardrobe. “In here.”
Lucy balked. She was not about to climb into the dark confines of a wardrobe with a man who sparked such dangerous feelings within her. “But you locked the door,” she protested.
The doorknob rattled. A deeper voice sounded in the hallway. “Step lively, wench. I’ve not got all day. The duchess had to attend to a contretemps in her kitchen, but she will expect me back to dine.”
Lucy gasped. Mr. Whippet! Wellington recognized the impatient masculine voice outside as well and growled again. Understanding dawned, clear as a summer morning. The macabre bedchamber, the drawing room that was being used by a . . . Lucy gulped. By a group of people. The maid, who was no maid at all. And the lecherous Mr. Whippet.
“This is a . . . ”
She looked toward the gardener, who had opened the door of the wardrobe and cleared a space inside, and her spine tingled. “This is a . . . that is, it’s a . . . ”
Nick grinned. “Yes, I know.”
Lucy felt the heat of anger flood her body from head to toe. Was it possible to kill a man while trapped with him inside a large piece of furniture? The scoundrel didn’t appear the least bit embarrassed. A key rattled in the door again, and Lucy found herself caught between the proverbial devil and the deep blue sea. Yet her decision was not a difficult one; better the devil that thought himself a hero than being discovered by Mr. Whippet.
She didn’t protest when Nick hustled her and Wellington into the wardrobe. Nick followed her inside and shut the door, drenching them in blackness as thoroughly as the rain had drenched their clothing. The well-made wardrobe allowed not a sliver of light to penetrate the dark interior. Nick shifted his weight toward her, and the wardrobe, which had looked so enormous from the outside, suddenly grew far too small for Lucy’s comfort. By necessity, they sat side by side, the outside of her leg brushing his, his shoulder rubbing against hers, the smell of damp rising from the rough wool of their wet clothing. A slow ache grew in her midsection. For a moment, Lucy let herself remember what it had felt like in Lady Belmont’s garden when he had trapped her against the wall, his body moving inexorably closer, closer . . .
She heard the door to the bedchamber open, and Henny and Mr. Whippet entered the room. Lucy could hear their voices, slightly muffled, through the walls of the wardrobe.
“Take off your clothes.” Surprisingly, the voice was Henny’s, not Mr. Whippet’s. The instructions were followed by a sharp crack that made Lucy jump. Wellington roused and snuffled, repositioning his head against her shoulder. The gardener gave a muffled laugh, and a second wave of understanding washed over Lucy. Another loud crack sounded, the snap of a whip.
“Now, down on all fours.” From the rich pleasure in her voice, Henny was enjoying herself quite thoroughly. Mr. Whippet protested, but the whip cracked a third time. “Now, slave boy. Bark like a dog.”
Beside Lucy, the gardener shook with silent laughter, and Lucy felt the movement where their bodies pressed together. She suppressed the giggle that rose in her own throat. Nick shook harder, and Lucy gave his leg a pinch.
“Shh.” She kept her voice low, although Mr. Whippet’s antics might have drowned out a small cannon. “We’ll be found out.”
“Ow. Stop pinching me.” He captured her hand in his, and the urge to giggle died in her throat, quenched by the warmth of his fingers as they caught her own. His touch felt familiar and yet strange, like a lover dreamed
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