The Naked Marquis

by Sally MacKenzie

  God, he had to kiss her. He brushed his lips over her forehead.

  "A little sorry, sweetheart, because it feels very nice. But I knew it wasn't the right time."

  She dropped her face before he could taste her lips. Her fingers twisted one of his waistcoat buttons.

  "So, you've made babies before?"

  "No!" At least he was almost certain no children had resulted from his other encounters.

  "Then how do you know it feels nice?"

  Charles felt desperate. "I just do, Emma. You will have to trust me on that. It's something men know."

  "That sounds like humbug to me."

  '"Well, it's not. Now, do you forgive me for this morning?"

  She nodded. "I guess so. But I have one more question."

  "Yes?" Charles felt a sinking in his stomach as she dropped her eyes to her hands. Why did he think this was going to be the hardest question?

  "You said you made love to me."

  "Yes."

  "Does that mean you love me?"

  Charles felt as if he had just been kicked in the stomach.

  Emma had been so frightened and so embarrassed. Embarrassed when she thought of how she had behaved by the lake; frightened when she thought she might be increasing. She was unmarried. How could she care for a child? Where would she live? Hot shame drenched her. Her father, Meg—they would be so shocked, so disappointed.

  She could not imagine what her father would say.

  She locked the door to the corridor and pushed the chest in front of the connecting door. She did not want to see Charles. She held her hands to her burning cheeks. Oh, God. He had seen her breasts. He had had his mouth on them, on her nip— She squeezed her eyes tightly closed. He had touched her. And she had writhed against him, like, like . . . She didn't know what she had been like. The entire event was beyond her experience.

  No, what had happened at the lake didn't bear thinking of, yet she had spent these past hours thinking of nothing else—when she wasn't crying, terrified she was enceinte.

  She was possessed by Charles. It was a madness. When she closed her eyes, she saw him as if his image had been burned into her eyelids. She saw him standing in the morning light like a Grecian god, saw his broad shoulders, the muscles of his arms, his chest. Inches and inches of warm skin.

  She hugged herself—and felt his hands sliding over her again, over her bottom, her breasts. She felt his lips, his tongue on her skin, his mouth sucking. She felt the wet, throbbing emptiness between her legs. Her skin grew hot and sensitive.

  What was the matter with her? This illness was beyond the lust she had felt in the conservatory, beyond the urges Mr. Stockley had warned her of. It truly was a madness.

  So when Charles had scratched on her door, she'd been both afraid to let him in and afraid to keep him out. When she'd seen him standing there, she couldn't say if he were her salvation or damnation. It didn't matter. Whatever he was, she needed him.

  She almost cried with relief when his hands touched her and brought her up against his chest. She breathed in his scent, the clean smell of linen and soap and something else, something male.

  He was so calm. His hands and voice soothed her. He made the tight knot of fear and shame in her stomach relax.

  He was Charles. He was the boy she had idolized as a girl, who had dried her tears when she'd cried all alone by the stream in the woods. He was the young man she had dreamed of when she was putting her girlhood behind her. He was the first man she had kissed, the only man who had touched her.

  She let him pull her down to sit on his lap. She felt warm and protected. There was none of the tension and turmoil she'd felt at the lake. Well, perhaps there was some. Just a little. She felt his hard shoulder under her cheek and his hand stroking through her hair. A pulse began to beat low in her middle.

  "What did you do to me?" she'd asked.

  "I made love to you, sweetheart," he had answered.

  She'd tensed. She had heard Mrs. Lambert say those words to a pregnant maid once.

  "Oh, he made love to you, did he, girl? He gave you a slip on the shoulder, that's what he did, and you '11 be paying for it in a few months' time with a wailing babe."

  "So, am I. . . um . . . Am. I. . . p-pregnant?"

  "No, Emma, you aren't pregnant."

  He'd sounded so certain. He must know. Men were taught these things.

  She'd felt immeasurable relief, so she'd told him how she'd felt by the lake, how she had been overcome by madness. He had not sounded shocked. Well, it probably was not shocking to him. He had done this all before, with other women. It wasn't anything special to him.

  That had become painfully apparent when she'd asked her last question.

  "You said you made love to me."

  "Yes."

  "Does that mean you love me?" His silence left little doubt as to his answer, so she'd made her feelings just as clear. She'd slapped him.

  Chapter 11

  "I think our plan's not working, Isabelle. Mama Peterson and Papa Charles look like they're angry with each other."

  Isabelle nodded. She and Claire were sitting on the landing, watching the house party leave for a picnic. Uncle Charles had come up to Miss Peterson more than once, but she had turned away from him every time.

  "We have to think of something else, Claire." Isabelle frowned. She had been so certain the hidden hairbrush would bring Uncle Charles and Miss Peterson together. "Is there something else of Miss Peterson's we can put in Uncle Charles's room?"

  "What about her nightgown, Isabelle? Let's hide that!"

  Isabelle nodded. "She'll definitely need her nightgown. I think she has only one."

  "Well, if she has more, we'll hide more." Claire stood up as the last houseguest left the hall. "Let's go. We'll hide them good, so Mama Peterson and Papa Charles will have to look a long time."

  * * *

  "It doesn't look good, Lavinia."

  "I wouldn't give up hope yet, Lady Bea. It's not like there's any competition. Lord Knightsdale is not a fool. He would never pick a widgeon like Lucinda Pelham or Amanda Oldston."

  "Miss Haverford is a nice enough girl, I suppose." Lady Beatrice shrugged. "I'm certain she could get the job done."

  "Perhaps, but she is too young, as you have said."

  Lady Beatrice nodded. She and Mrs. Begley were sitting in the morning room, drinking tea—only tea. "I would like Charles to engage his mind, not just his . . . you know. If he marries simply to procure an heir, I'm afraid he'll stay at Knightsdale only long enough to accomplish that goal. The estate—and the girls—need him here on a more permanent basis."

  "Exactly. No, I think Miss Peterson is the only real option."

  "So, what can we do to ensure my idiot nephew makes the proper choice?"

  "Hmm. I'm not certain. It will take some thought. Perhaps we should enlist the efforts of the Society."

  Lady Bea snorted. "I don't suppose it could hurt. Looks like the boy is making micefeet of things by himself."

  Emma was furious, and the more she thought about the concluding scene with Charles in her bedchamber, the angrier she got. Lord Knightsdale had taken incredible liberties with her person, and he didn't know if he loved her? She could have danced a quadrille to his hemming and hawing as she'd hissed him out of her room. He'd barely gotten his backside over the threshold before she'd slammed the door.

  She was furious with herself as well. She had stupidly assumed the physical activities they had engaged in reflected more than physical lust on his part. She snorted. She was a pathetic, naive, twenty-six-year-old virgin—did she think men loved the whores they frequented? Her stomach lurched. Surely she meant more to Charles than a whore?

  She strode up the stairs to the nursery. It had started to rain. Most of the house party guests had decided to move the picnic into the ridiculous replica of the Pantheon Charles's grandfather had had the lunacy to build. Emma had not cared to listen to them "ooh" and "ahh" over the statuary. She had walked back by her
self.

  "Nanny, where are the girls?" Prinny heard her voice and came dashing out of Claire's room, barking madly. "Shh, sir. You are disturbing the peace."

  "Visiting Cook—shush, ye heathen beast!"

  Emma frowned. When was the last time Claire and Isabelle had had their lessons? She had been extremely neglectful of her duties. Well, that would change. Tomorrow she would come to the schoolroom first thing in the morning.

  "Very well. I'll take Prinny down to the long gallery and let him exercise a little. The house party guests are all picnicking at the Pantheon."

  When Emma reached the gallery, she learned that she was mistaken. Mr. Stockley was there before her. He was admiring the long line of Knightsdale ancestors arrayed in artistic splendor on the walls of the gallery. She stopped and bent to grab Prinny's collar. She definitely did not want to repeat her experience with Mr. Stockley in the grotto, especially so soon after her upsetting interlude by the lake with the evil marquis. She started to drag Prinny toward the stairs but stopped to stare at Mr. Stockley's odd behavior.

  He was looking behind the paintings. She blinked. Yes, he did it again. He carefully lifted the frame away from the wall and peered behind it. Then he stuck his hand into the space and moved it up and down. Whatever was he thinking?

  Prinny thought this activity unusual as well. He started barking. Mr. Stockley jumped and almost knocked the bust of Charles's Great-Uncle Randall off its pedestal.

  "Miss Peterson. I thought you were at the picnic."

  Emma entered the gallery. She didn't really have a choice. Prinny was determined to investigate Mr. Stockley's bizarre behavior. She gave up and let go of his collar. He tore off to sniff Mr. Stockley's boots. The man wrinkled his nose and stepped back.

  "Could you call your dog off, Miss Peterson?"

  "Prinny's really quite friendly, Mr. Stockley."

  "Perhaps. However, the fact remains that I do not care for animals."

  "I see." Emma was not surprised. She had decided Mr. Stockley was an unpleasant individual. She bent to grab Prinny's collar, but the dog danced out of her reach.

  "Prinny, come here now!"

  Prinny sneezed, suddenly losing interest in Mr. Stockley. He went off to sniff the wall behind Great-Uncle Randall.

  "I would not say you have much control over your animal, Miss Peterson."

  "Prinny is actually my sister's dog."

  Mr. Stockley lifted an eyebrow, clearly not believing that statement. "I see." Then a corner of his mouth turned up and his voice got the oily quality it had had at the grotto.

  Oh, Lud! He was wiggling his eyebrows at her again.

  "I also see we're quite alone. Noticed I'd left the group at the Pantheon, did you?"

  "Mr. Stockley!"

  He chuckled, putting his hands on her shoulders. She tried to wriggle free. He tightened his hold.

  "We were interrupted the last time we had a few moments alone, weren't we? I thought you might find your way to my room." He pulled her closer. "No matter. I'm happy to attend to you now."

  "No, please." She almost choked. How could she have kissed this man at the grotto? He obviously did not make regular use of tooth powder. Prinny's breath was better than his.

  "Mr. Stockley, I assure you—"

  "Now, Miss Peterson—Emma—you are not a young miss. No need for these false protestations."

  'They are not false. I wish you to unhand me, sir!"

  "You wish me to get a hand under your skirts. I know. I shall be happy to oblige."

  Under her skirts! Even Charles had not been under her skirts, though the thought was strangely appealing. But certainly not with this disgusting snake.

  "Try it and I'll scream."

  "Oh, and who will hear you? Your little dog, perhaps?" Mr. Stockley snorted. "What will he do? Challenge me to a duel? I'm quaking in my boots." He leaned closer, a very nasty light in his eyes. "But thank you for the warning. I'll be sure to cover your mouth before I cover your—"

  Emma did not wait for more information. She screamed as loudly as she could, but Mr. Stockley was quick. His mouth slammed down onto hers before she had gotten her lungs more than slightly emptied.

  It didn't matter. Someone had heard her. Mr. Stock-ley let go of her and yelled much louder than she ever could have hoped to. Prinny, her savior, growled.

  "You bloody—"

  Prinny dropped his mouthful of blue superfine and doeskin and bared his teeth, obviously prepared to take another bite from Mr. Stockley's backside. The man saw reason. He turned and fled, treating Prinny and Emma to glimpses of his snowy-white rump.

  "Good morning, Miss Peterson." "Where's your beau?"

  Emma looked up from the book she was reading to stare at the Farthington twins. "Excuse me?"

  "They mean Papa Charles, Mama Peterson."

  Emma frowned at Claire. "Back to your letters, miss."

  The Farthington twins giggled.

  "Papa Charles," Miss Esther said.

  Miss Rachel grinned. "I'd wager Lord Knightsdale would make a very good papa."

  "And be very good at earning that title, if you know what I mean," Miss Esther whispered, elbowing her sister in the ribs.

  The ladies giggled harder.

  "Oh my, yes. Those shoulders . . ."

  ". . . those legs."

  "Mmm. Wears his breeches quite well, don't he?"

  "Ladies, please!" Emma felt her cheeks flush. She looked back at Claire. Both she and Isabelle were watching the twins with bright, interested eyes. "Did you come up to the schoolroom for a specific reason?"

  "Oh, no."

  "Just passing by."

  No one "just passed by" the top floor of Knightsdale. "We'll be going now."

  "We'll tell the marquis where he can find you." 'That's quite all right. Please, don't bother." Emma watched the two elderly ladies leave. She hoped they made it down the stairs safely. "Now what do you suppose that was about?" Claire and Isabelle just giggled.

  "I just saw Lord Knightsdale go into his study."

  Emma centered the tallest red rose in the vase of flowers she was arranging in the drawing room. "Thank you for warning me, Miss Russell."

  "No, I'm not warning you, I'm telling you." Miss Russell leaned closer. "He's alone."

  "Oh?"

  The older lady nodded vigorously. "It would be a perfect time for . . . you know."

  Emma straightened her spectacles. "No, I don't know."

  "You don't?" Miss Russell frowned. "Lavinia said she'd seen you coming back from the lake with your dress falling—"

  "Yes, well, thank you, Miss Russell. I will certainly take note of Lord Knightsdale's whereabouts. So good of you to tell me."

  Miss Russell beamed. "I knew you'd want to know. I'll finish up the roses for you."

  "Thank you. That would be very kind."

  Emma smiled and almost dashed from the room, hurrying to get as far from Lord Knightsdale's study as possible.

  * * *

  "Miss Peterson—Emma—do you have a moment?"

  Emma pulled her head out of the schoolroom cabinet she was inspecting.

  "Not you, too, Mrs. Begley."

  "I have no idea what you mean." Mrs. Begley looked at Claire and Isabelle. "Girls, why don't you take Prinny for a walk? I have a few words of a private nature to share with Miss Peterson."

  "Is it about Uncle Charles?" Isabelle smiled.

  Claire grinned. "The Misses Farthington have already told Mama Peterson what a good papa he'd make."

  "Have they? Well, yes, I do wish to discuss Lord Knightsdale, so be dears and run off."

  "Girls!"

  "We'll be back, Mama Peterson."

  "I'm sure Prinny does need a walk, Miss Peterson." Emma watched the children leave and then turned to Mrs. Begley. "Mama Peterson?"

  Emma flushed. "Lady Claire would dearly love a mother. It seemed kindest to allow her to call me 'mama,' though she is supposed to do so only when we are alone."

  Mrs. Begley nodded an
d cleared her throat. "So, the Farthington twins stopped by, did they? They can be a pair of ninnyhammers sometimes."

  Emma nodded. "Yes, indeed."

  "However, in this case they are quite right. Lord Knightsdale would make a splendid papa."

  "Lady Begley—"

  Lady Begley held up her hand. "No, hear me out, Miss Peterson. You don't have a mother to advise you, and I know you and Mrs. Graham are not on the best of terms."

  "Mrs. Begley, please . . ."

  "You need a married lady to speak to, Miss Peterson, about the um . .. married life. About the marriage bed. About conjugal relations."

  "Mrs. Begley!" Emma was certain she was going to burst into flames, her cheeks were so hot.

  "Now, I know you're almost thirty. . . ."

  "I'm twenty-six, Mrs. Begley."

  "Twenty-six, then. Most girls your age are married with a quiverful of children. But you've lived a sheltered life, and you've had your papa and sister to care for."

  "Yes, yes."

  "I just don't want you to be afraid of . . . you know."

  "No, no, I'm not afraid of. . . of anything."

  "Because some girls, they don't like it much. I suppose with the wrong man, it could be uncomfortable, or even unpleasant."

  "You really don't need to—"

  "But the, um, conjugal act is really quite nice. You do understand what a man and woman do in bed together?"

  "Uh . . ."

  "No, no one has told you, have they? Well, men, they take their, their . . . thing." Mrs. Begley made a vague gesture toward her waist. "And they put it, um, where it goes." Another vague gesture to her waist. "The first time may hurt a bit, but after that it can be quite lovely. And there's usually a bit of kissing and snuggling and . . . and kissing that goes on." Mrs. Begley got an odd, almost dreamy expression on her face. "Squire is very good at it, you know."

  "No! No, please, don't feel—" Emma did not want to think about portly Squire Begley and Mrs. Begley doing anything that involved a bed and . . . things located anywhere near a person's waist. Squire Begley didn't even have a waist any longer.

  Mrs. Begley grinned. "Very good at it, indeed. Why, just last night. . ." She sighed and shook her head. 'Well, that's neither here nor there. The point is, Miss Peterson, that the marriage bed can be a very comfortable place. And I'm quite certain Lord Knightsdale knows how to please a lady. Why, if I didn't have my Squire and if I were a few years younger . . ."