"Parades? Don't like parades. Do like these little cakes. Got any more?"
"No." Lady Beatrice stood, putting an end to any further discussion, and led the ladies into the drawing room. The men followed, grumbling.
"I shall assign the teams—let's see, how many of us are there?" Lady Beatrice looked around the room.
"Can't count Maxwell," Charles said in Emma's ear. "He'll be snoring the moment he settles into his chair."
"Charles, can't you bring your aunt to heel?" Lord Westbrooke muttered behind them. "Charades—good God!"
"The twins look very happy to be participating," Emma said.
Lord Westbrooke snorted. "They would."
"You heard Miss Pelham, Robbie," Charles said. "She's an expert. She's delighted to give you all the help you need."
"As if that will improve the experience. I think she's decided she can't snaffle you, Charles, so she's set her eyes on me. I've been dodging her all day. Had to enlist Lizzie's aid in defending myself at the Pantheon this afternoon—she and Meg kept me company so dear Miss Pelham couldn't corner me and yell compromise."
"Surely it is not as bad as that, Lord Westbrooke."
"Indeed it is as bad as that, Miss Peterson. Why are we so formal these days? You certainly weren't 'my lording' me when Charles here fished you out of the stream that day a few years ago."
"A few years ago? I was only six and you tripped me."
"I did not. My foot was perfectly visible—I can't help it if you stumbled over it, can I?"
"Your foot was not perfectly visible until you stuck it in front of my feet."
"Children," Charles said, "you will give up this argument some day, won't you? Or will you still be squabbling about it when you are the Farthingtons' age?"
"Oh, I don't know—it's so amusing to ruffle Emma's feathers."
Emma opened her mouth to protest but stopped when she saw the laughter in Robbie's eyes.
"Shall I apologize, finally, Miss Peterson? Shall I say—just to be a gentleman, of course—that it was all my fault?"
He was teasing her. All these years, she had been harboring a grudge, thinking he was doing the same—and he had been teasing her. He enjoyed the verbal sparring. He thought it was fun.
She let her breath out and smiled. Had she been too serious? Perhaps. Arguing over a minor childhood event was ridiculous. She grinned.
"Oh, please, don't start now—especially just to be a gentleman."
Robbie pretended to wipe his brow. "Well, that's a relief. I'm certain the strain of being a gentleman would be too much for my poor heart to sustain."
"Definitely too much," Charles said.
"Lord Westbrooke!" Lady Beatrice waved her hand at Robbie. "Stop trying to hide over there. You will be with Mr. Oldston, Miss Rachel Farthington, Miss Margaret Peterson, Lady Elizabeth, Miss Frampton, and Miss Pelham."
"Oh, God," Robbie muttered. "I'm not leaving this room unless I have Meg on one side and Lizzie on the other. Protection. I need protection."
Emma chuckled. "Are you also in need of protection, Lord Knightsdale? You are a bigger catch than Robbie."
Charles sighed. "Emma, my dear, why do you continue to call me Lord Knightsdale? You were able to say 'Robbie' very nicely. In fact, I have heard my name on your lips before." He dropped his voice and leaned closer. "I think I've tasted my name on your lips."
"We are in a public forum, my lord. Behave yourself."
"So when we are in a private location, I don't need to behave?"
Emma turned red, remembering in exquisite detail their encounter by the lake.
"Hmm," Charles said. "You look a little flushed, sweetheart. Are you perhaps thinking of our encounter this morning? I actually did behave myself then, Emma. Believe me."
"My lord, how can you say so?"
"Because I know exactly what I would have done if I had not behaved. I exerted extreme self-control then, as I did later in your room. We need to talk, my love."
Emma drew in her breath. Did he mean something particular by those words? The glint in his eye was most pronounced.
"Charles, stop whispering in Miss Peterson's ear and come here," Lady Beatrice said.
Emma closed her eyes, wishing when she opened them again, she might find herself alone in her bedchamber. No. When she opened her eyes, Lady Beatrice was gesturing to her.
"Come on. Charles, you and Miss Peterson will join
Mr. Stockley, Mr. Frampton, Miss Esther Farthington, Miss Oldston, and Miss Haverford."
"Why doesn't Alvord have to play?" Robbie had managed to put a settee between him and Miss Pelham.
"I believe us old wedded folk are excused, Westbrooke." The duke grinned, sitting down next to his wife. "Such jollifications are reserved for the unattached."
'That's ridiculous. Squire, what about you? Would you like to join in?"
"No, no, Westbrooke. Quite content to watch. I'll be cheering for you, though."
"And Miss Russell? Surely you would like to participate?"
"Oh, no, my lord. No, thank you, no."
Robbie looked around the room. "Mr. Maxwell?"
A snore was Mr. Maxwell's reply.
"What did I tell you?" Charles murmured to Emma.
"Stop stalling, sir." Lady Beatrice handed Robbie a slip of paper. "You and Miss Pelham—"
Emma covered her mouth to hide her grin at Robbie's expression. To call it a glare would have been too kind. Lady Beatrice appeared to notice, too. She paused and stared at Robbie before she continued.
"And Lady Elizabeth and Mr. Oldston may act it out"
"Shall we sit, Miss Peterson? This may prove to be more entertaining than the best Drury Lane farce."
Emma let Charles lead her over to a settee. Mr. Stockley took his place on one end just before they reached it.
"Please, join me, Miss Peterson." Mr. Stockley patted the place next to him.
To ignore the invitation would be rude. Emma perched on the edge of the seat as far from Mr. Stockley as she could get, which was not far enough. It was a very small settee. She was pleased to see the man wince as the seat shifted under him. Prinny had left his mark. Mr. Stockley would think twice before wiggling his eyebrows at her again.
He might also think twice since Charles was glaring at him from an adjoining chair.
Robbie had handed Miss Pelham the slip of paper, folded his arms, and taken up a spot against the mantle. Miss Pelham and Mr. Oldston began a heated whispering exchange; Lizzie listened for a few minutes and then went to stand with Robbie.
"Ah, Miss Peterson." Mr. Stockley glanced at Charles as he leaned over to whisper to Emma. "About this afternoon—ouch."
Emma smiled. "Have you hurt yourself, Mr. Stockley?"
"Slightly. Nothing to be concerned about."
Emma wished Prinny were nearby. She was certain he could be persuaded to take a larger sampling of Mr. Stockley's person.
'This afternoon?" Charles's frown caused a deep furrow between his brows. "Weren't you at the Pantheon this afternoon, Stockley?"
Stockley startled and winced again as his weight shifted on his injured backside. "Yes, my lord, I was for a while."
"I encountered Mr. Stockley examining the pictures in the long gallery, my lord." Emma looked at Mr. Stockley. "Very thoroughly."
"Connoisseur, Stockley?"
"Hardly, my lord. A student, merely. Always searching for . . . knowledge."
Emma blinked and examined Mr. Stockley more closely. The menacing note she had heard in his voice that afternoon had reappeared.
"Really?" There was an edge to Charles's voice as well. "I'd be extremely careful what sort of knowledge you pursue, especially if it involves Miss Peterson in any way."
Emma blinked again. Charles was almost growling, like a dog with its hackles raised.
"Rape!"
Emma's head swiveled back to the charades players. Miss Rachel Farthington was bouncing on her seat, shouting. Mr. Oldston had his arms around Miss Pelham, who was struggl
ing wildly. Robbie and Lizzie were holding their sides, laughing.
"What the devil. . . ?" Charles started forward, but Mr. Oldston let Miss Pelham go. In fact, both he and she were crouched in front of Miss Rachel, smiling and encouraging her.
Charles frowned at Lady Beatrice. "Aunt, you didn't. . . you never had them act out The Rape of the Sabine Women?"
"My lord," Miss Pelham said, clearly annoyed, "you have given it away!"
Emma slipped up to her room as soon as she could. Charades had not been a success. Charles had examined the paper slips to see what other tides his aunt had planned for the company and had declared them all unsuitable. Lady Beatrice had objected, and the two of them had stepped into the hall to discuss the matter. The moment the train on Lady Beatrice's mulberry and orange gown cleared the threshold, the men escaped to the billiard room. By the time Lady Beatrice and Charles returned, the company was severely depleted.
Unfortunately, Mr. Stockley had not left. He kept hovering near Emma, which enraged Charles. Emma did not like Mr. Stockley, but she found she liked constant argumentation even less. By Charles's fifth cutting remark, she had the beginnings of a headache.
Now she could not find her nightgown. She looked through the wardrobe one more time, not that there was any chance she could have overlooked it. She had little enough clothing—there was no place for an errant nightgown to hide. It was definitely not in the wardrobe.
Well, she was not going to sleep in her dress. She would spend the night in her shift.
At least her hairbrush had not gone wandering again. She sat at her dressing table and began taking her hair down. She glanced at the door connecting her room to Charles's. How had her brush ended up among his papers? Could her nightgown be there now?
The thought made her skin bloom a fiery red. She wouldn't need her nightgown to stay warm tonight. Even her shift was too warm at the moment.
She stared at herself in the mirror, a wicked thought lodged in her mind.
What if she didn't wear her shift tonight? What if she slept with just the bedsheets covering her? No one would ever know.
Her skin began to tingle in a most unusual way.
She was twenty-six years old. A grown woman. If she chose to prance around her bedchamber as bare as the day she was born, who could object? She didn't even have a maid to be scandalized.
She stood and pulled off her shift before she lost her nerve. The night air caused goose bumps to prickle along her arms—and her nipples to harden into little pebbles.
She plopped back into her chair. The silk covering felt cool against her bottom—slightly slippery, smooth but with the barest hint of roughness. She shivered, sitting straighter.
She picked up her brush, concentrating on pulling it through her long, curly hair. At first she looked ahead, staring back into her own eyes, trying to ignore the rest of her reflection as if she would be turned to stone should she let herself look at her own body.
She didn't need to look. She felt. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the new sensations—the fire warming her skin; her hair sliding over her shoulders, caressing her breasts, teasing her nipples; the . . . freedom of her body as it moved though the air un-confined by the slightest touch of cloth.
Her breasts felt larger, more sensitive, their nipples aching. Another part of her was aching, too. The feelings were almost too intense. She gasped, opening her eyes.
She saw curly, dark blond hair and glimpses of skin reflected in her mirror. She gathered the heavy mass of hair in her hands and held it up so she could look at herself. She watched her breasts lift with her arms. They were large, golden in the firelight, nipples round and unbearably hard.
She knew men liked her bosom. She had not grown up in a convent—she had caught more than one fellow eyeing her bodice. She did not care to be ogled. She chose dresses with high necks as befitted the daughter of a vicar. She glanced at the wardrobe. Well, the blue satin ball gown was the one exception, and she had never worn it outside the fitting room. Would she have the courage to wear it to the house party ball?
Would Charles like it? The bodice was so small, it would take him but a moment to have it down around her waist.
She let her hair fall. She hesitated, then took her breasts in her hands, lifting them, feeling their weight. Charles had done this the night he'd brushed her hair, but she'd had her nightgown on then. He'd had his fingers on her bare skin by the lake. He'd seen her clearly in the morning light. He had put his mouth, his tongue on her nipples.
She felt a wetness between her legs and leapt off the chair. She did not want to stain the beautiful silk seat
She eyed her discarded shift. She was more than warm enough. She would leave it. She climbed into bed, removed her spectacles, and snuffed the candle.
She could not get comfortable. Where before her breasts had been sensitive, now her entire body was throbbing. If she stretched out on her back, she felt the sheets rub against her nipples and her bottom. She spread her legs, and need pulsed deep between them. A hollowness, a hunger, consumed her. She turned to her side, but the throbbing would not go away. On her stomach was even worse—she wanted to rub herself against the bed. She felt so hot, she was burning. Feverish.
If she touched herself where she most ached, where Charles had touched her, would that cure her?
No. She could not do that. It was too shocking— though how anything could be too shocking to a wanton old maid like herself, writhing naked in her bed, was debatable. Still, she kept her hands safely tucked under her pillow and tried to sleep.
She dozed. She dreamed of Charles naked by the lake. Of his shoulders. The muscles in his upper arms. His chest, the sprinkling of light brown curls trailing down to his navel and the towel just below. And then— She woke up, frustrated. Her imagination could not supply the details of what that towel had hidden.
After the fifth or sixth time she'd jerked awake, she gave up. Perhaps if she put on her shift, she would dampen the fire raging through her.
She was reaching for her spectacles when she heard a creak and then a scraping sound. She sat up, pulling the covers high. Something was moving on the other side of the room. Something white was emerging from the wall. . . .
She tried to drag air into her lungs. She screamed as loudly as she could, which did not sound very loud at all to her. Then she dove under the covers and began her prayers like the good vicar's daughter she once was and promised to be again if only she lived through the night.
Chapter 13
Charles put aside his book. He had read the same page at least twenty times. He finally acknowledged that he was not going to make sense of it tonight.
What the hell had Stockley been doing with Emma in the long gallery this afternoon? And he'd been buzzing around her all evening as well. At least Emma had given no indication that she enjoyed the man's attentions.
She'd bloody well better not enjoy them. She was his. He just needed to get her to acknowledge that fact.
He looked at the connecting door again. God, he would love to go in to her now. He needed to see her. To talk to her. To hold her. To . . .
Charles shifted position. He would have to go for another dip in the lake. He would never get any sleep in his current state of arousal. Hell, he wasn't even certain he could get his breeches buttoned. He had to persuade Emma to marry him before a certain organ exploded—and with it all hopes for the continuation of the Draysmith line.
He sat up and swung his legs out of bed, wincing. He had never been in this painful a state. He had to get relief soon. There were accommodating women at the local inn. Nan would take care of him—he had used her before. But he didn't want to visit the Green Man.
In truth, the thought of taking any woman other than Emma to bed was not the least bit tempting. No, it would have to be the lake. Emma had ruined him. If she wouldn't marry him, he was facing a long, uncomfortable life with many nocturnal swims.
He was reaching for his breeches when he heard an odd noise from
Emma's room. He froze, heart pounding. He had heard such a muffled noise before, during the war. Women who were too terrified to fill their lungs to scream properly made such a noise.
He surged off his bed, ignoring his breeches and grabbing the candlestick instead. He needed to see the enemy—and the heavy brass candlestick would put a nice dent in a man's head if necessary.
He shoved the connecting door open, holding the candle high. No one. He searched the entire room. He saw no one, not even Emma. He came closer to the bed. There was a large lump in the center under the bedclothes. Cautiously, he grabbed a corner of the blankets and stripped them off in one quick motion.
He had found Emma. She was crouched into a ball, her head buried in her hands, her glorious hair spread around her and her lovely, white, soft, naked bottom in the air.
God, he was panting.
Emma drew in a breath and jerked up, twisting to face him.
He couldn't even pant. He couldn't breathe. He watched her full breasts move with her body, and his mouth went as dry as another part of him grew hard.
He had seen her bosom by the lake, but this was so much better. His eyes traced the long line of her neck, her delicate collarbone, the exquisite sweep of her milky-white breasts, her slender ribs.
"Emma?" he croaked.
"Charles?" She reached for her spectacles. 'You're naked."
"Um, so are you, sweetheart."
God, her eyes had dropped from his face. They were staring at the most obviously male part of him. Very obvious, very male at the moment.
"Is that what was under the towel this morning?"
'Yes." Charles bit back a slightly hysterical laugh. "I usually carry it with me."
"But how does it fit into your breeches?"
"It collapses for storage." Charles put the candlestick carefully on the bedside table. He swallowed again, his voice shaking slightly. "Would you like to touch it?"
Emma hesitated, clearly curious. "May I?"
"Please."
She cautiously reached out her hand. He watched her small fingers come closer. He closed his eyes for a moment as he felt their butterfly touch. It was heaven, but too fleeting.
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