Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  “Pardon me, sir. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I thought no one would be here. I’ll just be going.”

  “No, please stay, Miss Peterson.” Mr. Stockley took a deep breath and straightened his waistcoat. “I wasn’t expecting…You surprised me, that is all.” He smiled in the most offensive way. His voice suddenly had an oily quality. “Come in.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Join me.”

  Did the man think she had followed him? Clearly Lord Knightsdale was not the only arrogant, mutton-headed male in the vicinity.

  “No, no, really, I…”

  Mr. Stockley swaggered closer. Emma had to swallow a giggle. He reminded her of a rooster in a barnyard. Yet there was something knowing about the man as well.

  “I didn’t consider…You’d not been encouraging…” Mr. Stockley crooked up the right corner of his mouth. “You need a man, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “A man. You ladies are all the same. Prim and proper on the outside, but so needy on the inside. Especially ladies such as yourself.”

  “Myself?” Emma was certain she squeaked. She took a step back, but Mr. Stockley stopped her by putting a hand on her arm.

  “Yourself. How old are you—thirty?”

  “Twenty-six.” Not that her age was important, but she didn’t want four extra years added to her total.

  “Twenty-six. Firmly on the shelf. Not much hope of finding relief for your urges in a marriage bed. And you do have urges, don’t you?”

  Emma hoped that she had not nodded. She would never admit to something as vulgar as urges. Yearnings, perhaps, but not urges. Well, maybe some urges. Ever since Charles had kissed her—especially since the interlude in the conservatory—she had felt hot and unsettled. She had definitely had urges to open the door between their rooms.

  “Mr. Stockley, I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Allow me to explain, then.”

  Mr. Stockley employed his mouth, but not for speaking. His hands closed around her upper arms and pulled her against his body. His lips pressed hers.

  She was curious. She admitted it. She had only ever been kissed by Charles. Was kissing an activity that was pleasant in and of itself, or did its agreeableness depend on the skill of the man doing the kissing?

  She certainly had no urge to kiss the buffle-headed Marquis of Insolence at the moment. Perhaps Mr. Stockley would be a welcome diversion, even an antidote to her annoying attraction to Lord Blockhead.

  He was not.

  Mr. Stockley smelled of onions and cabbage and sweat. He gripped her arms too tightly and mashed her lips against her teeth. She felt none of the wonderful, hot feelings she had experienced with Charles. No, she felt bored. Uncomfortable. A strong wish to be somewhere else. She pressed her lips together firmly and hoped he would be finished soon.

  “Come to my bedchamber tonight.” Mr. Stockley’s voice had a peculiar thickness to it. “I’ll point it out to you.” His hands began to wander. Emma twisted to avoid his fingers, but her movements seemed only to encourage him to greater efforts. She was beginning to become alarmed.

  “Emma?”

  Mr. Stockley’s hands dropped like rocks, and he leapt back.

  “Are you in there, Emma?”

  “Yes.” Emma had to clear her throat and take a deep breath to gather the volume to respond. “Yes, Lord Knightsdale, I’m here with Mr. Stockley.”

  Charles appeared at the opening to the grotto. His eyes seemed to measure the distance between her and her companion. She swallowed, and cleared her throat once more.

  “We were just kis—um, er, kicking loose stones away so no one would stumble on them.” She looked down to suit action to words, but the ground at her feet was clear of even the tiniest pebble. “Mr. Stockley is very interested in bed—buildings. Statuary and, and such. I was urging—um, helping him, ah, look for, um, interesting, ah, statues.”

  She knew her face was as red as one of Lady Beatrice’s gowns. Her cheeks certainly felt hot enough to light the darkest corner of this shadowy location.

  Charles and Mr. Stockley stared at her. She smiled.

  Charles turned to look at Poseidon. “I assume you noticed the sculpture in the middle of the grotto?”

  “Yes,” Emma said. “We were looking for others.”

  Charles surveyed the small, clear space. Emma followed his gaze over the rock walls and stone floor. “In here?”

  “No, um, of course not. I was talking generally. In the future. Elsewhere.”

  “Elsewhere, yes.” Mr. Stockley bowed. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord?”

  Charles nodded. Mr. Stockley made his escape.

  “Emma,” Charles said once they were alone, “would you care to explain what you just said?”

  Emma smiled harder. “No.”

  Something was wrong. Emma looked as nervous as an unbroken horse. What had she and Stockley been doing in here? Surely she could not have been kissing that twiddlepoop?

  He stepped closer. She stepped back.

  “Are you all right, Emma?”

  “Of course I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be all right?”

  “I don’t know. You seem ill at ease. Did Stockley do something to overset you?”

  “No!” She took a deep breath, making her lovely breasts swell in an interesting fashion. “No. Indeed not. Mr. Stockley did not overset me in the slightest. I am perfectly fine. What odd notions you have, my lord.”

  “Hmm. He didn’t try to kiss you, did he?”

  “Kiss me?!”

  Charles would swear Emma actually squeaked. He stepped closer. She stepped back again, bringing herself up against the grotto wall.

  “I think you’ve run out of room to retreat, sweetheart.”

  “Nonsense. I am not retreating.”

  “No?” He leaned forward, putting a hand on the wall on either side of her head. “I am glad to hear that. We need to talk, love. Why did you slap me?”

  Her eyes dropped to study his cravat. “I apologize. That was not well done of me.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question, Emma.” He tilted her chin up with the edge of his hand. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “No, of course not.” She met his gaze, then dropped her eyes again—he’d swear she was staring at his mouth. Her little pink tongue edged out to moisten her lips. Her voice sounded a hair breathless. “Shouldn’t we be getting back to the group? I’m sure Lady Caroline is wondering where you are.”

  “God, I’m sure she is. In fact, she might be huffing down the path right now, hot on my heels.”

  Charles could not waste such a lovely opportunity. As Emma pointed out, they could be interrupted at any moment. He let his hand slip from her chin to her jaw. He might have only seconds of privacy. Why waste it in conversation? He could find out later why she had slapped him. He smiled. He might get slapped again, but he would take that risk. He could not have her so close, so private, and not steal a kiss.

  He bent to touch his lips to hers. She smelled sweet, clean, of lemons and lavender. Her skin was so soft; the line of her jaw, so delicate. He brushed his lips lightly over hers and she whimpered. Her hands came up to lie on his chest. For an instant he was afraid she meant to push him away, but then her fingers slid up to his neck and tangled in his hair.

  He brought her body up against his. The softness of her breasts flattened against his chest. He teased her lips with his, tracing their seam with his tongue. She opened her mouth and he slipped inside.

  She had a lovely, small mouth. Warm. Wet. His tongue swept over its roof, followed the length of her tongue. She was too innocent to know yet what to do, but he knew. He would teach her. He stroked into her, and she made a small, needy noise. Her head fell back against his shoulder; her mouth opened wider, giving him more room to explore.

  She was so…generous.

  He had had his share of whores and widows. Those had been pleasant enough encounters—lusty, satisfying couplings—but there had been little generosity inv
olved. Friendship, sometimes. Mutual need, often. But generosity? This innocent giving, this trust he felt in Emma? Never.

  It was amazingly erotic.

  He moved his mouth to kiss her neck, just below her ear. Could he loosen the blasted neck of her dress? Possibly, but there wasn’t time. If anyone asked, Stockley would be sure to tell him—or her—where to find the marquis.

  Ah, not enough time at all. He heard the scrape of a foot on the path outside. He straightened.

  “Emma.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Emma, love, we are about to have company.”

  “Company?”

  “Yes.” He kissed her hard on the lips. “We can continue this very interesting…discussion…later, but unless you want to scandalize whomever is about to enter this lovely grotto, you had better look less thoroughly kissed.”

  Her eyes flew wide and she straightened just as Lady Caroline’s distinctive voice called his name.

  Emma hoped she did not look as disordered as she felt. Lady Caroline did give her a hard stare but then turned her attention to Charles.

  “We missed you, my lord.”

  “You flatter me, Lady Caroline. I could have been out of your sight only a few minutes.”

  “Every minute without you is an eternity, my lord.”

  Emma rolled her eyes. She didn’t worry that Lady Caroline would take note of her rude behavior; the young lady’s attention never left Charles. Emma had ceased to exist as far as she was concerned.

  That was a good thing. She needed some moments to get her emotions under control.

  Well, she had had her curiosity satisfied. Kissing Mr. Stockley had been as enchanting as emptying chamber pots, but kissing Charles…

  Oh, my.

  She had been anything but bored when Charles’s mouth was on hers. Well, her…interest had begun the moment he entered the grotto. Just seeing his form sent her brain on holiday with her good sense. He had tried to talk to her, hadn’t he? Why hadn’t she told him exactly what she thought of his insulting marriage proposal—if one could dignify his suggestion with that term?

  Such a rational approach was beyond her. She had seen him, and her stomach had begun to perform odd gymnastic feats. She could think of only one thing to do with her mouth, and it wasn’t talking. After Mr. Stockley left and Charles stepped closer, her breathing had become most erratic. And her heart had fluttered like a bird trying to escape a cage. An odd liquid warmth—no, she could not even think of that.

  What was the matter with her? She was angry with the man! He had suggested marriage for his convenience, not because he loved her. She was just a handy female, one who would tie up the loose ends of his life very neatly with little effort on his part. One he could get with child easily and leave safely in the country.

  Get with child easily—ha! When he’d had his body pressed against hers, he could have asked her to walk backward to London and she would have tried to accommodate him. He must have little doubt that she’d acquiesce with nary a peep of dissent to whatever procedure was required to produce children. Had she no pride?

  Apparently not. She looked at him, standing with Lady Caroline and Poseidon, and felt that odd liquid heat pool low in her again. How could she want to slap him silly one moment and the next, wrap her hands around him as if she’d never let go?

  She was an idiot—a cabbage-headed, corkbrained idiot.

  “Shall we join the others, Lady Caroline?”

  Emma’s eyes narrowed. If Charles could be charming to that she-serpent, he could be charming to anyone. Even his old playmate. It meant nothing. She must remember that. He was an accomplished flirt—he hadn’t learned to kiss in such an expert fashion from studying books or fighting Napoleon. He’d had years of practice.

  Well, he could exercise his amatory skills on some other stupid girl.

  But not Lady Caroline. Emma couldn’t let him marry that harpy. Poor Isabelle and Claire would pay the price. And he couldn’t marry Miss Oldston for the same reason. Miss Pelham? Doubtful. Her mother was a gorgon; it was hard to imagine the daughter could be much different. And poor Miss Frampton was as spotty as her brother.

  Perhaps Miss Haverford was a candidate. She was prettily behaved. Emma could think of nothing objectionable about her—except she was too young, of course. And perhaps a touch vapid. But she might gain character with age.

  “Miss Peterson?”

  Charles was looking at her expectantly, as if he had asked the question at least once before. Emma smiled and put her hand on the arm he offered; Lady Caroline was hanging on his other side.

  “Don’t you miss London, Lord Knightsdale?” Lady Caroline asked. “The theatre, the parties, the balls?” She looked over at Emma. “Oh, I’m sorry—have you been to London, Miss Peterson?”

  Emma gritted her teeth. “No, Lady Caroline, I have not had that pleasure.”

  “No?” Lady Caroline tried to look sympathetic, but her eyes—her hard little piggy eyes—gave her away. They glittered with malice. “What a shame. But I imagine country life has its benefits, doesn’t it? The slow pace. The familiar activities. It must be quite…comfortable for, um”—she smiled up at Charles—“for some people,” she finished.

  For an old maid such as I, Emma thought. Lady Caroline did not say the words, but they hung in the air.

  Charles laughed. “I quite like the country, Lady Caroline. I’ve grown somewhat tired of Town.” He smiled at Emma. “However, I’m certain you’d enjoy a visit to London, Miss Peterson. Perhaps it can be arranged soon.”

  Lady Caroline shot Emma a look that should have killed her, it was so pointed.

  “I don’t know that a trip to Town is in my future, my lord,” Emma said.

  “I would wager that it is, Miss Peterson. In fact, I would be willing to lay odds on it.”

  “Are you taking your nieces up to London, then, my lord?” Lady Caroline bared her teeth at Emma in a formation resembling a smile. “So educational—the museums, the opera, the Tower. You’ll enjoy it, Miss Peterson. I imagine it is paradise for a governess such as yourself.”

  Charles choked. “Yes.” He looked at Emma; his eyes were dancing wickedly. “So educational. I might even be able to help you, Miss Peterson. I could teach a few lessons, I believe.”

  I bet you could, Emma thought, but what lessons and to whom? Many more like the one he had just delivered and she would be compelled to wed him—though it would almost be worth it to see the look on dear Lady Caroline’s face when their engagement was announced.

  Had she lost her mind? Whatever was she thinking? Lord Knightsdale would most definitely not be teaching her any more lessons.

  “I found the bonnet, Isabelle.”

  “Good. Do you see Miss Peterson’s brush?”

  Claire looked on Emma’s dressing table. “Yes. It’s not very fancy.”

  “That doesn’t matter. She’ll need it tonight. Come on, let’s put it in Uncle Charles’s room.”

  Isabelle led the way to the connecting door. She pushed it open and saw Henderson, Uncle Charles’s valet, folding cravats. She backed up quickly and stepped on Claire’s toe.

  “Ow!”

  Henderson looked up. “May I help you, Lady Isabelle?”

  “Um.” Isabelle stepped into the room. “We were just looking for Uncle Charles.”

  “Were you now? And what might you be doing with Miss Peterson’s bonnet?”

  “It’s not very pretty,” Claire said. She put it on her head. “Don’t you think it looks like a bucket?”

  Henderson’s face twisted as though he smelled something bad. “It’s not my place to comment on Miss Peterson’s clothing.”

  “But if it were your place, Mr. Henderson?” Isabelle asked. “Do you think this bonnet is very stylish?”

  Henderson appeared to struggle with himself. He sighed. “No, I can’t say that bonnet is particularly stylish.”

  “I think Miss Peterson would be better off without it, don’t you?”

  “La
dy Isabelle…”

  “We just don’t want her to look bad next to those London ladies, Mr. Henderson,” Claire said.

  “No, I understand….”

  “Those London ladies are mean.”

  Isabelle smiled and pushed Claire back toward Miss Peterson’s room. “Well, since Uncle Charles isn’t here, we’ll just be going. Good-bye, Mr. Henderson.”

  She closed the door and sighed.

  “Too bad Mr. Henderson was in Uncle Charles’s room.”

  Claire shrugged. “I put Mama Peterson’s brush under the papers on Papa Charles’s bureau while you were talking.”

  Isabelle grinned. “Good job, Claire.”

  Claire skipped toward the door to the hall, swinging the bonnet by its strings.

  “I bet Miss Russell would like this for the scarecrow in her garden.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Emma saw Mrs. Graham the moment she returned from the lake. The woman was standing in the Knightsdale entry hall, laughing up at Papa.

  A hard knot formed in her stomach. So Lady Caroline was not the only harpy fluttering about the Knightsdale estate.

  “Thank you for the outing, my lord,” Lady Caroline said behind her. She turned to see the girl batting her eyelashes at Charles. The hoyden put one hand on her ample chest and the other on Charles’s arm. “I am a trifle fatigued from the exertion, I fear. I believe I shall go up and take a nap.”

  Did she expect Charles to join her?

  “Come on, Caro.” Miss Oldston sounded almost as impatient with Lady Caroline’s posturing as Emma was.

  “I shall see you later, my lord.” Lady Caroline brushed past Emma and followed Miss Oldston up the stairs.

  Emma clenched her hands. She wished she had a few of the burs Chubs and the others had been flinging near the cottage—she’d love to see them arranged on Lady Caroline’s ample backside.

  She took a deep breath. She was being extremely childish. It was beneath her to feel this way.

  She glanced at Mrs. Graham and her temper soared again. The woman had the audacity to smile at her, as if she shared her impatience with stupid Lady Caroline. Emma shared nothing with Mrs. Harriet Graham. Nothing.