Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  Robbie frowned, then shrugged. “No. Lizzie isn’t ready to get married—I’m certain of it. James won’t force her. In fact—what was that?”

  Charles heard the muffled thud also. “I don’t know. It doesn’t sound like it came from the corridor.”

  “No, you’re right.” Robbie got up and poked his head out the study door. “Hall’s deserted. Did you look outside?”

  “It didn’t sound like an outdoor thump,” Charles said, but he looked out the window anyway. Nothing. “It sounded like something heavy dropping on wood.”

  “Perhaps you’ve got very large rats in your walls.”

  Charles frowned at the orderly bookcase. “I sincerely hope not.”

  Emma sat next to Sarah, the Duchess of Alvord, in the drawing room after dinner. She liked the tall, redheaded American instinctively. She guessed she was about her age, perhaps a year or two younger.

  “My husband says you are a childhood friend, Miss Peterson.”

  “Yes, your grace. Well, I’m not certain you could call me a friend, exactly. I was more of a pest, I’m afraid. Lord Knightsdale says the duke and Lord Westbrooke called me ‘Shadow.’”

  The duchess laughed. “And your sister and Lizzie are of an age, are they not? They are friends as well?”

  “Yes.” Emma searched the room for her sister. For once Meg had not fled early. She was sitting with Lizzie, and they were laughing about something. “There had been talk of Meg going up to London with Lizzie for the Season, but Meg is not much interested in society balls and parties.”

  “No?”

  “No. She would much rather be out in the fields, looking for new samples for her plant collection.”

  “I am glad to hear she has such a passion. However, I would not be surprised if she eventually becomes more interested in men and marriage. Most girls do.” The duchess laughed. “I taught at a school for young ladies in Philadelphia, so I’ve spent some time observing young females.”

  “Ah.” Emma nodded, but she was not certain the duchess was correct. Meg had said this afternoon she thought she would marry some day—that was a start. And it was true she did not have an assortment of attractive prospects at this gathering. Chubs—not that he was a prize—had departed with his family. Spots and Toad needed many more years of polishing before they were ready for married life. Lord Westbrooke was a good catch, but Lizzie had been in love with him forever—not that the earl showed any awareness of her interest.

  She needed to get Meg to London for a Season, it was as simple as that. Well, simple if she married Charles; not so simple if they had to rely on Papa’s sisters.

  She was not going to marry Lord Knightsdale.

  “And how is the new Lord Knightsdale doing, Miss Peterson?”

  “What?” Emma stared at the duchess. “What do you mean?”

  “Charles. How is he doing, do you know? When I spoke to him in London, I got the impression he was not eager to inherit the title. Of course at that time there was no reason to suspect he would—his brother was young and healthy. Is Charles adjusting well to being the marquis?”

  “Your grace…” Charles did not want to be the marquis? He had never said so, had he? Of course he had never expected to inherit. That must be why he was so eager to wed—so he could get the unpleasant business over with and get on with his life. “I really don’t know. Lord Knightsdale does not confide in me.”

  “He doesn’t? I was certain James told me…” The duchess frowned, then shook her head. “No matter. I must have gotten confused. I do apologize.” She blushed. “I’m not entirely myself these days.”

  Emma smiled. “No need to apologize, your grace. How are you feeling?”

  “Fine. I just tire easily, but I have been assured that will pass shortly.” The duchess smiled. “I do assume you have heard that I am increasing?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid it’s no secret.”

  “Not much is secret in the ton, is it?” The duchess laughed. “Not that I wish to hide my condition. I’m just used to living a more private life. Marriage to a British duke has taken some getting used to.”

  “Yes, life here must be very different.” Emma tried to imagine leaving her family and familiar surroundings to cross the Atlantic. “Do you miss your country dreadfully?”

  “No.” The duchess smoothed her skirts. “Oh, occasionally I will get a little homesick, but I don’t really have a home in the United States any longer. My mother died when I was a child; my father died last year—it was his death that caused me to come to England.” She looked up and smiled at someone over Emma’s shoulder. Emma turned to see the Duke of Alvord leading the men in from their after-dinner port.

  “No,” Emma heard the duchess say, “my home is in England now.”

  The duke’s eyes found his wife, and a wide smile spread over his face.

  It was clear he was madly in love with her, Emma thought as she greeted him and excused herself so he could join his duchess on the settee. She made a point of watching him during the evening. His expression was pleasant but reserved when he spoke to most people, but when he looked at his wife, his face softened and his eyes lit with a special fire.

  She would love to have a man look at her in such a way. Would Charles? She snorted. Miss Russell paused in reporting on her gardening woes to give Emma a startled look. Emma smiled and coughed as if clearing her throat.

  Charles just wanted a handy breeder and nursemaid. She glanced at him. He was talking with Sir Thomas and Lord Haverford. He caught her eye and smiled.

  She looked down at her hands, hoping her heart was not beating so furiously everyone could see it.

  She would like to have children. Meg had been right about that. She would like a baby of her own—with Charles’s clear blue eyes.

  She saw Mr. Stockley looking around the room and she turned quickly. Perhaps if she retreated to the settee in the far corner, she could avoid his annoying attention.

  Would Charles be as happy, as proud and protective of her when she was increasing as the duke was of his duchess? No. He’d be in London, once he was certain his seed had taken root. He might not even bother to come to Knightsdale for the birth. Why should he? Better to stay in London, drinking and whoring. She plucked at her skirt. She probably wouldn’t see him again until it was time to start work on the next little Draysmith.

  “Miss Peterson, are you all right?”

  “What?” Emma looked up to find Charles frowning down at her. “Yes, of course I’m all right. Why do you ask?”

  “You were growling again.”

  “I do not growl.”

  “No? Hmm. Perhaps it was moaning, then.”

  Emma flushed. “It was most certainly not moaning.”

  “No? I should like to make you moan.”

  You have. Emma slapped her hand over her mouth, but Lord Knightsdale’s expression had not changed. She must have only thought the words.

  “May I join you?”

  “I don’t see how I can stop you.”

  He chuckled, seating himself rather closer to her than necessary. His leg brushed against her skirt. He didn’t actually touch her, but she swore she felt the heat from his body all along her side.

  Unless it was the heat from her body she was feeling. What if he felt it, too? She tried to move away.

  “Now don’t be miffy, Miss Peterson.”

  “I am not miffy.” She must have spoken too loudly, because Lady Beatrice looked in their direction and then headed toward them. Emma was relieved—well, mostly relieved—that she would not be having a tête-à-tête with Lord Knightsdale.

  “Are you annoying Miss Peterson, Charles?” Lady Beatrice settled herself in a chair.

  “Of course not, Aunt—am I, Miss Peterson?”

  “No.” Emma supposed causing one’s heart to pound by simple proximity could not be considered annoying. Disturbing—perhaps. Unsettling? Certainly.

  “Speaking of annoying, Aunt, I believe you win the prize in that category. Lambert t
ells me you insulted Lady Caroline to such a degree she and her family fled Knightsdale.”

  Lady Beatrice shrugged. “She insulted Queen Bess first.”

  “Good God, Aunt, you sound like Claire. Queen Bess is a cat.”

  “And Lady Caroline is a pig.”

  Emma muffled a giggle. Lord Knightsdale turned to stare at her. “I take it you agree with Aunt’s observation?”

  “Um.”

  “Of course she does. Anyone with eyes would agree with me. And she’s a nasty pig besides. We are well quit of her.” Lady Beatrice smiled, raising her lorgnette to survey the room. “I can think of a few other idiots whose absence would improve this house party.” Her glass focused on Spots and Toad, who were sniggering by the door to the garden. “What do you suppose those two are up to?”

  “Nothing good, I’m certain. I’ll go find out, shall I?”

  “Wait a moment. Perhaps it will pass.” Lady Beatrice’s lorgnette stopped on Mr. Stockley next. “Hmm, there’s something familiar about that man.”

  “He has been here since yesterday morning.”

  “I know that, Charles. No, this bothered me the moment I saw him. Like a word on the tip of my tongue—I just can’t quite retrieve the thought. What do you know of him, Miss Peterson?”

  “Nothing much, Lady Beatrice. He’s renting Mr. Atworthy’s house—Mr. Atworthy decided to stay in Town.”

  “No one stays in Town after the Season, Miss Peterson.” Lady Beatrice frowned. “Most unusual.”

  “You stayed, didn’t you, Lady Beatrice?”

  “Oh, no. Beastly in London in the summer. Dull as ditch-water, too.”

  “But I thought you came down from London for the house party?”

  “I came through London.”

  Charles smiled. “I stayed in London, Miss Peterson, straightening out my brother’s affairs. I am not so opposed to a tonless Town as Aunt.”

  “And who is Mr. Atworthy?” Lady Beatrice was scowling now. “I don’t recognize that name.”

  “Aunt Bea, you’d best move your eyes—you’ll set poor Stockley ablaze with the heat of your gaze focused through that magnifying lens.”

  “That might be a good thing,” Lady Beatrice said, but she put her lorgnette down.

  “Mr. Atworthy is relatively new to the neighborhood as well,” Emma said. “I think he won the house in a card game from the Bannister heir shortly after old Mr. Bannister died.”

  “Ah, Bannister. Him, I remember. You must, too, Charles. Weren’t you of an age with the heir?”

  “I believe Bannister was Paul’s age.”

  “Hmm. So where does Stockley get his money?”

  “I’m not certain,” Emma said. “I haven’t interrogated the man.”

  Lady Beatrice raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Surely you asked a few polite questions?”

  Emma shrugged. “I believe he said his family was in shipping.”

  “Shipping.” Lady Beatrice said the word as though it were a curse.

  “Perhaps my father knows more.”

  “I hope so, if he let the fellow run tame at the vicarage.”

  “Lady Beatrice, Mr. Stockley did not—”

  Lord Knightsdale’s hand came down on her knee. The shock of his touch stopped Emma mid-sentence.

  “You’re getting somewhat agitated, Miss Peterson. You might wish to lower your voice.”

  How dare the man tell her how to behave?

  He chuckled. “And, no, don’t blast me. Let that breath out slowly. I’ll be delighted to let you flay me with your tongue later.” He dropped his voice so only she could hear. “Flay or…other things.”

  “Lord Knightsdale!” Emma didn’t know what he meant, but she knew that whatever it was, it was not polite.

  “Stockley…Stockley…It will come to me eventually.”

  “I’m sure it will, Aunt. However, I believe I must go chat with Mr. Frampton and Mr. Oldston before whatever mischief they are planning comes to fruition. If you’ll excuse me?”

  Lord Knightsdale reached the garden door just in time to capture the piglet Mr. Frampton had intended to introduce into the drawing room.

  “Can you believe there are such idiots in the world, Henderson? What were they thinking, to loose a pig in the house?”

  “It has been my experience, my lord, that young men the age of Mr. Frampton and Mr. Oldston often don’t think at all.”

  “I wasn’t that stupid, was I?”

  Henderson coughed into his hand and turned to hang up Charles’s coat. “I believe you may have done one or two things that weren’t terribly well-considered, my lord. Not dealing with livestock, however.”

  “Hmm. Perhaps. But—” Charles heard a scratching on the door connecting his room and Emma’s. Blood rushed to a variety of bodily locations, not primarily his head. He swallowed and tried to clear his thoughts. “I believe that will be all for tonight, Henderson. I can manage from here.”

  Henderson cleared his throat. “I’m sure you can, my lord. Please do not do anything stupid.”

  “Right. I shall try not to. Thank you. Good night.” Charles walked toward the connecting door, making a shooing motion with his hand toward Henderson. He paused before he opened the door.

  “Good night, Mr. Henderson,” he mouthed.

  Henderson shrugged, bowed, and departed.

  “Well, Emma.” Charles had meant to say more, but the sight of Miss Emma Peterson in her nightdress with her curly, dark-blond hair frothing over her shoulders took his breath away—as well as most of his rational thought processes. Add the small detail that she was standing between their bedrooms, and it became very hard to focus on anything besides the part of him that was very hard—and what he would most like to do on either or both of the lovely soft beds at their disposal.

  “What, ah, seems to be the problem?”

  Emma raised her arms to push back her hair, making her nightgown pull against her breasts. Charles closed his eyes and prayed for self-restraint. And that he wasn’t drooling. He rubbed his hand over his face and swallowed.

  “My bonnet is gone, my lord, as well as my hairbrush. I’ve looked everywhere and I cannot find either.”

  Her voice was retreating. He opened his eyes to see her walking toward the fire.

  God, grant him strength. Her lovely, worn, thin nightdress barely obscured her lush form. The fire behind her outlined her wonderful breasts with their dark nipples. Her slender waist, all the more remarkable, placed as it was between such full breasts and hips. Her hips, her thighs, the lovely, dark shadow covering…

  A gentleman would tactfully hand the lady her wrapper.

  Gentlemen led exceedingly dull lives.

  “What is the matter with you?” she whispered sharply. Her hands went to her hips, stretching the fabric tighter, giving him an even better view of her glorious body. “You are standing there like a knock in the cradle.”

  “Pardon me.” Charles averted his eyes from her form—and examined the bed instead. Bad choice. He studied the floor, pausing to ascertain that he was not advertising his attraction too blatantly. Thank God he had put on his dressing gown. Any physical evidence of his admiration was hidden by its generous folds. “My mind has been wanting—um, wandering. My apologies. What is the problem?”

  “My bonnet—someone has stolen my bonnet.” Emma stood in front of her open wardrobe and pointed.

  “Are you sure?” Happy to have something to do besides lust after Emma, Charles moved to examine the wardrobe. “Here it is,” he said, holding up the bonnet she had worn around the lake.

  “Not that one. The other one.”

  “The other one?”

  “The one I wore on our fishing trip.”

  Charles blinked. “Miss Peterson, no self-respecting thief would steal your fishing bonnet.”

  “Well, it’s not here.”

  “Perhaps the maid mistakenly thought you had discarded it.”

  “Why ever would she think that?”

  “Becau
se you should have discarde it. I believe the most destitute drab in the stews of London would be embarrassed to own that ancient piece of headgear.”

  “Well, of all the—”

  “Miss Peterson, did you really think that bonnet was attractive?”

  Emma flushed. Charles could see her struggling between honesty and the honest desire to put him in his place.

  “No,” she said finally, “but that doesn’t mean I like the idea of someone taking my things.”

  “Well, yes, I can see that would be distressing.” Charles tried to think. He could smell her now—a heady mix of lavender and lemon and woman. “Did you say there was something else missing?”

  “My hairbrush.”

  He frowned. “Was it valuable?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Could you have misplaced it?”

  “Where?” Emma gestured at her dressing table. It was completely bare—no chance of the brush going missing on that clean surface.

  “Could it have fallen on the floor?”

  Charles knelt to look under the dressing table. Emma leaned close to peer over his shoulder. At least that is what he assumed she was doing. He felt her nightgown brush against his arm and he turned his head.

  Oh…God. He was staring directly at the lovely, beautiful, wonderful, unbelievable apex of her legs. Only a thin bit of fabric came between him and the dark, curly hair he could just make out spreading over her…

  He swallowed. He tried to remember to breathe—and inhaled the musky scent of her secret place. If he just reached out now, he could clasp her soft, round bottom and bring her to his mouth. He could bury his face in her, then bury another part of him there, too.

  “I don’t see it, do you?” Miss Peterson asked.

  “Wha—” Charles sprang out of his crouch and slammed his head against the bottom of the dressing table. He saw stars—and then Emma bent over him and he saw breasts.

  “Where did you hit your poor head? Let me see the back of it.”

  She pulled him toward her. If he pretended to lose his balance right now, he would fall face first between the soft, round globes swaying tantalizingly close to his mouth. He could see her lovely, dark nipples rubbing against her nightgown. He knew they would taste sweet, though not as sweet as…