Sally MacKenzie Bundle by Sally Mackenzie Page A

Robbie slipped his arms into its sleeves. He would put on his society clothes and his society smile and his society charm. He straightened his cuffs and looked in the mirror one last time.
    “You look complete to a shade, my lord.”
    Robbie nodded. Indeed. Lord Westbrooke always looked all that was proper. He forced a smile.
    Lord Westbrooke always had a joke. Lord Westbrooke was always amusing. Lord Westbrooke was the master of inane chatter, of the bon mot.
    Society had no inkling of how miserable the witty Lord Westbrooke really was.
    “You look beautiful, Lizzie,” Meg said. “Doesn’t she look beautiful, Lady Bea?”
    “Are you sure I don’t need a fichu?” Lizzie studied her reflection. Betty had been a bit too zealous in altering this dress. There was a shocking expanse of skin exposed. Her poor little breasts were almost popping out. “Perhaps a shawl?”
    “Pshaw!” Lady Bea examined Lizzie’s chest through her lorgnette. Lizzie clenched her hands to keep them from flying up to cover the area under inspection. “Leave the shawl and other drapery in your room.”
    Lady Bea was not a proponent of excessive modesty. Lizzie eyed the plunging neck of the older woman’s coquelicot dress. At least a large rope of diamonds, emeralds, and rubies covered much of the wrinkled and dimpled flesh. With the bunches of lime green ribbons festooning the red cloth, she looked like a very ripe apple hosting an inchworm soiree.
    Lady Bea winked at Lizzie. “That dress is just the thing to bring Westbrooke to his senses.” She chuckled. “ All his senses.”
    “Um.” Lizzie flushed. After her interlude in the shrubbery, she wanted Lord Westbrooke to keep his offensive senses to himself. “I believe a fichu would be perfect. Betty, could you get my favorite brooch for me?”
    Lady Bea pointed her lorgnette at Lizzie. “Timidity never won any battles, missy, or any husbands.”
    “So you are saying society’s dictate that unmarried women be meek and well behaved is humbug?” Meg asked, grinning.
    “Of course. Most of those asinine rules were conceived by dried up old maids.”
    Lizzie looked at Meg. She appeared to be biting her tongue as hard as Lizzie was. Surely Lady Bea, with over sixty years of unmarried life in her dish, would qualify as an old maid.
    “I still can’t believe that idiot has not yet offered for you, Lizzie. It’s not as if there is anything standing in his way.” Lady Beatrice frowned. “I never thought he was such a cod’s head.”
    “We have a plan to make Lord Westbrooke come up to scratch, Lady Bea,” Meg said. “Lizzie is going to make him jealous. We thought he might need a goad to get him moving toward the altar.”
    “Hmm. Some men respond better to a carrot.”
    “A carrot?” Lizzie asked.
    “A taste of what they will get if they step into parson’s mousetrap.”
    Lizzie flushed. Robbie had already had a large taste of that.
    “A kiss here; a cuddle there. They get a craving for you. An addiction. It takes over their bodies—especially a prominent part of their bodies—and their minds. You become all they can think of. You invade their dreams. Finally, they are willing to do anything to have you—even become a tenant for life.” Lady Bea sighed, then frowned. “Just be certain you get a ring on your finger before you give Westbrooke, or any man, much more than a taste, Lizzie.”
    “My lady, I can’t find the brooch.” Betty had Lizzie’s jewelry case open and a worried look on her face. “When did ye last wear it?”
    “I had it just this afternoon, Betty. Are you sure it isn’t here?”
    “As sure as I can be, my lady. It’s the brooch with yer initials ye’d be wanting? The one Lady Gladys gave ye for yer come out?”
    “Yes, that’s the one. I know I wore it this afternoon.”
    “Could it have come off somewhere? Ye did say the clasp was weak. Ye were going to get if fixed when ye got back to Lunnon.”
    “Yes, but the clasp wasn’t that weak. I