What if the candle had not been unattended?
He pulled on his breeches. He had looked at this problem from every angle, and he always came up with the same answer. Someone had been in Emma’s room. There was no other way that candle could have been knocked over yet not have sent the room up in flames. It would have taken only minutes for the blaze to spread from the bed to the rug to the curtains. He had seen fires consume houses that quickly on the Peninsula.
This particular fire had not been burning more than a few seconds.
God! When he had been standing in the corridor lusting after Emma’s body, someone had been in her room. On the other side of the door. Someone had heard them and left, knocking the candle over in his, or her, haste.
How had the intruder left? The room had only one door—and he had been standing in front of it with Emma.
Charles ran his hands through his hair. More important, what would have happened to Emma if he hadn’t kept her late downstairs? If she had been asleep in her bed?
He took a deep breath, pulling his shirt over his head. There were too many questions. Who, what, how. But at least he had Emma near at hand now. If she cried out, he would be at her side in an instant.
He scratched on the connecting door. “Emma?”
No answer.
He debated for about five seconds before he cracked the door open. The room was in shadows. He padded quietly over to the bed. Emma was there, her hair a tangle of curls spread over her pillow, her blanket pulled up to her chin. She was smiling, as if she were in the midst of a pleasant dream. He hated to wake her, but the fish would not be biting later and his guests, unfortunately, would be.
Should he kiss her awake? No, they would never get to the stream if he did that.
“Emma.” He picked up one of her curls and tickled her nose with it.
She grumbled and turned over.
“Emma, sweetheart, time to get up.” He gently shook her shoulder.
“Wha—” Her eyes opened. “Ack.” She pulled the blanket over her head.
He pulled it back down to her chin. “Remember, sleepyhead, we’re taking Isabelle and Claire fishing this morning.”
“It’s so early. And you shouldn’t be in my room.”
“I know it’s early, but it’s getting late if we want to catch any fish. You need to get up. Get dressed and get the girls. I’ll fetch the fishing gear and meet you by the summer house, all right?”
Emma grunted.
“If I leave you, will you fall back to sleep?” He grinned. “Should I pull the covers off you and tickle your feet?”
“No, no.” She frowned up at him. “I’m awake. Go away.”
“You’re certain? If you leave me standing outside in the morning chill, I’ll bring a big bucket of lake water up here and dump it all over you.”
“I’m certain. Now go away.”
Emma felt Charles’s deep chuckle in the pit of her stomach. Well, perhaps not her stomach—she felt certain this odd hunger had nothing to do with eating. It had everything to do with Charles. She had no doubt he could satisfy the gnawing in her…gut, if she would let him.
She waited to crawl out of bed till she heard his door latch. What was she going to do? She had awakened more than once during the night, her sheets twisted into knots, her body aching in embarrassing places, her skin burning. She craved Charles’s touch. She wanted to go back to the conservatory to do everything they had done over again. And then do more.
Was this lust? She’d thought only men were susceptible to that malady, but it seemed Charles had managed to infect her. She snorted. Charles had assured Mr. Stockley that she was safe from his animal instincts, but perhaps it was Charles who was in danger.
And being here, in the marchioness’s room, didn’t help. It was a lovely, spacious room with a lovely, spacious bed and a lovely connecting door that did not lock. She could walk in on Charles any time she pleased.
Enough. She went to the washstand and splashed water on her face. The cold felt good on her heated skin. She would get dressed and get the girls up. Prinny would want a walk. She need not fear there would be any repeat of last night’s activities this morning. The girls would be adequate chaperones. And she would keep strict control of her animal instincts.
She put on her oldest dress and pulled her hair ruthlessly back off her face, stabbing pins into it to fashion a bun. A colorless pelisse and the bonnet she had been considering giving Miss Russell for her garden scarecrow completed her ensemble.
She stepped into the corridor and headed for the girls’ room. She would simply refuse to think of Charles—Lord Knightsdale—as anything other than a temporary employer. She would definitely not allow herself to consider a more permanent position in his household. He did not love her. He was only interested in expediency—in her he would have a governess and a breeding female whom he could easily plant on his estate and forget about for most of the year. Well, she might be twenty-six years old, an ape-leader, but she was not desperate. Nor was she interested in a title. She would let the London girls climb over one another to grab the grand marquis’s attention.
Perhaps she would see how Mr. Stockley kissed.
“Papa Charles, I’ve never been fishing before!”
Emma smiled as Claire ran up to Charles. He grinned down at the little girl, and Emma felt her own heart wrench. Claire wanted a father so badly—not just someone to call Father, but a man who would choose to be part of her life. Would Charles do that?
Not if he planned to live in London, only coming to the country to sow his seed.
Emma flushed at the odd feelings that thought awoke in her. She didn’t know exactly how children were begotten, but she was fairly confident the procedure was closely related to the activities she had experienced in the conservatory.
Prinny lunged to greet Charles and almost dislocated Emma’s shoulder.
“Do you need to keep him on a lead?” Charles asked.
“If I want to see him again, I do. Once he’s expended some of his energy, I can let him off, but if I do so now, he’ll be after a squirrel and we’ll never see him again.”
“Well, let me take him for you. Here, girls, would you carry your fishing poles so I can help Miss Peterson with Prinny?”
“Of course, Uncle Charles.”
“Yes, yes, Papa Charles. I’ve never held a fishing pole before.”
“Well, here you are, then.” Charles distributed the poles and took Prinny’s lead, shifting the basket for their catch to his left hand. “You know, Miss Peterson and I used to go fishing when we were children. I was a little older than you, Isabelle, and Miss Peterson was six the first time we went to this particular fishing hole.”
Claire skipped along next to him. “Really? Did you catch any fish, Papa Charles?”
“I did, but Miss Peterson just caught cold.” He laughed. “She fell in, and I had to pull her out.”
“I believe I was pushed in, my lord.”
“Well, we never did settle that, did we? Robbie insists you tripped.”
“With some help from his foot!”
They walked into the woods, following a narrow dirt path. The air was cooler here and damp. A wren warbled in the high branches. Emma breathed in the sharp, clean scent of pine and the softer smell of old leaves. She heard the stream burbling over the rocks up ahead.
She had spent so many hours of her childhood in these woods, tagging along after the man who was now laughing at something Claire had said. Even Isabelle had drawn close to him.
Charles Draysmith had been only a second son, had carried only a courtesy title—one he had never used, to her knowledge—but he had more charm in his little finger than his father and brother combined. People loved Charles—farm workers, shopkeepers, the village children. Little Emma Peterson.
He had let her be Maid Marian when they played Robin Hood. Or Guinevere, ignored by the Knights of the Round Table, true, but still a part of the game. The Duke of Alvord and the Earl of Westbrooke—then the Marquis
of Walthingham and Viscount Manders—had tolerated her, but only because Charles did. Mostly they acted as if she were invisible, except when Robbie chose to squabble with her. Charles had stopped more than one of their arguments and had fished her out of the stream the time she’d “tripped” over Robbie’s foot.
“Here’s a good spot, wouldn’t you say, Lady Claire?” Charles put down the basket. Claire ran to the edge of the water.
“I don’t see any fish, Papa Charles.”
“Of course not! Fish are wily creatures. They don’t want to be caught, you know.”
“Because then they’ll be breakfast!” Claire clapped her hands and hop-skipped on her toes. “Can we eat fish for breakfast?”
“Perhaps—if we catch any.”
Prinny spotted a squirrel and started yapping madly.
“And if this dog doesn’t scare them all away. Miss Peterson, can you take charge of Prinny while I get the girls settled?”
Emma pulled Prinny a short distance away. He barked for a minute in protest and then found something interesting to smell by the base of a birch.
“Would you like me to bait your line for you, Isabelle?”
“Yes, please, Uncle Charles.”
Claire leaned against Charles, watching him work on Isabelle’s fishing line.
“Eww.” She wrinkled her nose. “A worm.”
“Want a closer look?” Charles quickly brought the wiggling creature up to Claire’s face. She squealed and danced back, giggling.
“No, Papa Charles. Worms are slimy.”
“So you don’t want to bait your own line? I’ll show you how.”
“You can show me, Uncle Charles,” Isabelle said. “I’m not a baby.”
“I’m not a baby, either.” Claire put her small fists on her hips and stuck out her tongue at her sister. “Show me, Papa Charles.”
“Lady Claire, a little more deportment, if you please!” Charles said, a note of laughter in his voice. “Whatever has your governess been teaching you?”
“Don’t blame Miss Peterson, Uncle Charles,” Isabelle said. “It is not her fault if Claire is bad.”
“I’m not bad.” Claire’s bottom lip trembled. “Mama Peterson, I’m not bad, am I? Mother used to say I was, but I’m not.”
Emma dropped Prinny’s lead and came over to hug the little girl. “Of course you aren’t, sweetheart. And I’m sure your mother didn’t mean you were, either. Sometimes adults just get a little snappish.”
“No, Miss Peterson.” Isabelle looked seriously back into Emma’s eyes. “Mother…well, she said…she wanted a boy, you see, so she wouldn’t have to have any more babies.”
Claire nodded. “If she’d had a boy, she’d have done her duty.”
“Papa needed an heir, Miss Peterson, and Claire and I can’t be an heir.”
Emma met Charles’s eyes over Claire’s head. He looked as stricken as she felt.
“Well, I’m your papa now, Isabelle,” he said. “And I like you exactly as you are.” He took Claire’s chin in his fingers, leaning next to Emma to look the little girl in the eye. “And you are not bad, Lady Claire. Of course not. But you must still learn to behave. Can you imagine what people would say if Miss Peterson stuck her tongue out at my aunt?”
Claire giggled. “Mama Peterson would never do that!”
“Exactly. So you must learn not to either, at least when you need your formal manners. But I only meant to tease you before—you don’t need fancy manners when you go fishing, do you?”
“No?” Claire’s eyes were huge in her small face.
“No. The fish don’t care. But no tantrums, mind! The fish don’t like tantrums—too noisy. You’d scare them all away.”
“No tantrums,” Claire agreed.
Charles dropped his hand and looked at Isabelle. “I think I had offered to show you two young ladies how to bait a fishing line before we got off on all this boring talk of manners.”
Isabelle smiled. “Yes, P—Uncle Charles.”
“You can call me Papa Charles if you want to, Isabelle.”
“No. No, thank you. I’m nine.”
“And I’m thirty, goose. Nine is not very old—certainly not too old to still want a papa.” Charles held out his hand. “It could be our secret.”
Isabelle put her hand in Charles’s, but she shook her head. “Show me how to bait the line, Uncle Charles.”
“And me,” Claire said, pushing closer. “Show me, too.” She glanced at Emma. “And what about Mama Peterson, Papa Charles? Are you going to teach her how to put the slimy worm on the hook?”
“Oh, I taught Miss Peterson years ago, when she was just a little older than you, Lady Claire.”
“Indeed,” Emma said, smiling. “And he is a very good teacher.”
“Are you going to fish, too, Miss Peterson?”
“No, Isabelle. I think I’ll go keep Prinny company.”
“Wait a moment and I’ll spread the blanket out for you.”
“That’s all right, my lord. I can do it.”
Emma took the blanket out of the basket and retreated to the birch tree. Prinny had expended enough energy that he was content to lie in the shade. She sat on the blanket and watched Charles with the children.
He would make a wonderful father, if he were only willing to stay at Knightsdale.
“Now don’t get your lines tangled up, girls,” he said. “I’m going to go sit with Miss Peterson and let you fish by yourselves.”
“All right, Papa Charles. We’ll catch lots of fish for breakfast.”
“Don’t catch so many I can’t fit them in the basket.”
“We’ll try not to.” Claire smiled and turned to stare at the water, as if she could will the fish onto her hook.
Charles took off his coat and sat down next to Emma. He looked at the girls.
“I guess my brother and his wife were not the best parents.”
Emma sighed. “I don’t know they were any different from most of the ton, but their daughters surely wanted more of them.”
“More might have been worse. God, I can’t believe Cecilia told the girls she wanted a son so she wouldn’t be required to have more children.”
“We don’t really know she said that, my lord. Children often misunderstand. They hear pieces and put the pieces together in a way that makes sense to them, but they have a very limited knowledge of the world.”
Not that Emma believed for a minute Cecilia hadn’t told the girls precisely what Isabelle had said. The woman had been exceedingly vain and self-centered. Completely insensitive.
Charles shrugged. “Whatever Cecilia said or didn’t say, it’s clear the girls need parents now.”
“Yes.” Emma hesitated. It wasn’t really her place, but she felt compelled to speak up. Surely now he would understand the need for him to stay at Knightsdale. “When you marry, my lord—”
“You mean when I marry you, Emma.” He turned and looked at her. “The girls like you. They—” He frowned. “Where did you get that hideous bonnet?”
So, he was just now noticing how she looked, was he? Such an attentive suitor.
“It’s not hideous. It’s a perfectly satisfactory bonnet, especially for an early morning fishing expedition.”
“Only if you intend to use it to catch the fish. It might make a satisfactory net—well, bucket. You should get rid of it. In fact, I’ll be happy to dispose of it for you.” He reached for her bonnet strings. Emma put her hands over them and leaned away.
“You most certainly will not. Keep your hands to yourself, Lord Knightsdale.”
A distinctly wicked gleam appeared in his eyes. “But I did so enjoy not keeping them to myself last night.”
“Behave yourself, sir!”
“Must—”
“Papa Charles, Papa Charles, I catched a—”
The rest of the sentence was lost in a loud splash.
“Uncle Charles,” Isabelle shouted, “Claire has fallen into the water and she can’t swim.”
Emma lurched to her feet, but Charles was far faster than she. He was in the stream with Claire in his arms before Emma had untangled her skirts.
“Claire, sweetheart,” he said, “it’s the fish that come out of the water, not little girls that go in.”
Claire sputtered and coughed. “The fish got away, Papa Charles.”
“Well, you’ll catch another one, another day. And I will teach you—and Isabelle—to swim. Would you like that?”
“Yes!”
Emma finally made it to the edge of the stream. She stood next to Isabelle and looked at the two in the water. Claire could have been terrified, but she was grinning and hugging Charles tightly around the neck. He was soaked to the skin, his shirt and breeches plastered to his body.
He looked wonderful. More than wonderful. The lust of the night before surged back, and she considered joining them in the water. She needed some way to cool her heated blood.
Charles carried Claire piggyback to Knightsdale. She sat on his shoulders, chatting and laughing. She didn’t seem the worse for her dunking, but he vowed to teach her and Isabelle to swim at the first opportunity. With a lake on the property, it was much too dangerous for the girls not to know how. True, Claire was a little young, but she could learn enough to save herself if she were to fall in again. And Isabelle definitely should know. He had taught Emma when she was only six.
He glanced down at the woman walking next to him. He’d given her lessons after Robbie had tripped her and she, like Claire, had fallen into the stream. The other boys had laughed at first—she had looked funny with her skirts spread out in the water—but he’d seen the fear in her eyes.
She had shown no fear in their lessons. He smiled. She’d been determined not to let Robbie get the better of her again.
Did she remember how to swim? His smile widened. He’d be happy to re-evaluate her skills. This afternoon perhaps, in one of the more secluded sections of the lake. She could wear her shift.
“Papa Charles!”
Claire tugged sharply on his hair. He shifted her on his shoulders as he contemplated the vision of Emma in the water, clothed in her shift. Her wet shift. Her sheer, translucent, wet shift that outlined every one of her lovely curves and teased him with a glimpse, a shadow, of the curls above her thighs. If it were chilly, her nipples would harden into little peaks under the wet cloth, beckoning…
Sally MacKenzie Bundle Page 72
