If she married Charles, she would be the mistress of Knightsdale.
She walked down toward the lake. She liked Mrs. Lambert, the housekeeper. She would have no trouble getting along with her. She loved Isabelle and Claire. She would be close to Meg, able to keep an eye on her. And she'd be close to her father.
What was she thinking? The house, the children— none of that really mattered. What was important was Charles. Did he love her—or was she just a simple solution to a pressing problem? Could she stand to enter into a marriage of convenience?
No, not with Charles. Not the way he made her feel.
She needed him too much. She knew it. She would hang on him when he was in the country and pine for him when he was in Town. That would not be good for either of them. He would come to resent her—and her heart would break.
She heard Prinny yapping up ahead.
"Prinny!"
The yapping only got louder. Had he found Meg? Did she need help? Emma picked up her skirts and ran down to the lake.
She could hear Prinny, but she couldn't see him. He must be behind the bushes ahead of her. She ducked under a hanging branch and between two overgrown shrubs.
"Pri—"
She skidded to a stop, gaping.
"Good morning, Miss Peterson."
"Uh." She scrunched her eyes tightly closed and then opened them again. The vision had not gone away. The Marquis of Knightsdale was standing under a tree by the lake, bare as the day he was born. Well, not quite so bare. He did have a towel wrapped around his waist—a towel that Prinny was frantically trying to remove.
She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. She had gotten a generous look at him the night he had come ghost-hunting in the nursery, but then he'd been partly wrapped in a sheet. Quite a bit more of his glorious body was displayed for her inspection this morning. The strong column of his neck; the broad expanse of his shoulders; the muscles bulging in his upper arms as he clutched the towel; the light brown curls sprinkled over his chest, trailing down to his navel and below—how far below, she couldn't say. The towel blocked her view. Fortunately. Yes. She was very fortunate the towel blocked her view.
Prinny gave another tug on the corner he'd gotten in his mouth and the towel slipped slightly.
"Do you suppose you could call off your dog, sweetheart? Unless you would like to see even more of me than you are currently studying? Not that I object, of course. I am always happy to oblige a lady. I'll just let Prinny have the blasted towel, shall I?"
"No!" Emma leapt to grab Prinny's collar. She reattached his lead and tried to persuade him to release his prize. She struggled to keep her eyes on Prinny's jaws, not Charles's legs. His bare feet. His toes.
"Prinny, bad dog!" she said. Her voice sounded weak to her own ears. Forget the marquis's toes, she told herself. "Prinny, let go now!"
Prinny growled. He was not interested in cooperating.
"I'm sorry, my lord," she said, looking up the length of him from where she crouched on the ground with Prinny. "It looks like—oh!" She stared at his towel. There was a very large bulge poking out from his body. "Have you dislocated something?"
"What do you mean?"
"Something is not right, my lord. See?" She reached toward the object.
"Don't touch."
Emma sat back quickly. "There's no need to shout. Are you in much pain?"
His entire body—at least all that she could see— turned bright red.
"Yes. I am in intense pain. I am going to die in about five seconds if you do not turn around and close your eyes this moment."
His voice sounded clipped. She looked all the way up to his face. His mouth was pulled tight.
"Can't I do something to help?"
"Yes, you can. I am positive you can cure my condition, but not today. Today you will turn around, put your hands over your eyes, and keep them there until I tell you to remove them. No peeking. Do you understand?"
"I am not one of your privates, my lord."
"Privates. Oh, God. Just do as you are told, Miss Peterson. Please? I beg of you."
"Oh, very well." Emma did not really want to add to his suffering, but she did not care to be shouted at. Still, she supposed allowances needed to be made for a man in obvious pain. She turned . . . but if she put her hands over her eyes, she'd have to let go of Prinny. "My lord," she said, beginning to turn back.
"Freeze, Miss Peterson."
"But. . . oh!" Emma felt a jerk on the lead and then watched Prinny run off down the lake, dragging Charles's towel in his mouth.
She slapped her hands over her eyes.
Charles struggled to get his breeches on. He looked longingly at the lake. He needed an icy dip even more now. To have Emma examining him in such detail. . . God, it had been slow torture. And she didn't even know what she was doing to him— what she was looking at. He would dearly love to show her. If only he could take her up to his bed now. He could relieve some of his tension. A little relief would make buttoning his bloody breeches easier.
If he didn't marry her soon, he was going to go mad, utterly and completely mad.
"My lord, you should not be out here without your clothing on."
"You sound like a governess, Miss Peterson." He finally got the last button closed. "Are you peeking?"
"No!" she squeaked. "But you should not be out here swimming like that. Anyone could come along."
"Anyone did come along." Charles tugged his shirt over his head.
"Exactly. Meg is probably out here somewhere, looking for specimens. What if she had stumbled on to you? Or Miss Oldston or Miss Pelham or—"
"Or the patronesses of Almack's. Sweetheart, the London ladies will not stir from their beds for hours—and when they do, they are not going to come running outdoors. They will have their chocolate and fiddle with their toilette and maybe make it downstairs by luncheon. I am not worried about encountering any of the London misses by the lake when the sun is barely up."
"Well, what about Meg, then?"
"Meg is—or was when I came out;—in the kitchen, talking to Cook. I warned her I was going for a swim."
Charles smiled, remembering Meg's knowing grin. He'd wager Meg had a good idea why he'd felt the need for a morning dip. Certainly more of a clue than her lovely, oblivious sister.
"You can uncover your eyes now, Emma. I'm decent"
Emma spun around. Her eyes immediately fell to the flap on his breeches.
"You are sure you are all right, my lord?" She reached out again as if to touch him. Charles waited, hoping, but no, she stopped and pulled back her hand. "You do look better. There was something clearly amiss with your anatomy earlier. Did you notice?" She flushed and straightened her shoulders. "I know I should not be raising such an intimate topic, but you seemed in such pain. Have you had a surgeon examine you?"
"God have mercy, woman, there is nothing amiss with my anatomy, as I will be delighted to show you once you agree to marry me." He grabbed her and pulled her into his arms. "Perhaps I'll show you sooner, if you continue to torture me in this fashion."
"My lord!"
He had had enough of looking and talking. It was time for touching—past time.
She struggled for an instant and then sagged against him. Her mouth opened readily when his lips touched hers. She was learning.
He tasted her slowly, thoroughly. There was no rush. They were sheltered here by the lake, and it was true that no one else from the house party would be out this early. And if they were, and Miss Peterson were compromised? Well, his intentions were honorable. Completely honorable.
She made a funny little noise in her throat, like a cat purring. He leaned back against the tree trunk, taking her with him, stroking the side of her breast. She whimpered, arching into his hand. He rubbed her nipple with his thumb, and she melted against him. He ran one hand down her back to her bottom, pressing her against his poor, aching anatomy.
He really, really wished there was a nice, soft bed handy.
Emma w
as melting. Her limbs felt heavy, her knees were useless—she could no longer stand on her own. There was an aching emptiness low in her belly and a disturbing wet throbbing between her legs. Was she ill? She certainly felt fevered. She should move back from Charles. She would, in just a moment. Once she was capable of movement.
Then his finger touched her nipple, and she was no longer capable of thought. Feeling, yes. Lud, she could feel him. She needed to feel him.
His lips grazed her jaw. She turned slightly, tilting her head back against his upper arm, giving his mouth room to roam where he wished. Where she wished.
His lips touched a spot high on her neck, just below her ear. Tendrils of warmth, of need, coiled through her. He moved slowly down her throat, leaving soft, moist kisses, taking her breath away. She moaned.
She felt so warm. Hot. Her breasts felt swollen. She needed him to touch her. She needed to feel his hands on her as she had the night before. She panted, arching, thrusting her breasts higher, begging him silently to touch her.
He did. One hand cradled her jaw, stroked her neck, her shoulders while the other pressed her lower body close. His leg came between hers and she nestled against him. The pressure of his hard, muscled thigh against her ache felt wonderful. She rocked.
"That's it, love. Yes, Emma. Sweet."
His hand loosened the neck of her dress and slipped it down. His fingers—his bare fingers— touched her skin. It was shocking. Or would be shocking if she had any ability to feel shock. She didn't. Her emotions were too occupied with this strange, fevered need that consumed her.
And then his lips touched her breast. She threaded her fingers through his hair, holding him close. His tongue rasped against her nipple. His mouth sucked. His other hand kneaded her bottom, urging her to rock harder against his thigh.
Something was happening to her.
"Charles." Her voice sounded thin and reedy.
"Shh, Emma. It's all right. Come on, sweetheart. You can do it. Come on, love. I'm here. It's all right. I have you. I won't let you go."
Emma felt wild. Wanton. Mad. Desperate.
Something was happening. She was so tense. Charles sucked on one breast and then the other. She felt the cool morning air and the sun on her nipples. She was exposed for the world, for Charles to see. She was beyond caring. She was possessed by need. She panted and writhed against Charles. He grabbed her bottom in both hands, guiding her, helping her rub against him.
It was not enough. Not quite enough. Something was just beyond her grasp.
Charles pulled her tight against him, putting his hand where his thigh had been. He cupped her there, and then his fingers rubbed up against her, against some sensitive small point. . . .
She shattered. His mouth captured the strange sounds she made as something powerful pulsed through her. And then she collapsed against him. She was so limp, she could not lift her head. She let it lie heavy on his chest as her pounding heart gradually slowed to normal.
"Beautiful, Emma," Charles whispered. "So beautiful." His hands kneaded her bottom, stroked her hair. She was draped against his thigh. Small tremors still shivered through her. She closed her eyes. She wanted to stay exactly where she was forever.
By the lake, draped across the Marquis of Knights-dale's body, her gown down around her waist, in full view of any passerby.
Emma yelped, pushed away from Charles, and ran for the house, pulling her dress up as she went.
"What have you done to Emma, Charles?"
"What do you mean, what have I done to Emma, Aunt?" Charles looked up from his papers. This morning Aunt was attired in a violet and apple-green dress. He wondered—not for the first time— how her mantua-maker could bear to perpetrate such crimes against good taste.
"She won't come out of her room. Says she's indisposed."
"Oh? And why must I have anything to do with her indisposition?"
Aunt Beatrice leaned on his desk and skewered him with her eyes. "Because Lavinia Begley said she saw Emma running up from the lake early this morning. It looked as though there was something the matter with her dress. And then, not many minutes later, you came along with Prinny."
Charles was very much afraid he was blushing. "Miss Peterson had an, um, accident with her gown. I brought the dog along so she could return immediately to fix the problem."
Aunt Bea snorted. "Or perhaps she returned to escape the problem. How exactly did this . . . accident . . . happen?"
"I really can't say."
"Can't say? That's rich. Won't say, more like."
"Aunt, I hope you are not insinuating I made inappropriate advances." Inappropriate? Scandalous, more like. He ignored the thought. "I have only honorable intentions."
"Oh, climb off your high horse. I am not complaining. Make all the advances you care to, just slip a ring on the girl's finger before you slip something else between her thighs."
"Aunt!"
"For God's sake, Charles, you ain't a virgin, are you?"
"That is not your affair—but I certainly thought you were."
Charles blinked. Aunt Beatrice actually blushed—the color did not go well with her ensemble.
"And that," she said, "is not your affair."
"Right. Quite agree. Not my affair." The thought was. . . There had been rumors . . . No, he couldn't let his mind contemplate . . . Well, if she had had a paramour, the fellow must have been color-blind. Though one assumes she would have removed— No, he would not think about it.
"Emma, however, is a virgin." Aunt paused and raised an eyebrow. "She is, isn't she? I mean, still? You didn't. . . ?"
"No!"
"Good. However, I believe you did something to her." She shrugged. "Young girls are so skittish nowadays. You probably only gave her a little too intense a kiss, though there is the matter of her dress . . ."
Aunt looked him over carefully. Charles kept his face expressionless.
"Hmm. Well, whatever happened, it obviously unsettled her. Go upstairs and apologize. Very nicely. Very thoroughly. I want to announce your betrothal at the ball."
Charles acknowledged as he climbed the stairs that he had let his passion outrun his good sense that morning. He was as certain as he could be that the kiss he'd given Emma in his curricle the day he arrived had been her first. And that kiss had been a mere brushing of lips. Well, with Emma nothing was "mere." But still, he should never have taken her so far and so quickly down the road to seduction as he had by the lake.
He knocked on her door. "Emma?"
"Go away."
He looked down the corridor. The Misses Farthington stared interestedly back at him. He bowed and continued on to his room.
He knocked on the connecting door.
"Emma?"
"Go away."
"We need to talk, sweetheart." He pushed on the door. It didn't move. "Have you put something in front of the door, Emma?"
"Yes." Her voice sounded muffled, as though she had been crying.
"Sweetheart, you don't have to be afraid of me. Let me in. I promise we will only talk. I won't touch you or distress you in any way."
Silence greeted this statement. Charles took this as an encouraging sign.
"Emma, you must have questions. Do you understand what happened at the lake?"
"No!" This was delivered in a wailing, teary tone, followed by a definite sniff. He felt the oddest sensation, as if his heart had turned over in his chest.
"Let me come in, Emma. We can talk quietly. You don't want anyone to overhear our conversation, do you?"
"No." This time there was a touch of panic also. He heard her cross the floor and push something out of the way. She opened the door. Her poor eyes were swollen from crying.
"Emma." He broke his promise without a second thought. He squeezed past the small chest she had pushed in front of the door, and drew her gently up against him, holding her close. "Emma, sweetheart, I'm so sorry I upset you. I didn't mean to frighten you."
She sighed and leaned against him.
> "Come." He led her back to the big chair by the fire and pulled her down onto his lap. He held her head against his shoulder, stroking her hair as he would Isabelle or Claire.
He loved the feel of her body relaxed and heavy against his. He was amazed he felt no lust. Oh, it was there, of course, but like an orchestra playing in the ballroom when one was standing on the terrace. Wonderful, magical, but in the background.
He felt strangely content. He rested his cheek against her head, kissing her hair, breathing in her sweet scent.
"What did you do to me?" she whispered against his chest.
How to answer that question?
"I made love to you, sweetheart." He felt her tense.
"So, am I. . . um . . . Am I . . . p-pregnant?"
He might have found the situation funny, if she hadn't been so distressed.
"No, Emma, you aren't pregnant."
"Are you certain?"
"Completely certain, sweetheart. There is no way you could be increasing."
"But something very . . . odd happened to me."
She was whispering again. He had to hold his breath to hear her.
"I felt so . . . wild. Needy. I ached for you to . . . I don't know . . . fill me in some way."
Charles took a deep, shuddering breath. Now he felt lust. It threatened to stampede all his good intentions.
He knew exactly how he could fill her.
"You had your lips on my. . . um . . . you know. Like a baby nursing. And then, I—I. . . shattered. Something inside me pulsed and, and everywhere got hot and flushed and then . . . it all relaxed."
"Uh." God, he was going to explode. "Um, that sounds a little uncomfortable. Did you like it, sweetheart?"
She was silent for a minute, and Charles thought his heart would stop.
"Yes," she whispered finally. "I liked it."
He sighed and hugged her closer. "I'm glad."
"But how do you know I'm not increasing?"
"Because . . ." What could he say? He did not think she was ready for the specifics. "Because something has to happen to me, too, sweetheart, to make a baby. And that thing did not happen today."
"Oh." She looked up at him. "Were you sorry the thing didn't happen?"
The Naked Marquis Page 17
