The Naked Marquis

by Sally MacKenzie

  "What I mean is, you are still young—too young to be constantly worried about propriety."

  Mrs. Graham chuckled. "I thought it was the young girls who most had to worry about propriety, Lavinia."

  "And I am not young," Emma said. This was an exceedingly stupid conversation. "My sister, Meg, is young."

  "Your sister Meg is a veritable infant. Children her age need to be chaperoned. You, however . . ." Mrs. Begley paused, tapping her teacup gently against her teeth.

  "You are a second-day rosebud," Miss Russell said.

  Everyone stared as if one of the chairs had spoken. Miss Russell blinked back at them.

  "Whatever do you mean, Blanche?" Mrs. Begley asked.

  "Miss Peterson—her petals have unfurled just a little. Relaxed. Opened up."

  Lady Beatrice snorted. "Not likely."

  "No, I see what Blanche is saying," Miss Rachel said. "She's right."

  Miss Esther nodded. "Meg is like a new bud, fresh, tight. . ."

  ". . . but Emma's been out in the sun longer. Been blown about more."

  "Had more bees visit—"

  "Miss Esther, I'm not certain where this metaphor is going, but it is beginning to sound quite inappropriate." Mrs. Graham's voice had a distinct edge.

  "They are only saying Emma has enough experience to be interesting," Mrs. Begley said. "I quite agree."

  Emma sat bolt upright.

  "I do not have any experience."

  "Not of an intimate nature, of course. At least, I assume . . . ?"

  "Lavinia!"

  "Well, Harriet, she certainly has more life experience than a seventeen-year-old chit," Mrs. Begley said.

  Emma's ears were still burning with the word "intimate." She snorted, trying to act as if the conversation were not galloping away from her. "Oh, yes. Nine years more experience, to be exact."

  "And each of those years is important, miss. Not all of marriage occurs in the bedroom, you know. Men do allow one to emerge from the sheets to eat, read the papers, converse. It is vastly more appealing to have a wife with a few interesting thoughts knocking around in her brain box—or his brain box in the case of one's husband, of course."

  Sheets? Emma felt a light flush travel up her neck. The image of Lord Knightsdale scantily attired in his bedsheets the night he'd come hunting ghosts in the nursery flashed into her mind.

  "You are . . . seasoned, Miss Peterson," Mrs. Begley said. "Much more attractive to a man with a discriminating palate."

  "Mrs. Begley," Mrs. Graham said, "you make Emma sound like a beefsteak."

  "That could do with a little more seasoning, unless I miss my guess." Lady Beatrice added another splash of brandy to her tea. "Lavinia is correct, Miss Peterson. You worry too much about propriety. You need to take a few risks—have some fun. You are not a girl in her first Season—and yes, I know you've never had a Season, but the concept holds. Society, at least here in the country, will give you a little more freedom than you seem willing to give yourself." She held up her purloined brandy bottle. "A little deviousness is all to the good, Miss Peterson. It's a dull woman who knows only propriety."

  "And no man wants a dull woman," Lady Begley said.

  "Especially not my nephew." Emma spewed a mouthful of tea back into her teacup.

  "Did I miss something?" Mrs. Graham asked.

  "No. There's nothing to miss. Nothing at all. Lady Beatrice has simply imbibed too much spirits. She is befuddled. Bemused. Confused." Emma was horrified. Now all the ladies of the Society knew Lady Beatrice's matrimonial opinion—ladies who had little sense of decorum and tongues that ran on wheels.

  "I am not confused, miss. Charles needs an heir; his nieces need a mama. Whom else is he to choose? I mean, look at your competition. Lady Caroline . . ."

  Miss Esther oinked.

  "Miss Oldston."

  Miss Rachel neighed.

  Lady Beatrice nodded. "And she looks remarkably like a toad as well. Entire family does. Then there's Miss Frampton."

  "Spotty." Mrs. Begley wrinkled her nose.

  "Miss Pelham."

  "Nasty mother."

  Everyone stared at Miss Russell again.

  "Well, it's true. Miss Pelham has a very nasty mother. I wouldn't want her as a mother-in-law."

  "Exactly." Lady Beatrice nodded, sending her plumes bobbing. "That leaves only you."

  "And Meg and Lizzie and Miss Haverford, as well as countless ladies of the ton not present at this house party."

  Lady Beatrice rolled her eyes. "Meg is only interested in weeds, and Lizzie is only interested in the Earl of Westbrooke. Miss Haverford is one of Miss Russell's new rosebuds—too young. I just cannot see Charles offering for her."

  "Miss Haverford is not too young," Emma said. "She is seventeen, the same age as Meg and Lizzie. A perfectly acceptable age for marriage."

  Lady Beatrice snorted. "Not for Charles. He would be so bored, he'd fall asleep before he could—"

  "Lady Beatrice, please." Mrs. Graham scowled at Charles's aunt. "Emma is a gently bred, unmarried lady."

  Lady Beatrice scowled back. "And she'll stay that way if she doesn't bestir herself. Charles is a plum waiting to be picked. She can have him if she wants. She just needs to stretch out her hand and pluck him off the bachelor tree."

  Mrs. Begley grabbed the brandy bottle. "Gawd, Lady Bea, don't go poetic on us."

  "Well, it's true. Part of grabbing a husband is finding one who is ripe. Charles is. The tide is sitting heavy on his shoulders. Someone will pick him before the year's out—may as well be Miss Peterson." Lady Beatrice leaned toward Emma. "Go on, girl. Go harvest the man before some other chit beats you to him."

  Emma stared back at Lady Beatrice. How did one respond to such a statement? That she wanted something more from marriage?

  But what, exactly? Love, of course, but what of the disturbing feelings that flooded her whenever she thought of Charles's body hard against hers?

  "Well, I believe we have wandered in matrimonial horticulture long enough," Mrs. Graham said, smiling. "This speculation is groundless until Emma has received an offer from Lord Knightsdale. And I'm certain she would prefer to consider the subject in private, wouldn't you, dear?"

  Emma made some noise that Mrs. Graham must have taken as agreement. The older woman directed the conversation into more acceptable channels. It flowed around Emma—gossip of local families, of the London house party guests. Emma was grateful—the first positive feeling she'd had for Mrs. Graham since she realized the woman was more than just another parish lady to her father.

  She tried to think clearly, but she could not get the images, the sensations, of her encounter in the grotto with Lord Knightsdale out of her mind. His smell. His taste. The silky-roughness of his tongue filling her mouth.

  She felt hot. Melting. At least something was definitely damp.

  She stared down at her teacup. Perhaps disgusting Mr. Stockley was correct—perhaps she did have . . . urges. She thought of the door between her bedchamber and Lord Knightsdale's. The door that had no key. The door that was always unlocked.

  She waved her hand in front of her face in a vain effort to cool her blood.

  "Are you all right, dear?" Mrs. Graham asked softly.

  Emma nodded. She hoped none of the other ladies noted her flushed cheeks. What would they say if they knew she had received an offer of sorts? Well, doubtless Lady Beatrice would consider Charles's words a full-fledged marriage proposal, but Emma did not. She wanted talk of love, not convenience. Of passion, not practicalities. Was that too much to ask?

  Probably. Charles was a marquis, after all. For him, marriage was a necessary duty.

  But if she did hear words of love—would she marry him then?

  Ridiculous. She would not consider it. She was certain he would speak of love when pigs flew.

  She did not expect to see porcine flight in her lifetime.

  Lud! Emma stuck her head out of her bedchamber and listened. What in the world was that noise?r />
  "Aaahhh! Mama! Achoo! Aaahhh."

  Lady Caroline erupted from her room and flew down the hall, screaming and sneezing. More people poked their heads into the corridor. Emma saw Meg and walked down to her sister's room.

  "What's going on, Emma?"

  They watched Lady Caroline pound on her mother's door.

  "I have no idea."

  Lady Dunlee's maid finally answered the banging.

  "Yes, m'lady? Oh! Oh, my!" The maid threw her apron over her face and started wailing.

  "Oh, for God's sake, Mary." Lady Dunlee's sharp voice could be heard over the din. "What is all the caterwauling about? Can't a body have a moment's peace—" Lady Dunlee appeared at her door. Her mouth dropped open, her eyes widened, and then she started screeching.

  Lady Beatrice brushed past Emma, Queen Bess following leisurely behind her. "Lady Dunlee, please, calm yourself."

  "Calm myself? Calm myself! I'll calm myself. Look at my daughter."

  Emma looked along with all the other house-guests in the corridor. Lady Caroline's eyes were swollen to narrow slits; her face was covered with raised, red splotches; and her nose was streaming. She sniffed, sneezed, and scratched.

  "I see." Lady Beatrice cleared her throat. "I'm sorry Lady Caroline is indisposed."

  "Indisposed? You call this indisposed? I call this a disaster."

  "Well, it certainly is unfortunate. Perhaps she would feel better if she lay down?"

  Lady Caroline screamed and hid her face in her mother's shoulder.

  "No?" Lady Beatrice rocked back on her heels. "Precisely what is the problem, Lady Dunlee?"

  "That!" Lady Dunlee pointed at Queen Bess, who had decided to sit by Lady Beatrice's skirts and clean her hind leg. "That creature is the problem."

  "Lady Dunlee, do not point at my cat in such a fashion." Lady Beatrice moved to shield Queen Bess. "I am sure she did not mean to distress your daughter."

  "Ha! I'll have you know that Lady Caroline is very sensitive to cats."

  "It was on my pillow, mama. I know it was. I was fine when I lay down to rest."

  Lady Dunlee straightened to her full height "What was your cat doing on my daughter's bed?"

  "I have no idea. Queen Bess is not partial to pork."

  "Pork?" Lady Dunlee frowned so hard her eyebrows met in a V above her nose. "Why are you talking about pork?"

  "Just that Bess is a very intelligent animal. I would have thought she'd have taken one look at your daughter and determined there could be nothing of interest in her room."

  Lady Dunlee drew a scandalized breath.

  "Lady Beatrice, are you comparing my daughter to a . . . a pig?"

  "Yes."

  Lady Caroline sobbed louder as the assembled onlookers tried unsuccessfully to muffle their laughter.

  "Please have my husband and son fetched, and our carriage brought round," Lady Dunlee said. "We are leaving."

  Lady Beatrice smiled. "Have a lovely trip."

  "Poor Lady Caroline."

  Meg snorted. "You don't mean that."

  Emma laughed. "No, I don't, but I feel as though I should. She did look so miserable—but all I could think of was how her face now matched her manners. She's a rather miserable young lady."

  "She surely is." Meg turned to go back into her room.

  "Uh, Meg?"

  "Yes?"

  Emma fidgeted with her skirt. "I do wonder how Queen Bess got into Lady Caroline's room—I thought the girl was rather careful to keep her door closed."

  Meg shrugged. "Perhaps she forgot this time." She stepped farther into her room. Emma remained on the threshold.

  "Are you having a good time, Meg? I hardly ever see you."

  Meg turned to face Emma. "Emma, do you want to come in?"

  "Well, yes, if you'd like me to. I do have a few minutes. It would be nice to chat. I was wondering what you've been up to. You didn't go walking with the rest of the young ladies this afternoon."

  "I didn't go walking because walking sedately around the lake is boring. I have walked around that lake before and in better company."

  "Better company?"

  "My own. Without the nasty, brainless London misses and their idiotic escorts."

  "But you are supposed to be getting some social polish, Meg."

  "I don't want that kind of social polish. I know not to eat my food with my hands or talk with my mouth full. I don't need to know how to backstab and belittle."

  "But. . ." Emma looked around Meg's room for the first time. She blinked. Every horizontal surface but the bed was covered with vegetation. Twigs and flowers were arranged on sheets of paper on the desk. Bits of crockery with green things lined the ledge by the window seat. An assortment of leaves covered the dressing table. "Meg."

  "Don't start, Emma."

  "But what are you doing?"

  "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm collecting specimens, of course. I don't get over to Knightsdale often, you know. I've found a number of interesting plants here."

  Emma surveyed the mess before her but decided for once that she did not want to argue with Meg. She was not Meg's mother.

  Sudden tears pricked her eyes. She batted them away.

  "Meg, what do you think of Mrs. Graham?"

  Meg gave her a sharp look. "What do you mean?"

  Emma walked over to examine the greenery by the window seat "Do you think Papa is going to marry her?"

  "Probably."

  "Doesn't that bother you? Doesn't it bother you that she's taking Mama's place?"

  "Emma . . ." Meg clasped her hands behind her back and sighed. "Would you care to sit down?"

  "I can't."

  Meg looked around the room. Even the chairs were covered with twigs or leaves. "Oh, yes. I see. Sorry. Um, we could sit on the bed."

  "No, I don't mean that." Emma looked at Meg. "I'm too agitated to sit."

  "Ah. Well, um, the thing is, Emma, I really don't remember Mama. I wasn't even one year old when she died. You've been all the mother I've known."

  "And you don't mind Mrs. Graham taking"— Emma swallowed more tears—"taking my place?"

  "Emma." Meg rubbed her forehead. "I haven't needed a mama for years. You're my sister. You will always be my sister. I'm sure you will still feel quite free to tell me what you think of my conduct, my plans, my future. I don't foresee much change in our relationship."

  "Really?"

  "Really."

  Emma sniffed and sat down on Meg's bed. Meg sat on the other side.

  "But I do think Mrs. Graham will be good for Papa," Meg said.

  "How? How could she be good for Papa?"

  "He likes her, Emma. I think he loves her. He smiles more now."

  "He smiled before."

  "Yes, I know, but this is different. He just seems . . . happier, as if he is excited by something besides his musty old books and translations."

  "But he has us." Emma plucked at Meg's counterpane.

  "I think he's realizing he won't have us forever. He expects us to marry eventually. Then he'll be all alone."

  "No."

  "Yes, Emma. Not that I intend to marry soon, but I do think I might marry some day. And you should consider it, too. I know Papa doesn't want you to sacrifice your life for his. You have already done enough."

  "I am not sacrificing my life. What a ridiculous notion."

  "I know you don't consider it a sacrifice, but think—don't you want a house of your own?"

  "I have the vicarage to take care of."

  "But what about children? I would think you would want children of your own."

  "Perhaps." Emma thought about Meg as a child— and Isabelle and Claire. She did like children. If she stayed home and kept house for her father, she would not have children to raise, that was true. And if her father married Mrs. Graham, she would not have a home to run, either. She would be completely superfluous.

  She wrapped her arms around her middle.

  "Papa won't marry Mrs. Graham if I don't want him t
o."

  "Perhaps—but you don't want to rule his life like that, do you? Use his love to control him, to limit him? He's never done that to us. He's always let us follow our hearts."

  "What do you mean? Where have we followed our hearts? We are still at home, aren't we?"

  "That's my point. Papa lets me go off and muck around with my weeds and things. He didn't force you to have a Season—nor did he force me, even though it would have been so easy for him to have sent me to London with Lizzie this spring. He never insisted you marry—and you are certainly past the age where many fathers would have done so."

  Emma looked away from Meg. "I never had any offers."

  "Because you were never interested in any of the local men."

  "What do you mean?" Emma frowned. "I've always danced at the assemblies, haven't I? I have been perfectly polite and pleasant."

  "Yes, polite and pleasant. Not passionate."

  "Meg! What do you know of passion?"

  "Nothing, really. But I have eyes, Emma. I watch, and I am actually quite a skilled observer." Meg chuckled. "Perhaps it comes from noticing subtle differences in similar plants. In any event, I can tell when there is romance in the air. When a girl is interested in a man, she sparkles. Her eyes brighten, her skin flushes, she breathes quickly. She becomes more animated. You always look the same whether you are talking to an elderly chaperone or an extremely eligible young lord."

  "Ridiculous. I am sure you are wrong. I believe Papa never pushed either of us to swim in social waters because he was too absorbed in his books to care."

  Meg laughed. "Well, there is that. He does prefer to avoid a bother, and up until now—until Mrs. Graham moved to the village—I think he was content to let things stay the way they were. But I don't believe he is content any longer."

  "No?" Emma had not noticed any indication that her father was restless. Well, there had been that incident in the study when she had walked in on him and Mrs. Graham. She much preferred not to contemplate that.

  "Emma, if Papa truly loves Mrs. Graham, he should marry her."

  "Nonsense. He doesn't love her. He's infatuated, that is all. I suppose Mrs. Graham is attractive for a woman her age. She knows how to entice a man. I don't fault her, really. I'm sure the life of a widow can be quite precarious. I just wish she would find another victim to assure her a comfortable future."