Aunt Beatrice hiccupped. “Nothing inopportune about it, miss. Had a wonderful time—hadn’t seen the twins or Blanche in ages. Liked Lavinia, too. Don’t think the ladies will be feeling too lively in the morning, though. Doubt they’ll be the first of the guests to arrive.”
She reached for the wine bottle. Charles moved it.
“When are your guests arriving, Lady Beatrice?”
“Charles’s guests, miss. That’s the point, don’t you know? Find Charles a wife. Needs to get himself an heir. Don’t want the title to pass to Cousin Aubrey. That idiot would probably scream if he found a woman in his bed.” Aunt Bea leaned closer. “You want to know what I think? I—”
“Aunt Bea! I am quite certain we do not want to know what you think.”
“Well, I’m sure it’s true.” Aunt Bea stabbed a portion of turbot and waved it at Miss Peterson. “You could save us all a significant amount of trouble, miss, if you would just agree to marry Charles now. He’s quite a catch, you know.”
“Aunt!”
“Lady Beatrice!”
Aunt Bea tasted the fish. “Bleah! Terrible.” Her fork clattered on her plate. She leaned close to Emma again and nodded at Charles. “Clean those spectacles of yours, girl, and look at the man. That’s no Cousin Aubrey sitting there. I’m sure he’d make getting an heir quite an experience. Am I right, Charles?”
Charles was afraid his face was as red as Miss Peterson’s.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Miss Peterson said in a strangled voice, getting to her feet, “I really must…I’m feeling a trifle…”
“Hot?” Aunt Bea said to Miss Peterson’s fleeing back. “You should be feeling hot, girl. Think of the shoulders on the man. The legs. The thighs. The—”
“Aunt Bea!”
She stopped and looked at Charles.
“You didn’t have to yell, Charles. Thought you was used to plain talk, but I swear you’re blushing more than Miss Peterson.”
Charles untied his cravat. He had finally poured Aunt Bea into bed—well, he had turned her over to her long-suffering maid to deal with—and had found his own bedchamber.
“That will be all, Henderson. I won’t need you anymore tonight.”
“Very well, my lord.”
He watched the door close behind his valet. He wanted to be alone. Needed to be. Needed to come to grips with…this.
He looked around the room at the dark paintings, the heavy furniture, the huge bed. God. He gripped the bedpost so tightly, the carved ridges dug into his fingers. He shouldn’t be here. This was his father’s room. Paul’s room. It was never, ever supposed to be his room.
Poor Paul, having to move in here when he was only fourteen. Father had died of impatience in an inn yard, screaming at a post boy who’d moved too slowly for his tastes. The innkeeper had been most apologetic, but Charles had understood completely. He’d made avoiding his father’s short temper and sharp tongue a high art. It was one reason he’d roamed the countryside so much.
And he’d been only the second son, hardly worth Father’s notice. Paul had borne the brunt of the marquis’s attention.
But at least Paul had been ready for the title. Well, not ready, perhaps—who could be ready to take over such vast holdings so young? But Paul had been bred to the job—he had known from the cradle he would be the marquis. It was Paul’s fate, Paul’s destiny. Not his.
He stripped off his shirt and flung it across the room.
He remembered that afternoon at White’s as if it were yesterday. He’d been sitting with Robbie, the Earl of Westbrooke. They’d been celebrating their small role in bringing together their friend James, the Duke of Alvord, and his wife, Sarah. Charles had been rolling a mouthful of port on his tongue when the messenger found them.
“Major Charles Draysmith?”
Dread knotted his gut. He knew from the man’s stern, serious face and solemn tone that his life was about to change irreversibly. He swallowed quickly.
“Yes? I am Major Draysmith.”
“I am sorry to inform you, Major, that the Marquis of Knightsdale and the marchioness have had a tragic accident.”
Damn, damn, damn. He flung away from the bed to stare out the window at the dark expanse that was Knightsdale. There was no moon; the clouds were as thick as his feelings.
In that moment, when that damn messenger had told him Paul was dead, he had stopped being himself. His plans, his future, his identity all were stripped from him. He’d become the Marquis of Knightsdale. All that remained were the legal details. The heretofores and thereinafters.
He snapped the curtains closed. He ripped off his stockings, his breeches, his drawers. He would have liked to have ripped off his skin. Escape this room, the title, all the unwanted responsibilities.
He couldn’t. Knightsdale was his duty now—unsought, unwanted, but still his duty. If the army had taught him anything, if the years of mud and blood had imprinted anything on his soul, it was duty. It had become his one constant in the madness of battle, the long marches, the days of hunger, thirst, exhaustion. Duty had carried him through the Peninsula, and it would carry him through here in England, too.
Unbidden, the memory of Claire crept into his thoughts, the sounds of her happy squeals when he had picked her up in the schoolroom, the feel of her baby-soft arms around his neck and her small body, light as feathers, in his hold.
Well, perhaps it was more than duty.
He stretched. And there was Miss Emma Peterson. Bedding her would certainly be more than mere duty. He imagined her stretched out, naked, on his sheets. Yes, she would definitely make this room, this bed, more appealing. He chuckled. At least one unruly part of his anatomy was quite inspired by the thought of her lovely curves.
He climbed into bed, forcing his…mind to ignore its desire to have Miss Peterson present. She might not be quite so delighted to see him.
He should have gone to her immediately after dinner to apologize, but he suspected she would not have been happy to speak to him just then. She’d needed time to regain her composure. Truth to tell, so had he. It was going to be a very interesting house party if Aunt Bea remained so frank. He made a mental note to lock up all the brandy.
He would talk to Emma in the morning, before the guests arrived. She was an intelligent woman. She would see the wisdom in their marriage. It was obvious she cared for Claire and Isabelle. Well, anyone would love Claire—she was a sweet baby. Isabelle, with her serious reserve, was harder to reach, yet she had been sitting close to Emma, leaning into her and whispering in her ear when he had come to the schoolroom earlier.
And their marriage would have benefits for Emma as well. Charles smiled up at the bed canopy. Though Reverend Peterson hadn’t said a word, Charles was certain he and Mrs. Graham would be happy to have Emma out of the vicarage.
She was twenty-six. It was past time for her to have her own home, her own family—and he was more than happy to provide her with those things. More than happy. He would especially enjoy teaching her how delightful an activity family-making could be.
If her response to his kisses this afternoon was any indication, it would be quite an invigorating exercise.
CHAPTER 4
Charles was in the middle of a very satisfying dream. Emma Peterson was in his bed. Her honey-blond hair was spread over his pillow; his hands were spread over her glorious breasts. Her fingers stroked his arm. Hmm. Another part of him was aching for her lovely fingers. She slapped his shoulder, and he paused. He had never played those games before….
“Papa Charles, wake up!”
Charles’s eyes flew open. He was staring into Claire’s face, only inches from his nose.
“Um, Claire.” Charles was very conscious of being stark naked under his sheets. He’d have to make a point of locking his door if the little girl had a habit of sleepwalking. “Is there a reason you are here?”
“’Course, Papa Charles. You have to come quick. There’s a ghost in the nursery.”
“Now, Cla
ire, you’ve probably just had a bad dream. Did you tell Nanny?”
Claire shook her head, sending her curls bouncing around her small face. “She’s screaming too loud.”
Nanny? Calm, no nonsense Nanny? “Why is Nanny screaming?”
Claire rolled her eyes and slapped his shoulder again. “I told you. There’s a ghost. Mama Peterson sent me to get you. Now hurry up, Papa Charles. You need to catch the ghost.”
“Right.”
Claire resorted to tugging on his arm. There was no time to pull on his breeches—nor did it look as if Claire was going to allow him the privacy to do so—so he yanked the sheet off the bed and wrapped it around his body. He grabbed a cravat pin to fasten his makeshift toga as Claire pushed him out the door.
They encountered Aunt Bea in the hall wearing a puce dressing gown with gold tassels, a scarlet nightcap, and a very pained expression. Queen Bess, looking equally annoyed, swished her tail at Aunt Bea’s feet.
“What in God’s name is all this racket? Can’t I be left to die in peace?”
“Apparently no one is resting in peace tonight, Aunt—and if you hadn’t gotten so deep into the brandy bottle, you wouldn’t feel near death now.”
“And I suppose you’ve never been jug bitten?”
“Jug bitten? I’d say you were more than jug bitten.”
Claire tugged on his arm again. “Come on, Papa Charles. The ghost will get away.”
Charles went with Claire. Aunt Bea and Queen Bess followed behind.
“What did Claire call you?”
“Never mind.”
“That’s quite some ensemble you’re wearing.”
Charles grunted. It was difficult to move quickly—his legs kept getting tangled in the sheet. And stairs were impossible.
“How do you ladies manage?” he asked after he’d tripped for the fourth time.
“Better than you, obviously. Oh, get out of the way and let me pass, will you?”
“What if there is a ghost?”
“I’m sure it has been scared away by now. I can hear Nanny caterwauling from here.”
They finally reached the nursery. Miss Peterson—dressed in a long white nightgown with a neck to her chin, Charles noted in disappointment—was trying to calm Nanny. Isabelle stood nearby, holding Prinny.
“I brought Papa Charles, Mama Peterson,” Claire said.
That was the last coherent statement for many minutes.
Nanny looked at Charles and screamed. Queen Bess looked at Prinny and hissed. Prinny looked at Queen Bess and howled.
Aunt Bea took one look at the scene and put her head in her hands. “My God,” she muttered. “Tell me I’m hallucinating. Please.”
Prinny, barking wildly, charged at Queen Bess, who fluffed up to twice her size and tried to climb Charles’s toga. Charles, considering himself a gentleman at all times, grabbed his sheet to keep from parting company with it and tried valiantly to withhold the many phrases that begged to be uttered as her majesty’s sharp claws dug into his skin. He was not completely successful, as he surmised from Claire’s round eyes and indrawn breath.
“Ooh, Mama Peterson, Papa Charles said a bad word.”
Emma dove, capturing Prinny’s hind legs and treating Charles to a glimpse of a well-turned ankle before he heard an ominous ripping and felt fur and air on his own ankles.
“Aunt, come get your blo—blasted cat.”
Aunt Bea uncovered her eyes. “I knew you must have nice legs, Charles. See, Miss Peterson? No need for false calves with those legs.”
Charles couldn’t tell if the heat he was feeling was from mortification or fury. “Madam, corral your animal.”
“Really, Charles, we are not on a battlefield. Well, perhaps we are a bit, but you can lower your voice. You’re scaring her highness.”
“I will do more than scare the f—”
“Charles! Remember, you are a gentleman.”
“—feline if you don’t pick her up now!”
Aunt Bea scooped Queen Bess off the floor and held her next to her face. “There, there, puss. The evil man didn’t mean it.”
“Didn’t I just,” Charles muttered. He took stock—his legs were exposed, scratched and bleeding, but all his essential parts were covered. As were, unfortunately, all of Miss Peterson’s. She was staring at his legs, however.
“Oh, my lord, your poor legs. I’ll just get some warm water to bathe them, shall I?”
The thought of Miss Peterson bathing his legs caused the skirt of his now-short toga to bulge in a remarkable way. He could see Aunt Bea opening her mouth to remark on it.
He turned to Nanny. At least she had the grace not to ogle him.
“Can someone tell me what this is all about? Nanny?”
Nanny wrung her hands. “Oh, my lord, I was never so frightened in all my life. I thought I heard a noise, so I got up to check on the dear lambs and I saw something in the hall. I screamed, and it floated over the floor and vanished right there.” She pointed at a spot near the schoolroom shelves. “I heard its chains creak and rattle, I did.”
“I see.” Since Aunt Bea continued to hold Queen Bess, Miss Peterson had let Prinny free. The dog was sniffing around the spot Nanny had indicated. “So, you saw the ghost vanish just where Prinny is now?”
“My lord?” Nanny looked confused.
“There,” Charles said. “Where Prinny—Miss Peterson’s dog—is.”
“Miss Peterson’s dog? Oh! Excuse me, my lord.” Nanny disappeared into her bedroom and came out a moment later wearing her spectacles. “Ah, that’s better. Aye, I think it was exactly where the dear doggy is now.”
Charles stared at the old woman. “Nanny, why did you scream when I came upstairs?”
“I thought ye were the ghost returned, my lord.” She looked at him closely. “Ye do have a rather odd, um, outfit on, do ye not? Is it a costume? Were ye at a masquerade, then, dressed as one of those Roman gents?”
“No, Nanny.” He glanced at Miss Peterson. She was studying the floor by her feet—her very nice feet, Charles noted—and making odd little choking sounds, but at least she had thought to don her spectacles. “Did you see this apparition as well, Miss Peterson?”
“No”—she tried valiantly to stifle her laughter—“my lord.” She swallowed. “By the time I left my room, it, uh, it had vanished.” She grabbed her sides and bent over, whooping with laughter.
“I am so delighted you find the situation amusing, Miss Peterson.”
Emma waved her hand at him, obviously unable to spare the breath to speak. Tears ran down her cheeks.
“You do look extremely funny, Charles,” Aunt Bea said, “though I believe Miss Peterson’s reaction might be a trifle overdone.”
“Pardon me, Lady B-Beatrice,” Emma said, going off into howls again. Isabelle and Claire were giggling as well.
“Hmm.” Charles surmised that the “ghost” had been a figment of Nanny’s imagination. Still, he could not ignore the fact that even though Miss Peterson and the girls were amused, Nanny was not. She tried to smile, but her eyes and mouth were tense.
“If you ladies feel you can finish out the night up here,” Charles said, “we will find you sleeping accommodations downstairs tomorrow. Would that be acceptable?”
Miss Peterson finally got hold of her emotions. “Certainly, my lord. We will be fine.”
“Aunt, we do have room downstairs, do we not?”
“Yes. It will be a bit crowded—most of the bedchambers will be taken with the house party guests—but I’m certain we can find the space.”
“Splendid. Then I wish you ladies good night.”
Charles picked up the torn end of his sheet, gesturing for Aunt Bea and Queen Bess to precede him down the stairs. As he reached the first turn, he heard Nanny’s voice.
“Mercy, Miss Peterson, but his lordship does have nice legs.”
Emma hung her last gown in the wardrobe. Her ball gown. It was silly to have packed it, and yet…
She never sh
ould have bought the cloth. It had been shockingly self-indulgent. A mad extravagance. That was it. Madness had come over her when she’d seen the blue satin in Mr. Ashford’s store. She’d had to have a length of it. Well, even Meg had liked the color—said it reminded her of the afternoon sky in early autumn. That had been—what?—four years ago.
Emma ran her fingers over the silky fabric, tracing the dress’s narrow bodice, high waist, and straight skirt. Well, perhaps buying the cloth had been understandable, but letting Mrs. Croft, the village mantua-maker, make this dress had been lunacy. What had she been thinking? What had Mrs. Croft been thinking? The dress was much too revealing for a vicar’s daughter, especially one who was firmly on the shelf. The fabric barely covered her breasts and clung like water to everything else. She had been shocked when she had tried it on.
Shocked—and entranced. The woman who’d looked back at her from the mirror had been a stranger, a sophisticated, voluptuous, glorious stranger.
She’d hung the dress at the back of her wardrobe, never to be worn. Looked at, perhaps; dreamed about, definitely; but worn? Never.
Until now. Emma gave the gown one last pat before closing the wardrobe door. She would wear it at the house party ball. It was sadly out of date and would doubtless look quite ordinary among all the London finery certain to be on display, but that could not be helped.
Would she look like the woman she’d seen in the mirror four years ago? No. She would not delude herself. She’d spent four more years on the shelf—she was quite dusty now—and in any event, she was sure she must have embellished the memory. To think that she could be that beautiful…absurd. The woman in the mirror was the sort Charles would admire, the sort who thought nothing of letting men put their tong—Emma flushed and took a deep breath. The sort of woman who knew all about kissing.
She was definitely not that sort of woman.
Sally MacKenzie Bundle Page 68
