"Emma, you don't believe that, do you?"
Emma shrugged. "I don't know what I believe. I do know I can't live in the same house with that woman."
"I don't think you will have to."
"No?" Relief flooded Emma. She smiled. "You think Papa will come to his senses?"
"I don't think it's Papa who needs to see sense."
Emma frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I mean I think you won't be living at the vicarage much longer. I told you I'm quite observant—though in this case, a blind man could read the signs. When you talk to Lord Knightsdale, you do not look as though you are speaking to an elderly chaperone."
"What?"
Meg grinned. "The moment Lord Knightsdale approaches, your eyes brighten, your face flushes, and your bosom heaves."
Emma's eyes widened and her chin dropped to the bedclothes. She stared at Meg. She couldn't mean . . . Surely she wasn't insinuating . . . ? She snapped her mouth closed and glared.
"I'll heave something at you, you miserable excuse for a sister!"
Meg fell back on the bed, laughing, as Emma grabbed the nearest pillow and swung it at her head.
Chapter 9
Charles stared at the pile of papers on his desk. He needed a secretary.
No, he needed a wife. Emma. He had been making some interesting progress with his courtship in the grotto. If only Lady Caroline had not come hunting him.
There was a scratching at the door. "Come."
Mr. Lambert appeared, bearing a large pile of letters. "The post, my lord."
"Put it down on the desk, Lambert."
Lambert blinked at the mountains already occupying the desk's surface.
"Where, my lord?"
Charles sighed. "Good question. Just hand it here, then."
"Very good, my lord. And I presume you have heard the news that Lord Dunlee and his family have departed?"
"Really? That's a bit sudden, isn't it? Did he give any reason?"
"I believe it was Lady Dunlee who insisted on leaving, my lord."
"Lady Dunlee? Why ever would she wish to go? I would have said she was rather intent on the festivities." Intent? She had all the focus of a French officer on a battle line. He had definitely thought she'd meant to take him prisoner for her piggy daughter.
Lambert cleared his throat. "One of the upstairs maids confided to Mrs. Lambert that Lady Beatrice insulted Lady Caroline."
Charles raised his brows. "Odd. Aunt Bea doesn't usually go about savaging young misses."
"I believe Lady Caroline insulted Queen Bess."
"Queen Bess? Why would Aunt Bea get in a pother over British history?"
"Not the monarch, my lord. The feline Queen Bess. Apparently Lady Caroline is sensitive to cats. Lady Beatrice's pet got into the young lady's room, and she was suffering the consequences—Lady Caroline, that is, not Queen Bess. Very . . . spotty, Mrs. Lambert said."
"I see. Thank you for informing me, Lambert."
So, Charles thought as Lambert closed the door behind him, one less young lady to avoid. Too bad Aunt hadn't offended Lady Caroline earlier. If she had left before the lake walk, his interlude with Emma in the grotto might have been significantly more satisfying. He might even now be an engaged man.
He needed to plan his campaign carefully. If her response at the grotto was any indication, Emma was not indifferent to him, but she did have some odd bee in her bonnet. She had never explained why she had slapped him. He had only asked her to marry him. He had not even kissed her—that had come later, and she had shown no signs of wanting to slap him then.
No, no signs at all. He shifted in his chair, thinking of her softness and her heat, the way she had melted, had opened to him. God. And it was her fault he had kissed her at all. She had been staring at his lips in a most hungry fashion. It was only polite to give her a taste.
He'd be happy to give her more than a taste. He would dearly love to taste her, every inch, every curve, every secret spot.
"Busy, Charles?"
Charles shook himself free of the sweet lust that had heated his brain. "Not really. Come in, Robbie."
Robbie surveyed his desk as he approached. "Looks like you should be busy."
"I know. I think I've attended to the most pressing business." Charles stared down at the mess before him. "But I'm not entirely certain."
"You need a secretary."
"I know, damn it. I need a lot of things since my brother died and I inherited the blasted title. I can't accomplish everything at once."
"Right." Robbie helped himself to the brandy decanter. "Sounds like you need a drink, too."
"Thank you." Charles took a glass from him. "Your absence this afternoon didn't help matters. I was stuck acting nursemaid to the young misses and jinglebrained boys Aunt Bea has collected for this bloody house party."
Robbie grinned, slouching into the chair next to Charles's desk. "Why do you think I was so quick to volunteer to fetch Alvord's sister? I damned well didn't want to be tramping around your lovely lake with that collection of cabbage-heads."
"I thought maybe you wanted some time with luscious Lizzie."
"Lizzie—luscious?" Robbie laughed. "Little Lizzie is like a sister, Charles. You know that. Lovely, charming, but . . . luscious? She's barely out of leading strings."
"Not exactly, Robbie. She's seventeen. She made her come out this Season. Alvord could be receiving offers for her now—he may already have a handful."
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 tide. 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 tells 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 ton less 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 thoug
h 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. "1 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.
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