"I am very glad to hear that, sweetheart."
Charles had not wanted to lead this parade of idiots around the lake. He had wanted to spend time with Emma. Alone. Persuading her to accept his suit. They could investigate that ridiculous cottage, for instance, to see if it had a comfortable bed and a sturdy lock. He should definitely look into that issue. One never knew when one might be caught out in a storm.
At least Stockley had finally removed himself. Charles took Emma's hand and placed it on his arm. He wanted her with him—and if she were firmly attached to his side, he could not get stuck with one of the giggling girls.
Alvord and Westbrooke had wisely dodged this treat. He would have a few choice words for them when he saw them later. Besides Mr. Stockley, the only men—and he used that term very loosely— assisting him in escorting the ladies were three beef-witted clodpolls. Mr. William Dunlee, a portly youngster otherwise known as "Chubs," was the Earl of Dunlee's second son. Pimply Mr. Frampton— "Spots"—was the oldest son of a baron. And Mr. Oldston, aptly christened 'Toad" in honor of the bulging eyes that were a family trait, was Sir Thomas's heir. They had all attended university together and had managed to escape without cluttering their brains with a scintilla of knowledge, as far as he could tell.
Where had his aunt collected such an assortment of cabbage-heads? If these sprigs and giggling misses represented the future of British nobility, England was in serious trouble. Right now Chubs, Spots, and Toad were tossing bachelor's buttons at each other. Their coats and breeches bristled with the burs, and the silly young girls watching them were laughing as if this was the funniest spectacle they had ever witnessed.
"Shall we stroll ahead, Miss Peterson?"
"That would be lovely."
"You must save me from these idiots, Emma," he said as soon as they had walked out of earshot. "They are slightly juvenile."
"Slightly? I had charge of boys on the Peninsula much younger than these three. Some were not fully grown, yet they made admirable, brave soldiers."
"I imagine war has a way of maturing a person."
"Yes, you're right about that." He looked out over the lake, remembering when he had last walked this path. He had been a little younger than the three buffoons by the cottage. Surely he had not been as inane as they?
He closed his eyes for a moment, flinching from his memories. Perhaps he had been, and not so innocently stupid, either. He'd been aimless and angry when he'd come down from university. He'd needed to do something—and that something often enough had been drinking, gambling, and whoring.
When James's wife, Sarah—an American and a fervent republican—had denigrated the British system of primogeniture, Charles had argued that not all heirs were like James's evil cousin Richard, ready to murder to inherit. He'd insisted he did not envy his brother.
He had spoken with complete sincerity. He had lied.
He helped Emma navigate a tree root growing across the path.
He had never coveted the title, true, but he had envied Paul. Paul had never been aimless. Never. He had always known his purpose. At twenty, facing the shallow world of the ton, Charles had craved that certainty.
"If I hadn't followed James into the army, I don't know what would have become of me. I probably would have ended up a dissipated rakehell."
"Nonsense. I'm certain you would have done well at whatever you tried."
He looked down at Emma. She had spoken so matter-of-factly, as if there was no question he would accomplish any task he set himself.
"You really believe that, don't you?"
"Of course." Her clear, golden-brown eyes calmly stared back up at him from behind her spectacles. He remembered how she had looked at him when she was a girl. That had been hero worship—this was different. This was the confidence of a grown woman. She believed in him.
Her trust was built on air, of course—on girlhood fantasies. She didn't know him. She hadn't seen him for twenty years, since he was a boy. Yet he wanted to believe she was right. He wanted her certainty next to him always.
"Marry me, Emma. Please." Did he sound too enthusiastic? She must think him a lunatic. But it would be a sensible decision on her part. He tempered his voice. "Our marriage would solve so many problems. We'd get rid of these London idiots. My nieces would get a mother and you'd get a home of your own. Your father could marry Mrs. Graham without disturbing your peace." He grinned at her, leaning closer. "And I'd get the lovely opportunity—many lovely opportune-ities—to produce an heir. What do you say?"
Emma's stinging slap was eloquence itself.
"Put the fish on the pillow, Claire. I think that will work best."
Isabelle stood in Lady Caroline's room, Queen Bess in her arms. Her highness had been gracious about accompanying them once Isabelle had fed her a bit of trout. She meowed now and squirmed a bit. Isabelle adjusted her grasp.
"In a minute, kitty. Claire's making you a nice snack."
"Mrrow!"
"The pillow, Claire. Put most of it on the pillow. That's where the lady's face will be."
"I know." Claire grinned. "We want to make sure the piggy lady's face swells."
"Right—but don't put too much, either. If she smells the fish, she'll be suspicious. She won't put her face down in fish smell."
"Cook said this fish is very fresh." Claire put one more fish flake on the pillow, "There. Done."
Isabelle deposited Queen Bess. Her highness paced the coverlet and then sat on the pillow, daintily consuming every fishy morsel. She searched for more tidbits and, finding none, licked her paws, yawned, stretched, and hopped off the bed, slipping out of the room.
"I think that should do it," Isabelle said.
Claire skipped to the door. "I can't wait until the piggy lady gets back from the lake."
"Let's hope she lies down for a nap before dinner."
Emma was so angry she could barely see straight. She strode blindly down the path. She heard Charles call behind her, but she ignored him. Then she heard one of the lovely young London misses talking to him. Piggy Lady Caroline, she hoped. The buffle-headed cods-head deserved to spend some time with that harpy.
She wished she'd had another china dog at hand. She would have smashed it over Lord Arrogance's head. Marry him just to solve his problems? To enable him to get an heir and get rid of his unwelcome female pursuers? The overweening coxcomb! The mutton-headed, jinglebrained fribble! And how dare he bring up Mrs. Graham? Mrs. Graham was not a problem. Papa would never marry the woman. He respected his family too much.
She should be home now, taking care of him. But Isabelle and Claire needed her, too. She couldn't leave them to the callous, mean, spiteful, evil London girls.
What if Charles married one of those girls? What would happen to Isabelle and Claire?
She couldn't marry Charles just to protect his nieces—could she?
She stumbled down the bank to the grotto. She had always loved its quiet peacefulness. She needed that serenity now to collect her composure.
Unfortunately, she was not the only one who had sought the grotto's solitude. She stopped at the entrance and stared. Mr. Stockley stood next to the statue of Poseidon. He was behaving in the oddest manner. First he pulled on Poseidon's trident. Then he tried to twist the statue's arm. He knocked on its chest and looked in its mouth. He even stuck his hand into the small pool at its base and felt around in the water. Finally he stood, dried his hand on his breeches, and shrugged, moving on to the stone wall. He poked his fingers into the chinks between the rocks.
Obviously, he would prefer to be alone. She turned to leave, but her foot sent a loose pebble skittering across the ground to bounce off the wall. Mr. Stockley gasped and whirled to face her.
"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 offen
sive 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—urn. 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. 1 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 involved. 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?"
&n
bsp; "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.
The Naked Marquis Page 12
