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, Claire, 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 bio—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, Na
nny." 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 should 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.
She sat on the window seat, the morning sun warming her back. Her new room was not much larger than her room on the nursery floor, but it was more lavishly appointed. The bedstead, instead of simple beech, was mahogany, and the wardrobe, washstand, and desk were far nicer than even those in her room at the vicarage. And this was one of the smallest bedrooms, left for last-minute guests such as herself. Nanny and the girls were in a larger room across the hall.
She closed her eyes, letting the heat of the sun relax her neck. She had not slept well last night. There had been that ridiculous incident with the ghost. Why hadn't she realized Nanny did not have her spectacles on? She felt so stupid. But she had thought there was an intruder in the nursery, and she could not risk the girls' safety. So she had done the only thing she could think to do—she had sent Claire running to get Charles.
She smiled, remembering his outfit. He had looked so funny. Funny and incredibly attractive. Nanny and Lady Beatrice were correct—Charles had nice legs. Wonderful legs. Not that she had ever seen a pair of bare male legs before, of course.
And not just his legs had been revealed to her interested gaze. His arms, his neck, his shoulders, part of his chest. He'd looked just like a statue of a Greek god, except he was alive. Warm. Flesh and blood.
Suddenly the sun streaming in the window was too hot. She moved to the chair on the other side of the room.
What was the matter with her? Was she sick? She'd spent all night dreaming of Charles. Well, she had dreamt of him before, but now she had so many more details. More, but not quite enough. She did not know how he felt. She flushed. How wanton— she wanted to touch him. To be touched by him. To feel his arms around her. To run her fingers over his muscles, the hair dusting his chest. Was it soft or wiry? And his skin—all that glorious skin—how would it feel under her fingers?
She had dreamt of his kisses also. The first one, the quick, tantalizing brush, and the second, the hot, wet second kiss with his lips and mouth and tong—
She fanned herself with her hand. Her body felt extremely odd thinking of that kiss. She had actually throbbed in a most unusual place last night. The same location felt distressingly damp at the moment. Damp and, well, needy.
Perhaps it was time she married. She had not seriously considered it before, but, as Charles had said, Meg was now seventeen. Certainly her father no longer needed her. He had Mrs. Graham, and, though he had never said so, Emma was convinced he would be happy to have her move out of the vicarage. The only way she could do that was to find a husband.
Perhaps marriage would also cure her of her new . . . yearnings. But she wouldn't marry Charles. She couldn't, even though it appeared that he and his aunt had selected her. She'd thought she'd expire from embarrassment at dinner last night. Lady Beatrice was too plainspoken for her own good—or Emma's good. Surely she would not say such things once the house party arrived!
No, Charles had only suggested she wed him because he didn't want to be bothered courting some society miss. That would change today. Today he would have a selection of attractive young ladies near at hand. He would not have to exert himself in the slightest. He could sit in the drawing room and have them parade past, as if he were choosing a new horse for his stable. There were certain to be any number who were willing to sell themselves for a tide.
She was not one of them. Definitely not. And anyway, it was ludicrous to think Charles would want an aging spinster once he surveyed all the younger possibilities.
She went back to the window. Her new room had a good view of the broad front drive. It was empty now, but in a few hours it would be filled with traveling carriages bringing their sacrificial women. Surely a selection of unattached men would also be in attendance. Charles could choose only one of the ladies—there would have to be a few extra males available.
Perhaps one of those could care for her—for herself, not her breeding potential. It might be possible. In any event, this was the closest she would ever come to a Season and the London Marriage Mart.
She would take this opportunity to do a little shopping.
* * *
"Meg." Emma had seen her
sister arrive and hurried downstairs to meet her.
Meg was scowling. "You are evil, Emma," she hissed under her breath.
"Meg! Why ever would you say such a thing?" True, Emma had not expected Meg to be enthusiastic about the house party invitation, but still—it was a wonderful opportunity for her to get some social experience.
"You're the one who put this house party bee in Papa's bonnet, aren't you?"
Emma choked. "Papa doesn't wear a bonnet."
Meg was not amused. "You know exactly what I mean. Did you or did you not come to the vicarage and invite me to this ridiculous house party?"
"I believe Lord Knightsdale extended the invitation. And the party is not ridiculous. You can stand to move among the ton a bit."
"Don't split hairs. You were there, weren't you? You could have prevented the invitation. And I don't want to move among the ton. The ton is a collection of mutton-headed coxcombs and spoiled chits. I want to be out in Squire Begley's north field. I found a very interesting patch of— Lud, what is that?"
Emma turned to see Lady Beatrice approaching. She was attired in a stunning gown of mulberry and pea green today, with an assortment of ostrich feathers waving among her gray curls.
Meg definitely looked stunned. Her eyes widened and she darted a disbelieving look at Emma. Emma frowned at her, willing her sister to have the manners not to comment on their hostess's unusual fashion sense.
"Lady Beatrice, may I introduce my sister Meg?"
Meg curtsied. "Thank you for inviting me, Lady Beatrice."
"You are very welcome, dear." Lady Beatrice turned to Mr. Lambert. "Have George take Miss Margaret Peterson's bags up to the yellow bedroom, will you, Lambert?"
"Certainly, my lady."
Lady Beatrice smiled and turned back to Meg. "You know, I have wonderful plans for your sister." Emma stiffened.
"You do?" Meg grinned. It was obvious she had noticed Emma's discomfiture. "What might those plans be?"
Emma prayed for the floor to open and swallow her, but, wonders of wonders, Lady Beatrice contented herself with an arch look.
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