"No. When I was seventeen, Meg was only nine. I didn't want to leave her, and my father wasn't interested in having me go to London. I suppose we could have gotten one of his sisters to sponsor me, but it didn't seem worth the trouble."
Aunt Bea nodded, her plumes bobbing. "Lady Gromwell, the countess, and Lady Fanning, the baroness. Perfectly acceptable." She reached for another cake. "You did say your sister is seventeen? Did she also decline a trip to Town?"
"Yes. Father offered her the opportunity. Lady Elizabeth, the Duke of Alvord's sister, was making her bows—Meg could easily have gone up with her." Miss Peterson sighed, shrugging slightly. "Meg isn't interested in gowns and furbelows, I'm afraid. She'd much rather be out mucking around in the fields, looking for plants to add to her collection."
She paused, gazing into her teacup. Charles saw the shadow in her expression again. Her mouth tightened.
"And things were a little . . . unsettled at home."
What was bothering the girl? He wanted to see only laughter in her eyes—or sparks of anger and passion—not sadness.
"Sounds as if your sister could stand a little polishing, Miss Peterson," Aunt Bea said. "I suggest we include her in the house party, Charles. It will be a perfect opportunity for her to ease into the ton."
"A splendid idea, Aunt. And Miss Peterson will be here to show her the way of it."
"Lady Beatrice, I don't think . . ."
"No, we insist—don't we, Charles?"
"Definitely. I will escort you home today, Miss Peterson, to present the invitation in person."
"But. . ."
"Come, Miss Peterson," Aunt Bea said. "I'm certain your father cannot object He must be happy to see his daughter—his daughters—acquire some social polish."
Miss Peterson abandoned her teacup and sat up, her nostrils flaring, fire back in her eyes. "Lady Beatrice . . ."
Aunt held up her hand. "Now, Miss Peterson, don't be tiresome. What possible objection can you have to a little enjoyment? Some cards, a picnic or two, a ball? All unexceptionable pursuits."
Miss Peterson's chin jutted out much like Claire's. "I will need to attend to the girls."
"Of course, but not every instant of the day, surely. Nanny can keep an eye on them in the schoolroom, can't she?" Aunt Beatrice looked at Charles.
"Certainly." He grinned. "She's looking after them at the moment, in fact And it's not as if they are babies. Isabelle struck me as very responsible."
"Too responsible," Miss Peterson said. "And she needs to keep up with her lessons."
"Which she shall." Charles saw victory within his grasp. "I shall visit the schoolroom and assist, as long as you don't want me to instruct in watercolors. I can't paint—or draw—at all."
"Umm . . ."
"It's decided, then." Aunt Bea snagged the last cake. "Go get your bonnet, Miss Peterson, and Charles will drive you over now."
"But. . ."
Aunt Bea made shooing motions with her hands. Miss Peterson looked at Charles. He chuckled at the confused mix of frustration, anger, and resignation on her face. And anticipation? Surely there was a glimmer of anticipation as well? He suspected it had been a long time since Miss Peterson had let herself have any fun. Maybe she had never allowed herself pleasure.
Charles was determined to change that. He found he would dearly love to give her pleasure. Glorious pleasure. Hot, sweaty pleasure. Late night and early morning pleasure.
He watched her lovely derriere swish as she stalked out of the room.
"Settled on her, have you?"
Charles shrugged, turning back to his aunt. "You've been nagging me incessantly to wed ever since we got word Paul had died. Miss Peterson will do."
"You have many ladies to choose from."
"All of whom I've seen before."
"Ah, but they are much more interested in you now that you are the Marquis of Knightsdale."
Charles felt his stomach twist. God, that was one of the things he hated most about the bloody situation—the toadying. People who could not be bothered to notice mere Major Draysmith stumbled over themselves to greet Lord Knightsdale.
"That is part of Miss Peterson's charm, Aunt. I don't believe she gives a fig for my tide."
Emma forced herself to walk calmly down the stairs. She was still fuming. The gall of the man! To come here after all these years and suggest she marry him. She'd swear he hadn't even recognized her when he'd first seen her in the long gallery.
He just wanted a breeder. She was certainly not going to offer herself up so the Knightsdale dynasty could continue one more generation. The way she felt now, she'd happily terminate the line immediately. With her bare hands.
She paused on the second-floor landing, gripping the handrail so tightly her knuckles showed white. She took a deep breath.
She was angry with herself as well.
Why couldn't he be ugly—cross-eyed or pockmarked or hunchbacked? Why did he have to be the one man who haunted her dreams?
She put her hands on her flushed cheeks. He had haunted more than her sleep. Even awake, she had dreamed of him, of the kiss she had seen.
She had invited him into her bed the very night she had rushed home from his brother's wedding ball.
Lud, it was true. Papa's proper daughter had climbed into bed, blown out the candle, and summoned up her memory of Charles on the Knightsdale terrace. But in her thoughts, he was kissing her, not some anonymous London lady. She had tried to feel his lips moving on hers. Would they be warm or cool, moist or dry? She had imagined his arms around her, his chest against hers, his hands on her— She squeezed her eyes shut. She would not think about just where she had imagined his hands.
Now he had asked her to marry him. She could discover exactly what his lips felt like. What his hands. . .
Enough! She could not marry the man just to test the accuracy of her imagination, could she? No. Certainly not. Such a thought was ludicrous in the extreme.
She continued down the stairs.
She had almost died in the study when his eyes had seemed to trace the line of her lips. She could barely keep her attention on Lady Beatrice's words. The man should be forced to wear a blindfold—those clear blue eyes were dangerous to women. He had probably lured countless society ladies into his arms with them. Well, she would not be another victim— no matter how much she would like to be.
"Miss Peterson—so prompt. Splendid."
Emma looked down. Charles was standing in the hall, grinning up at her. Her heart lurched before she could take it under firm control.
"It does not take long to put on a bonnet, my lord."
"No? I defer to your greater knowledge—I have never attempted the task."
"I don't doubt you've much experience with taking off a bonnet, however!"
Emma bit her lip. Where had that come from? She'd never had trouble minding her tongue in the past She stared straight ahead as she stepped out the front door, but she heard Charles's warm chuckle by her ear.
"Ah, Miss Peterson, do I detect some words left unspoken?"
"I have no idea to what you might be referring, my lord."
"So you are not intimating that I have removed more than a lady's bonnet?"
Emma felt a hot blush surge up her cheeks. She had not fully realized that she had been accusing him of more thorough feminine disrobement until he said the words. But she certainly was not going to admit it. Some lies were necessary for self-preservation.
"Of course not, my lord."
He laughed, a deep, warm sound. "Oh, Miss Peterson, I can see we are going to have a wonderful time together. May I call you Emma?"
"Certainly not."
"Splendid. And you must call me Charles."
"My lord, did you not hear me? I did not give you leave to use my Christian name."
"Well, Emma, I am very sorry, but I am taking that leave. One thing I learned in the war was to ask nicely, but if something is crucial for survival, take it— politely, of course. And I do think using you
r lovely name, Emma, is crucial to my survival."
Emma could not think of a single thing to say. She was certain her mouth was gaping open—and it opened even farther when she felt his broad, warm hands around her waist, lifting her to sit in his curricle. He climbed up next to her and grinned, tapping the bottom of her chin with his index finger. She shut her jaw so quickly she heard it snap.
To add to her confusion, the curricle's seat was extremely narrow. Charles's side, hip, and leg were pressed tightly up against her. They were amazingly hard—like rock. She shifted, trying to put more space between them. He shifted with her.
"My lord, you are crowding me."
"Charles, Emma. You know my name is Charles. You used to call me Charles when you were a girl."
"And you will not hear it on my lips now, my lord. I, at least, have some inkling of decorum."
"Hmm. Perhaps I can persuade those lips."
Before Emma had the slightest idea what Charles planned, she felt his mouth on hers.
Her eyes closed, whether to shut out the shocking sight of his face so close to hers or to better feel the touch of his lips, she couldn't—or wouldn't—say. It was the briefest brush—dry and cool—but she felt it all the way to her toes. It started an odd fire burning in her stomach, a fire that had smoldered in her dreams but had never flared to life. A fire she feared would consume her.
Lud, was she in trouble!
* * *
Charles chuckled and moved back to his side of the seat. He would have preferred to spend more time exploring Emma's mouth, but the horses were restless and Emma might soon recover enough from her shock to slap him senseless. Not to mention the fact that they were in full view of Knightsdale's many windows. Was Aunt Bea peering down at them? Or little Claire?
He didn't care. He grinned, feeling a ridiculous urge to laugh. He had not felt this lighthearted in years—certainly not since he'd left for the Peninsula. Definitely not since he'd gotten word of Paul's death. Even when he'd just come down from university and was racketing around London, he had not felt this pure, carefree joy. He'd thought he'd been living a wonderful life then, acquiring some town bronze, but too many mornings after a night of debauchery, the bronze had felt more like rust.
He took a deep breath of cool English air, drawing in the scent of new-mown grass. Maybe he had not felt this way since boyhood when he'd had a whole glorious day before him to fill with fishing and riding and playing at Robin Hood or Knights of the Round Table—often with the girl beside him tagging at his heels. He chuckled. Who would have guessed he would ever feel more than annoyance for the little curly-headed pest he had nicknamed "Runt."
"What is so amusing, my lord?"
So Miss Peterson was going to be on her high horse, was she? He glanced at her. Yes, she had her little nose tilted in the air.
"Did you know the other boys called you "Shadow'?"
"What?" She turned to look at him. "What are you talking about?"
"When we were children. The other boys called you 'Shadow,' because you were always following me around."
"Oh." She was looking off at the scenery now, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.
"I didn't call you that, though. I didn't mind your following me."
"You called me 'Runt.'"
"Well, you were little. You are still not very tall, though some areas of your person"—Charles allowed his eyes to rest on her well-shaped breasts— "have grown considerably."
"My lord!" Her cheeks were flaming now. Charles braced for a slap.
"Your hands, for example," he said, laughing. "I'm sure they are larger. Your feet, too. Your lovely, um, ch—"
Emma sucked in her breath, making the relevant anatomical features swell invitingly.
"—chin has grown since you were a young girl as well."
"My lord, you are so . . . slippery"
"I beg your pardon?" Charles tried for his best innocent expression. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do! I can't quite grab hold of you. I think I know what you are saying, but then somehow I don't. You are as slippery as a trout."
"Sweetheart," Charles said, his voice suddenly husky at the erotic possibilities her artless words conjured in his mind, "anytime you would like to grab hold of me, please do. I will be happy to accommodate you. If I were a trout, I would be delighted to swim in your tight, wet, um . . ." Charles swallowed, reining in his imagination.
She threw him a puzzled, but wary, glance. "You're doing it again."
Charles reminded his body to behave itself. His voice was clearer this time. "I'm doing what?"
"Don't look so innocent. You meant something else, didn't you?"
"No."
"Yes, you did."
Charles grinned. ''Well, perhaps."
"Tell me."
"Oh, no, Emma, my love. I most certainly will not tell you. I'll show you—but only once we are married."
Charles chuckled, imagining he could hear her teeth grinding. He looked ahead to the familiar stone building where he had spent so many hours learning Greek and Latin from Reverend Peterson.
"Will we find your father at home?"
"Yes."
Charles noted the sudden chill in Emma's tone. What was this about? "And your sister?"
Emma shrugged. "Meg is probably out grubbing in the dirt somewhere. If Father and—" She paused. Her nostrils flared, her mouth forming a tight line.
"And?" he prompted, pulling the curricle to a stop.
Emma's chin raised and she straightened her shoulders, like a soldier readying for battle teasing thoughts left his mind. He was quite certain he had found the source of Emma's shadows.
". . . and Mrs. Graham," Emma said. "Mrs. Harriet Graham. She's a widow. She helps with the church, arranging flowers and such."
"And?"
"And what, my lord?"
"And why does the thought of Mrs. Harriet Graham, widow, make you stiffen up like you've swallowed a hot poker?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"It can't be the simple fact that she helps with the church, can it?" Charles watched Emma's downcast eyes. "You said 'Father and. . . .' It's the 'and' that's the problem, isn't it? Is this Mrs. Graham a harpy of the worst sort?"
Emma shook her head. "Of course not. Mrs. Graham is a fine member of the congregation."
"But perhaps not such a fine member of your family?"
"Are you going to help me out of this curricle or do I need to leap down?"
"I'll help you, sweetheart." Charles came around and took her by the waist. He didn't slide her down his body as he wanted to, nor did he pull her against him when her feet touched the ground. But he didn't let her go immediately either. He enjoyed the curve of her waist under his hands too much.
To his surprise, she didn't pull away. She stood qui-etly looking down, her eyes hidden by her bonnet.
"Emma, are you all right?"
"Yes. Of course." She glanced up at him, then stepped back. He let her go. "I'm sorry. Come this way."
He followed her inside. The smell hit him first— the smell of learning, of old books, leather, paper, and ink. He had breathed in that scent so often when he was a boy struggling with his Latin declensions. He had breathed it at university, also, but this was better. This was home. Emma's papa had been a kind master. Strict, demanding, but always encouraging. Charles had worked hard to please him.
He had been guilty of wishing Reverend Peterson was his own papa. Perhaps that was one reason he had tolerated Emma. He had thought of her as a little sister.
He certainly did not think of her as a sister now. Emma stopped outside her father's study and knocked deliberately.
"We have company, Papa." "Please, come in."
Emma pushed the door open. Charles froze on the threshold.
Reverend Peterson had aged in the past twenty years. His hair was gray; his cheeks, slightly sunken; the bones of his face, more defined. Charles knew this. He had seen the man just four months earlier
at Paul's funeral. But to see him here, in this study—this room should have been an eddy where time and age did not come.
"My lord," Reverend Peterson was saying, standing. "It is good to see you again. We are all happy you have come home to Knightsdale."
Charles grinned. "Finally. Thank you for not saying it."
Reverend Peterson's smile had not changed. His lips curved only slightly, but his eyes twinkled over his spectacles. "I would never presume to criticize a marquis."
"Out loud."
The vicar's lips twitched, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. "I was just eager to see you in the neighborhood, my lord." He turned to a small woman who'd been sitting in a chair next to his desk. "May I present Mrs. Harriet Graham? Mrs. Graham is relatively new to Knightsdale, my lord, but she has been a very active member of the parish."
"Mrs. Graham." Charles took the woman's hand. He could almost feel Emma bristle. She was still standing stiffly by the door.
"My lord." Mrs. Graham smiled calmly up at him. He liked her immediately. She had a pleasant, comfortable face with warm brown eyes and hair that had once been brown but was now streaked with gray.
So this is the harpy. She looked like a normal, middle-aged woman, not a candidate for evil step-motherhood.
"Reverend, I've come to extend an invitation to both your daughters."
Emma watched Charles take Mrs. Graham's hand. She had not been surprised to find the woman in the study with Papa. Lud, she practically lived at the vicarage. Maybe she would, if Meg moved up to Knightsdale for this house party.
Emma bit her lip. No, she truly could not see Papa breaking God's law, living in sin with a woman— even a jezebel like Harriet Graham.
"A number of ladies will be in attendance who are Miss Margaret Peterson's age. My aunt, Lady Beatrice, thought this might be an excellent opportunity for your younger daughter to get her feet wet in the social pond, as it were, and in familiar surroundings with her older sister to guide her."
"And who will guide her older sister?"
"Papa, I am not a complete cabbage-head. I will do very well."
Emma saw Charles's eyebrow rise, and she flushed. Perhaps her tone had been a bit sharp.
The Naked Marquis Page 3
