Читать книгу The Naked Marquis - Sally MacKenzie - Страница 8

“Am I interrupting?”

Three orange plumes poked cautiously around the door, followed by gray sausage ringlets and a very round face with Charles’s clear blue eyes.

“Not at all, Aunt Bea. Please come in.”

Emma blinked and adjusted her spectacles, her haze of anger replaced by an equally fiery sight—the rotund form of Charles’s Aunt Beatrice, stunningly attired in a dress of broad red and orange stripes, its neck cut so low Emma feared the woman’s sizable breasts would escape the confines of her bodice. A necklace of diamonds and rubies glittered on the vast expanse of her chest.

“Are you going to introduce me to your companion, Charles?” Lady Beatrice pushed aside the china fragments with her foot and raised her lorgnette. Two enlarged eyes inspected Emma.

“Certainly, Aunt. This is Miss Emma Peterson, the vicar’s daughter. Miss Peterson, my aunt, Lady Beatrice.”

“Lady Beatrice.” Emma curtsied. “I’m pleased to—oh!”

Emma gasped and jumped to one side. Something had brushed her ankle.

Lady Beatrice laughed, a rich, musical sound that seemed to come from deep inside her.

“Don’t be distressed, my dear. It’s only Queen Bess.”

A large orange cat leapt onto the chair by Emma and curled up to fill the seat. It looked like an oversized muff—an angry, oversized muff, Emma thought, noting how the cat glared at her before turning to clean her paws.

Charles laughed. “I’m not certain Prinny will approve of the queen, Aunt.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve invited that fat fool, Charles. He most definitely was not on my guest list.”

“Nor is he on mine. No, I mean Miss Peterson’s dog.”

“You have a dog named Prinny, Miss Peterson? Splendid!”

“He’s actually my sister’s dog, Lady Beatrice.”

“Ah. Well, then, I look forward to meeting your sister.” Lady Beatrice moved farther into the room. “Is there a reason we are standing, Charles? Some infestation in the furniture, perhaps? Not lice, I hope? Or fleas? Poor Bess does hate fleas.”

“As far as I know you—and your cat—don’t have to fear the furnishings. Can’t speak with complete authority, of course—I just got here myself. I was waiting for Miss Peterson to sit, but she has been disinclined to do so.”

“Oh, well, I am not so disinclined—though I did just sit all the way from London. Now that you’re the marquis, Charles, you’ll have to see to the carriages. Thought my teeth were going to be rattled from my mouth—I swear I felt every rock on the road.”

Lady Beatrice settled gracefully on the settee, quite a feat, Emma thought, for someone of her impressive girth.

“Come, Miss Peterson, take a seat, do. You’ll give me neck strain if you don’t, and I’m sure poor Charles here needs to take the weight off his feet. Bess will move for you, won’t you, sweets?”

The queen paused in her ablutions long enough to look in Lady Beatrice’s direction, then went back to applying her tongue to the area under her tail. Emma averted her eyes.

“Just give her a little push, Miss Peterson,” Lady Beatrice said. “Bess is sometimes a mite stubborn.”

Just like the Thames is a mite wet, Emma thought. Queen Bess did not look eager to move. Emma certainly was not eager to get her hand clawed.

“Allow me.” Charles’s arm brushed hers as he reached for the cat. She felt the accidental contact as if a shock had passed between them. He was so close, she could feel the heat of his body and inhale his clean, male scent of soap, leather, and linen. She watched his broad, capable hands gently scoop under the cat’s middle, and remembered the feel of his palm and fingers.

She hoped he didn’t hear her sudden, sharp intake of breath or notice the way her body stilled. She stepped back so quickly her heel caught on her hem and she had to steady herself on the edge of the desk. When she looked back at him, he was delivering Queen Bess to his aunt’s waiting lap.

His aunt’s eyes were firmly fixed on Emma. Emma swallowed a nervous giggle. Lady Beatrice glared in much the same way as her cat.

“Thank you, Charles. He is quite the hero, isn’t he, Miss Peterson?”

Emma smiled slightly and edged back to the now-vacant chair. She tried surreptitiously to brush off the orange cat hairs before she sat. She glanced at Charles. He bowed and grinned.

“I try my humble best, Aunt, to save damsels in distress from dragons—and tabbies of all descriptions.”

“Hmm.” Lady Beatrice stroked her cat and studied Charles. Emma tried not to fidget when the woman’s eyes examined her. “Does this damsel have a particular need to be saved, Charles?” Her tone was lazy, but Emma detected an icy undercurrent.

“Not that I know of, Aunt.” Charles shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the mantel. His voice was sharp. “Why do you ask?”

“I am not accustomed to hearing crockery shatter as I prepare to enter a room.”

Emma studied her hands clasped in her lap and hoped her cheeks weren’t burning as brightly as she feared.

“I believe I said something with which Miss Peterson disagreed.”

“Really? One wonders what conversational topic could possibly provoke a gently bred young lady to heave the knickknacks about.”

Emma decided that it was past time to flee. “I believe I should be getting back to the girls, my lord, Lady Beatrice. I’m sure they’ve worn Nanny out by now.”

“Don’t go, Miss Peterson,” Lady Beatrice said. “I’ve hardly met you.”

It was not a request. Emma sank back into her chair. “There’s really nothing at all interesting about me, Lady Beatrice.”

Lady Beatrice raised one eyebrow. “That is what I am trying to determine, Miss Peterson.”

“Aunt, leave off. Miss Peterson is kindly filling in while Miss Hodgekiss, Isabelle and Claire’s governess, attends her ailing mother.”

“I see. And she is staying at Knightsdale?” Lady Beatrice paused. Her blue eyes raked Emma from head to toe. “How…convenient.”

Emma sat a little straighter in her chair. Surely the woman could not be insinuating…No, it was impossible. No one had ever accused Emma—no one had ever considered accusing Emma—of anything other than perfectly proper behavior. She must have misunderstood Lady Beatrice’s inflection.

It was hard to misunderstand the hard look in the older woman’s eyes.

“Miss Peterson and I were just becoming reacquainted when you arrived, Aunt.”

“Reacquainted, Charles? So you and Miss Peterson had a…relationship of some sort?”

“No.” Emma hoped she had not shouted the word, but from the way the older woman’s eyebrows shot up, she was afraid she had. She surged to her feet. She was going to leave this room now, whether Charles’s aunt liked it or not. “Lady Beatrice, I can assure you…”

“Please don’t, child.” Lady Beatrice waved a heavily bejeweled hand in her direction. “Sit down. I apologize if I offended you.”

Emma sat but remained on the edge of her seat, ready to leave at the first insult.

“I am not accustomed to such treatment, Lady Beatrice. I hope it will not be repeated.”

Lady Beatrice chuckled. “Got claws, do you? That’s good. So, then, tell me why you threw the”—Lady Beatrice looked over at the shattered pieces on the floor and shrugged—“why you heaved that gewgaw at the door.”

Emma flushed. “It was a dog, Lady Beatrice.”

“Ah.” The older woman rubbed the queen’s ears. “Bess here would probably agree with you—she doesn’t care for dogs herself. I do find it odd you apparently associate with a live version of the creatures, if you despise the beasts so much you feel compelled to rid the world of canine gimcrackery—gimcrackery, I might add, that does not belong to you. You did say Prinny was a dog, did you not?”

“Yes.” Emma looked to Charles for help. The wretch had his hand over his mouth, muffling his laughter. “I didn’t mean to break the figurine.”

“No? What did you mean to do?”

“I was aiming for Lord Knightsdale’s head.”

“Of course. Charles?”

“I merely asked Miss Peterson to wed me. She declined.”

Lady Beatrice blinked. “I see. A simple ‘no’ would not have sufficed?”

“Apparently not.”

Emma wanted to scream—from mortification or frustration, she wasn’t sure which. “Lady Beatrice, I do apologize. I really can’t explain my reaction.”

“Then don’t attempt to, dear. Some things are inexplicable—and others become clear with time. It remains to be seen into which category this little event will fit. You did say you have met before?”

Charles chuckled. “Miss Peterson and I were childhood playmates, Aunt. I saw her again for the first time in years just shortly before you arrived.”

“Years, Charles? How many years?”

Charles shrugged. “A few. At least ten. Probably more like twenty.”

Lady Beatrice stared at Charles. “You haven’t seen Miss Peterson since you were a child and yet you just asked her to marry you?”

Charles shifted his weight and cleared his throat. “Yes.”

Lady Beatrice shook her head. “Miss Peterson, my apologies. I completely understand. Next time I suggest a heavier object at closer range.”

Charles watched the ladies chat. Lambert had brought in tea and cakes—and a saucer of cream for her highness.

“You did say you are staying in the house, didn’t you, Miss Peterson?” Aunt Beatrice helped herself to the largest cake.

“Yes. Miss Hodgekiss left suddenly last week, and I thought it best that I move up here to help Nanny. She is getting on in years.”

“Indeed. And your family can manage without you?”

Emma paused, and Charles leaned forward. Had there been a shadow in her eyes?

“Oh yes. My sister is seventeen, so she no longer needs—nor wants—my daily supervision.”

“Hmm. And I believe your mother died many years ago, didn’t she?” Aunt Bea brushed a few crumbs off her bosom.

“Not long after Meg was born.” Emma smiled, but Charles saw the shadow again. “I raised Meg and kept house, but, well, things change. I can easily afford to teach the girls until Miss Hodgekiss can return.”

Charles watched Emma nibble a piece of cake. She had a nice mouth—a full lower lip, a slightly bowed upper. Kissable lips. He watched the small pink tip of her tongue dart out to capture an errant crumb—and felt heat flood a certain part of his anatomy. He could imagine lovely things for that tongue to do.

“Don’t you agree, Charles?”

“Hmm?” He tore his eyes away from Miss Peterson’s lips to find Aunt Bea staring at him. “I’m sorry, Aunt. I’m afraid I was woolgathering.”

Aunt Bea snorted. “Is that what they call it now? In my day—”

Charles glanced at Emma’s bewildered expression. “Aunt, could you save us all our blushes and just repeat the question?”

Aunt Beatrice glanced at Emma also.

“All right. I was trying to persuade Miss Peterson to join our little house party.”

“An excellent suggestion!” Charles beamed. Trust Aunt Bea to come up with such an inspired notion.

“But Lord Knightsdale, I couldn’t possibly join your guests.”

“Why ever not, Miss Peterson? You would be a lovely addition.”

“But I’m the governess.”

“Pshaw! The temporary governess.” Aunt Bea offered the queen a morsel of cake. Her highness sniffed carefully, then tilted her nose up, rejecting the treat. “Your birth is impeccable—father’s the son of an earl, if I remember correctly.”

“The fourth son of an earl,” Miss Peterson said.

“No matter. Blood’s blue enough.”

Miss Peterson clattered her teacup into its saucer. “Blue enough for what?”

“For the ton, Miss Peterson.” Aunt Bea popped the cake Queen Bess had declined into her own mouth. “I don’t suppose you ever made your come out?” The question was muffled by cake crumbs.

“No. When I was seventeen, Meg was only nine. I didn’t want to leave her, and my father wasn’t interested in having me go to London. I suppose we could have gotten one of his sisters to sponsor me, but it didn’t seem worth the trouble.”

Aunt Bea nodded, her plumes bobbing. “Lady Gromwell, the countess, and Lady Fanning, the baroness. Perfectly acceptable.” She reached for another cake. “You did say your sister is seventeen? Did she also decline a trip to Town?”

“Yes. Father offered her the opportunity. Lady Elizabeth, the Duke of Alvord’s sister, was making her bows—Meg could easily have gone up with her.” Miss Peterson sighed, shrugging slightly. “Meg isn’t interested in gowns and furbelows, I’m afraid. She’d much rather be out mucking around in the fields, looking for plants to add to her collection.”

She paused, gazing into her teacup. Charles saw the shadow in her expression again. Her mouth tightened.

“And things were a little…unsettled at home.”

What was bothering the girl? He wanted to see only laughter in her eyes—or sparks of anger and passion—not sadness.

“Sounds as if your sister could stand a little polishing, Miss Peterson,” Aunt Bea said. “I suggest we include her in the house party, Charles. It will be a perfect opportunity for her to ease into the ton.”

“A splendid idea, Aunt. And Miss Peterson will be here to show her the way of it.”

“Lady Beatrice, I don’t think…”

“No, we insist—don’t we, Charles?”

“Definitely. I will escort you home today, Miss Peterson, to present the invitation in person.”

“But…”

“Come, Miss Peterson,” Aunt Bea said. “I’m certain your father cannot object. He must be happy to see his daughter—his daughters—acquire some social polish.”

Miss Peterson abandoned her teacup and sat up, her nostrils flaring, fire back in her eyes. “Lady Beatrice…”

Aunt held up her hand. “Now, Miss Peterson, don’t be tiresome. What possible objection can you have to a little enjoyment? Some cards, a picnic or two, a ball? All unexceptionable pursuits.”

Miss Peterson’s chin jutted out much like Claire’s. “I will need to attend to the girls.”

“Of course, but not every instant of the day, surely. Nanny can keep an eye on them in the schoolroom, can’t she?” Aunt Beatrice looked at Charles.

“Certainly.” He grinned. “She’s looking after them at the moment, in fact. And it’s not as if they are babies. Isabelle struck me as very responsible.”

“Too responsible,” Miss Peterson said. “And she needs to keep up with her lessons.”

“Which she shall.” Charles saw victory within his grasp. “I shall visit the schoolroom and assist, as long as you don’t want me to instruct in watercolors. I can’t paint—or draw—at all.”

“Umm…”

“It’s decided, then.” Aunt Bea snagged the last cake. “Go get your bonnet, Miss Peterson, and Charles will drive you over now.”

“But…”

Aunt Bea made shooing motions with her hands. Miss Peterson looked at Charles. He chuckled at the confused mix of frustration, anger, and resignation on her face. And anticipation? Surely there was a glimmer of anticipation as well? He suspected it had been a long time since Miss Peterson had let herself have any fun. Maybe she had never allowed herself pleasure.

Charles was determined to change that. He found he would dearly love to give her pleasure. Glorious pleasure. Hot, sweaty pleasure. Late night and early morning pleasure.

He watched her lovely derriere swish as she stalked out of the room.

“Settled on her, have you?”

Charles shrugged, turning back to his aunt. “You’ve been nagging me incessantly to wed ever since we got word Paul had died. Miss Peterson will do.”

“You have many ladies to choose from.”

“All of whom I’ve seen before.”

“Ah, but they are much more interested in you now that you are the Marquis of Knightsdale.”

Charles felt his stomach twist. God, that was one of the things he hated most about the bloody situation—the toadying. People who could not be bothered to notice mere Major Draysmith stumbled over themselves to greet Lord Knightsdale.

“That is part of Miss Peterson’s charm, Aunt. I don’t believe she gives a fig for my title.”

Emma forced herself to walk calmly down the stairs. She was still fuming. The gall of the man! To come here after all these years and suggest she marry him. She’d swear he hadn’t even recognized her when he’d first seen her in the long gallery.

He just wanted a breeder. She was certainly not going to offer herself up so the Knightsdale dynasty could continue one more generation. The way she felt now, she’d happily terminate the line immediately. With her bare hands.

She paused on the second-floor landing, gripping the handrail so tightly her knuckles showed white. She took a deep breath.

She was angry with herself as well.

Why couldn’t he be ugly—cross-eyed or pockmarked or hunchbacked? Why did he have to be the one man who haunted her dreams?

She put her hands on her flushed cheeks. He had haunted more than her sleep. Even awake, she had dreamed of him, of the kiss she had seen.

She had invited him into her bed the very night she had rushed home from his brother’s wedding ball.

Lud, it was true. Papa’s proper daughter had climbed into bed, blown out the candle, and summoned up her memory of Charles on the Knightsdale terrace. But in her thoughts, he was kissing her, not some anonymous London lady. She had tried to feel his lips moving on hers. Would they be warm or cool, moist or dry? She had imagined his arms around her, his chest against hers, his hands on her—She squeezed her eyes shut. She would not think about just where she had imagined his hands.

Now he had asked her to marry him. She could discover exactly what his lips felt like. What his hands…

Enough! She could not marry the man just to test the accuracy of her imagination, could she? No. Certainly not. Such a thought was ludicrous in the extreme.

She continued down the stairs.

She had almost died in the study when his eyes had seemed to trace the line of her lips. She could barely keep her attention on Lady Beatrice’s words. The man should be forced to wear a blindfold—those clear blue eyes were dangerous to women. He had probably lured countless society ladies into his arms with them. Well, she would not be another victim—no matter how much she would like to be.

“Miss Peterson—so prompt. Splendid.”

Emma looked down. Charles was standing in the hall, grinning up at her. Her heart lurched before she could take it under firm control.

“It does not take long to put on a bonnet, my lord.”

“No? I defer to your greater knowledge—I have never attempted the task.”

“I don’t doubt you’ve much experience with taking off a bonnet, however!”

Emma bit her lip. Where had that come from? She’d never had trouble minding her tongue in the past. She stared straight ahead as she stepped out the front door, but she heard Charles’s warm chuckle by her ear.

“Ah, Miss Peterson, do I detect some words left unspoken?”

“I have no idea to what you might be referring, my lord.”

“So you are not intimating that I have removed more than a lady’s bonnet?”

Emma felt a hot blush surge up her cheeks. She had not fully realized that she had been accusing him of more thorough feminine disrobement until he said the words. But she certainly was not going to admit it. Some lies were necessary for self-preservation.

“Of course not, my lord.”

He laughed, a deep, warm sound. “Oh, Miss Peterson, I can see we are going to have a wonderful time together. May I call you Emma?”

“Certainly not.”

“Splendid. And you must call me Charles.”

“My lord, did you not hear me? I did not give you leave to use my Christian name.”

“Well, Emma, I am very sorry, but I am taking that leave. One thing I learned in the war was to ask nicely, but if something is crucial for survival, take it—politely, of course. And I do think using your lovely name, Emma, is crucial to my survival.”

Emma could not think of a single thing to say. She was certain her mouth was gaping open—and it opened even farther when she felt his broad, warm hands around her waist, lifting her to sit in his curricle. He climbed up next to her and grinned, tapping the bottom of her chin with his index finger. She shut her jaw so quickly she heard it snap.

To add to her confusion, the curricle’s seat was extremely narrow. Charles’s side, hip, and leg were pressed tightly up against her. They were amazingly hard—like rock. She shifted, trying to put more space between them. He shifted with her.

“My lord, you are crowding me.”

“Charles, Emma. You know my name is Charles. You used to call me Charles when you were a girl.”

“And you will not hear it on my lips now, my lord. I, at least, have some inkling of decorum.”

“Hmm. Perhaps I can persuade those lips.”

Before Emma had the slightest idea what Charles planned, she felt his mouth on hers.

Her eyes closed, whether to shut out the shocking sight of his face so close to hers or to better feel the touch of his lips, she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say. It was the briefest brush—dry and cool—but she felt it all the way to her toes. It started an odd fire burning in her stomach, a fire that had smoldered in her dreams but had never flared to life. A fire she feared would consume her.

Lud, was she in trouble!

Charles chuckled and moved back to his side of the seat. He would have preferred to spend more time exploring Emma’s mouth, but the horses were restless and Emma might soon recover enough from her shock to slap him senseless. Not to mention the fact that they were in full view of Knightsdale’s many windows. Was Aunt Bea peering down at them? Or little Claire?

He didn’t care. He grinned, feeling a ridiculous urge to laugh. He had not felt this lighthearted in years—certainly not since he’d left for the Peninsula. Definitely not since he’d gotten word of Paul’s death. Even when he’d just come down from university and was racketing around London, he had not felt this pure, carefree joy. He’d thought he’d been living a wonderful life then, acquiring some town bronze, but too many mornings after a night of debauchery, the bronze had felt more like rust.

He took a deep breath of cool English air, drawing in the scent of new-mown grass. Maybe he had not felt this way since boyhood when he’d had a whole glorious day before him to fill with fishing and riding and playing at Robin Hood or Knights of the Round Table—often with the girl beside him tagging at his heels. He chuckled. Who would have guessed he would ever feel more than annoyance for the little curly-headed pest he had nicknamed “Runt.”

“What is so amusing, my lord?”

So Miss Peterson was going to be on her high horse, was she? He glanced at her. Yes, she had her little nose tilted in the air.

“Did you know the other boys called you ‘Shadow’?”

“What?” She turned to look at him. “What are you talking about?”

“When we were children. The other boys called you ‘Shadow,’ because you were always following me around.”

“Oh.” She was looking off at the scenery now, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.

“I didn’t call you that, though. I didn’t mind your following me.”

“You called me ‘Runt.’”

“Well, you were little. You are still not very tall, though some areas of your person”—Charles allowed his eyes to rest on her well-shaped breasts—“have grown considerably.”

“My lord!” Her cheeks were flaming now. Charles braced for a slap.

“Your hands, for example,” he said, laughing. “I’m sure they are larger. Your feet, too. Your lovely, um, ch—”

Emma sucked in her breath, making the relevant anatomical features swell invitingly.

“—chin has grown since you were a young girl as well.”

“My lord, you are so…slippery.”

“I beg your pardon?” Charles tried for his best innocent expression. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do! I can’t quite grab hold of you. I think I know what you are saying, but then somehow I don’t. You are as slippery as a trout.”

“Sweetheart,” Charles said, his voice suddenly husky at the erotic possibilities her artless words conjured in his mind, “anytime you would like to grab hold of me, please do. I will be happy to accommodate you. If I were a trout, I would be delighted to swim in your tight, wet, um…” Charles swallowed, reining in his imagination.

She threw him a puzzled, but wary, glance. “You’re doing it again.”

Charles reminded his body to behave itself. His voice was clearer this time. “I’m doing what?”

“Don’t look so innocent. You meant something else, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“Yes, you did.”

Charles grinned. “Well, perhaps.”

“Tell me.”

“Oh, no, Emma, my love. I most certainly will not tell you. I’ll show you—but only once we are married.”

Charles chuckled, imagining he could hear her teeth grinding. He looked ahead to the familiar stone building where he had spent so many hours learning Greek and Latin from Reverend Peterson.

“Will we find your father at home?”

“Yes.”

Charles noted the sudden chill in Emma’s tone. What was this about? “And your sister?”

Emma shrugged. “Meg is probably out grubbing in the dirt somewhere. If Father and—” She paused. Her nostrils flared, her mouth forming a tight line.

“And?” he prompted, pulling the curricle to a stop.

Emma’s chin raised and she straightened her shoulders, like a soldier readying for battle. All teasing thoughts left his mind. He was quite certain he had found the source of Emma’s shadows.

“…and Mrs. Graham,” Emma said. “Mrs. Harriet Graham. She’s a widow. She helps with the church, arranging flowers and such.”

“And?”

“And what, my lord?”

“And why does the thought of Mrs. Harriet Graham, widow, make you stiffen up like you’ve swallowed a hot poker?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“It can’t be the simple fact that she helps with the church, can it?” Charles watched Emma’s downcast eyes. “You said ‘Father and….’ It’s the ‘and’ that’s the problem, isn’t it? Is this Mrs. Graham a harpy of the worst sort?”

Emma shook her head. “Of course not. Mrs. Graham is a fine member of the congregation.”

“But perhaps not such a fine member of your family?”

“Are you going to help me out of this curricle or do I need to leap down?”

“I’ll help you, sweetheart.” Charles came around and took her by the waist. He didn’t slide her down his body as he wanted to, nor did he pull her against him when her feet touched the ground. But he didn’t let her go immediately either. He enjoyed the curve of her waist under his hands too much.

To his surprise, she didn’t pull away. She stood quietly, looking down, her eyes hidden by her bonnet.

“Emma, are you all right?”

“Yes. Of course.” She glanced up at him, then stepped back. He let her go. “I’m sorry. Come this way.”

He followed her inside. The smell hit him first—the smell of learning, of old books, leather, paper, and ink. He had breathed in that scent so often when he was a boy struggling with his Latin declensions. He had breathed it at university, also, but this was better. This was home. Emma’s papa had been a kind master. Strict, demanding, but always encouraging. Charles had worked hard to please him.

He had been guilty of wishing Reverend Peterson was his own papa. Perhaps that was one reason he had tolerated Emma. He had thought of her as a little sister.

He certainly did not think of her as a sister now.

Emma stopped outside her father’s study and knocked deliberately.

“We have company, Papa.”

“Please, come in.”

Emma pushed the door open. Charles froze on the threshold.

Reverend Peterson had aged in the past twenty years. His hair was gray; his cheeks, slightly sunken; the bones of his face, more defined. Charles knew this. He had seen the man just four months earlier at Paul’s funeral. But to see him here, in this study—this room should have been an eddy where time and age did not come.

“My lord,” Reverend Peterson was saying, standing. “It is good to see you again. We are all happy you have come home to Knightsdale.”

Charles grinned. “Finally. Thank you for not saying it.”

Reverend Peterson’s smile had not changed. His lips curved only slightly, but his eyes twinkled over his spectacles. “I would never presume to criticize a marquis.”

“Out loud.”

The vicar’s lips twitched, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “I was just eager to see you in the neighborhood, my lord.” He turned to a small woman who’d been sitting in a chair next to his desk. “May I present Mrs. Harriet Graham? Mrs. Graham is relatively new to Knightsdale, my lord, but she has been a very active member of the parish.”

“Mrs. Graham.” Charles took the woman’s hand. He could almost feel Emma bristle. She was still standing stiffly by the door.

“My lord.” Mrs. Graham smiled calmly up at him. He liked her immediately. She had a pleasant, comfortable face with warm brown eyes and hair that had once been brown but was now streaked with gray.

So this is the harpy. She looked like a normal, middle-aged woman, not a candidate for evil step-motherhood.

“Reverend, I’ve come to extend an invitation to both your daughters.”

Emma watched Charles take Mrs. Graham’s hand. She had not been surprised to find the woman in the study with Papa. Lud, she practically lived at the vicarage. Maybe she would, if Meg moved up to Knightsdale for this house party.

Emma bit her lip. No, she truly could not see Papa breaking God’s law, living in sin with a woman—even a jezebel like Harriet Graham.

“A number of ladies will be in attendance who are Miss Margaret Peterson’s age. My aunt, Lady Beatrice, thought this might be an excellent opportunity for your younger daughter to get her feet wet in the social pond, as it were, and in familiar surroundings with her older sister to guide her.”

“And who will guide her older sister?”

“Papa, I am not a complete cabbage-head. I will do very well.”

Emma saw Charles’s eyebrow rise, and she flushed. Perhaps her tone had been a bit sharp.

“I didn’t mean to imply that you were, Emma, but you have not been to London, either.”

“I’ve been to plenty of local assemblies.”

“Yes, I know, but…”

Emma glared her father to silence.

“Do not worry, sir.” There was a slight note of humor in Charles’s voice.

Emma turned to glare at him. He ignored her.

“My aunt will be present, and it will not be a very strenuous gathering. Just a few picnics, a ball. Very relaxed. I believe the Duke of Alvord and his wife and sister will be there, as well as the Earl of Westbrooke, so the ladies will see a few familiar faces.”

Reverend Peterson nodded. “The duke’s sister, Lady Elizabeth, is Meg’s particular friend. I see no objections, do you, Harriet?”

Emma gritted her teeth as Mrs. Graham nodded and murmured her concurrence.

“The guests should begin arriving tomorrow,” Charles said, “so I’ll send a carriage to fetch Miss Margaret Peterson in the morning, shall I?”

“That would be splendid, my lord.” Papa looked at his older daughter. “Emma, you must have some things you need to pack. You didn’t plan for social activities when you went up to take Miss Hodgekiss’s place.”

“No, and I’m not planning on attending many social activities now—I will still be spending most of my time with the girls.”

“But not all your time,” Charles said. “Why don’t you pack your things now?”

Emma did not want to pack anything. She crossed her arms, ready to tell them that, but she caught Charles’s eye before she spoke. Something in his expression warned her she was on the verge of a childish tantrum. She closed her lips.

She was twenty-six, not six years old. Such behavior was beneath her. She drew a steadying breath.

“I suppose that is a good idea. I won’t be long.”

“Would you like some help?”

“No, Mrs. Graham. I am quite capable of managing on my own.” Emma glanced at her father and saw the reproach in his face. She flushed. “But thank you for the offer. I’ll just be a minute.”

It did not take much more than a minute to pack. Her wardrobe was not extensive—most of it was already at Knightsdale. She hurriedly bundled a few extra dresses into a valise. She stopped, a hand on her ball gown. Should she bring it? No. Ridiculous. Her fingers slid over the silky fabric. It had been such a waste of money. She had never worn it.

She could wear it now, at the house party.

No. She wouldn’t go to the ball…would she?

She closed her eyes, remembering Charles and that London lady on the terrace ten years ago. She’d been too young to go to that ball. She was not too young now….

She grabbed the dress, stuffed it in among the rest of her things, and left her room before she could change her mind.

Charles put her valise in the curricle while she said good-bye to her father.

“Should my ears be burning?” she asked after he had helped her into her seat.

“Emma, your father would not talk about you with me and Mrs. Graham.”

“I’m sure he talks about me to Mrs. Graham.” Emma stared ahead, waiting for Charles to defend the woman. He said nothing. She should say nothing, too, but words were clawing at her throat, demanding to be free.

She had no one to confide in. She couldn’t talk to Meg. She had tried once, but Meg was too young. She didn’t understand. And the other ladies she knew were too old. Well, and she didn’t want to air her dirty laundry. But Charles had been witness to her bad behavior.

What was the matter with her? First she had lost her temper and thrown that trinket at Charles, and now she’d just acted like a rude child. Perhaps she was ill. Her stomach certainly felt unsettled.

If Charles had been serious about his marriage proposal, he must be congratulating himself now that she had declined his offer. She was turning into a shocking shrew.

If only Mrs. Graham would move back to where she had come from. If only things could be normal again.

She looked over at Charles. He raised an eyebrow.

“Is the danger past?”

“What danger?” Emma frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“You’ve been sitting there growling and flexing your hands. I feared you might explode at any moment.”

“I was not growling. How absurd!”

“You were.”

“I was not. I don’t even know how to growl.”

“Well, it sounded like growling to me. Would you like to tell me what the problem is?”

“No.” Emma pressed her lips together. “There is no problem.”

Charles sighed. “I imagine it has something to do with Mrs. Graham, but frankly, I can’t fathom what it could be. She seemed like a perfectly normal, respectable lady to me.”

“Well, she’s not!” Emma grabbed Charles’s arm and shook it. “She is shameless. Brazen.”

“Mrs. Graham?”

“Yes.”

They rode in silence for a few moments. Emma tried to get control of her temper. She was shaking inside.

“All right, Emma, I give up. The thought of Mrs. Graham as brazen boggles my mind. I know it is indelicate to ask, but I’m asking anyway—what did she do?”

“I found her in the study kissing my father.” Emma could see the scene as clearly as if it had just happened, yet it had been two months since she had walked in to talk to her father and found him sitting on the settee with Mrs. Graham. Emma always made a point of knocking now.

“And…?”

She looked at Charles. He raised his eyebrows.

“What to you mean, ‘and’?”

“And what else? You saw your father kissing Mrs. Graham, and…?”

“Isn’t that enough? And I didn’t actually see him kissing her, but it was quite clear that is what he’d been doing. Her hair was disordered and the neck of her dress was loose.”

“I see. So they were expressing affection for each other. Perhaps strong affection. It has been—what?—seventeen years since your mother died?”

“I don’t know what difference that makes.”

“Has there been a procession of ‘Mrs. Grahams’?”

“Of course not. My father is a man of God.”

“Precisely. So perhaps he is ready to take a wife again and has found he cares for Mrs. Graham.”

“He is too old to marry.” Emma dug her fingers into Charles’s arm. The thought of Mrs. Graham moving into the vicarage in truth…It had always been just her father and Meg and she. No one else. That was the way it was supposed to be.

“Sweetheart,” he said, taking the reins in one hand and gently loosening her fingers, “your father cannot be very much more than fifty. He is not too old.”

“But I don’t want a mother.”

“And I’m sure Mrs. Graham knows that. You are twenty-six and Meg is seventeen. It is not beyond the realm of possibility that you will both be married before the year is out—at least, I hope you will be. To me. Your father will then be all alone. You should be happy that he has found Mrs. Graham.”

Emma dropped her hold on Charles’s arm. She’d known he wouldn’t understand. How could he? He was a man, after all.

“I’m not getting married.”

He smiled, turning his attention back to the horses. “Perhaps not. That is your choice. You must allow your father the same freedom.”

“But you don’t understand. He’s my father. He has a duty to his family.”

“He’s a man, too, sweetheart.”

Emma looked down at her hands. “I thought he loved me and Meg. Why does he need her?”

“It’s a different kind of love, Emma. Have you no understanding of a man’s needs? Of a man’s wants?”

Emma shook her head. What could possibly be more important to a man than his children? She had tried so hard to keep the house as it should be, to be a mother to Meg. What had she done wrong? What was lacking?

“No,” she said, “I don’t. I don’t understand at all.”

“Then, my love, permit me to show you.”