The Naked Marquis Page 2

  And then her mother had died and she'd had her sister, Meg, and her father to care for. No time for silly romantic dreams.

  She glanced at Charles's profile as they reached the entrance hall. No time, perhaps, nor sense in it, but she had dreamed anyway.

  She'd been sixteen when he'd last been home. Not yet out. Too young to be invited to his brother's wedding ball, but not too young to desperately want to attend and perhaps dance with Charles.

  She had done the most daring thing—the only daring thing—of her life. She had slipped out her window, through the woods, and up to the terrace. She'd hidden in the shadows, watching the men in their white linen and black eveningwear, the women in their jewels and colorful dresses.

  She had seen Charles come out onto the terrace with a London lady. Emma had stared at the woman. Her dress had clung to every curve and dipped precariously low over her full breasts. She'd been amazingly, shockingly beautiful. And then Charles had taken the lady in his arms and kissed her, his hands roaming freely over her body.

  It had made Emma feel very odd—breathless and uncomfortable. Embarrassed and wicked and . . . fluttery and hot. She had hurried back to the vicarage as if Satan himself were after her.

  She'd seen that kiss in her dreams a thousand times, but in her dreams, she was the woman in Charles's arms.

  Well, she should be cured of that affliction now. She took her hand off his arm as they entered the study. The servants did their best, but the room still smelled of old fires and dust. It had been more than a year since the marquis—the former marquis—had visited the estate.

  "Miss Peterson, I apologize if I startled you just now." Charles gestured for her to take a seat by the fire. She preferred to remain standing, forcing him to stand as well. He threw her a puzzled glance. Emma gripped her hands before her.

  "My lord, it has been four months since your brother and his wife died, leaving your nieces orphans. Why have you taken so long to come home?"

  Charles shrugged one shoulder. "Home?" His mouth tensed and he looked down at the desk. When he looked back up, his face was emotionless. "The girls were in good hands. I spoke to your father at the funeral. Nanny was here and the governess as well. Why would they care to see an uncle who was a stranger to them? And I truly thought they were still infants."

  "How could you have thought that? Isabelle is nine years old and Claire is four."

  "I was only twenty-one, a young man on the Town, when Paul had his first child. Beyond the disappointment that he had not managed to get an heir, I didn't think much of it. And then I went to war. The little one—Claire—wasn't born when I left for the Peninsula."

  "And do you intend to leave them again, now that you've seen them?"

  Emma could see from his expression that was ex-actly what he had intended.

  "You can't, my lord! The girls have lived long enough in the care of servants. They need a relative in the house. You heard how much Claire wants a papa! Isabelle, too, though she is too reserved to say so."

  "And what about a mama, Miss Peterson? Surely the girls need a mama as much, or more, than they need a papa?"

  "Well, of course they need a mama, but there's no one available at the moment to fill that position."

  "No?" Charles grinned suddenly. "How about you?"

  Emma felt as if all the air had been sucked out of her lungs.

  Charles bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Miss Peterson's jaw had dropped like a rock.

  "It's the perfect solution, when you think of it, Miss Peterson. The girls need a mother, as you yourself have pointed out. They know you and like you—and you live nearby, so you'll have the comfort of your own family at hand."

  And I find the notion of bedding you distinctly appealing. Charles smiled, trying to imagine how Miss Peterson would react to that statement. But it was true. He hadn't thought of her in years, yet to see her now, to have her standing just inches from him . . . Perhaps it was the contrast—his memories of her as a little girl with her very grown-up figure. Whatever it was, it was distinctly erotic. He shifted position, turning away from her slightly to hide his reaction.

  It was the perfect solution to his problem. Neither of them would be inconvenienced. It was not as if he had to spend a vast quantity of time with her. He had no desire to live at Knightsdale. He'd find something useful to do in Town and just come down from time to time to work on his responsibility to sire an heir.

  Yes, he'd come down to take her to bed. To strip that ugly frock off her lovely body. To bury his face in her soft, shapely breasts. To . . .

  He turned abruptly to the desk. His breeches were getting distinctly uncomfortable.

  "What could be better, Miss Peterson? You don't have a beau, do you?"

  "Well, no, but. . ."

  "And pardon me for saying so, but you are a bit past the usual age for marriage, are you not? As I remember, you are twenty-six, four years younger than I."

  "Yes. . ."

  Charles glanced at her, noting her heightened color and heaving bosom. Especially her heaving bosom. He jerked his eyes up to meet hers. Behind her spectacles, gold sparks smoldered under deeply furrowed brows.

  Perhaps he should not have pointed out that she was firmly on the shelf, but surely it must be a factor in her decision. It was unlikely she would have a better offer—or indeed, any other offer.

  "I don't intend to be in your way, you know. I'll spend most of my time in Town. You'll only have to put up with my occasional visits."

  "Why bother to visit at all? You've been able to keep yourself away all these years."

  Charles coughed into his hand. Surely she saw the obvious? He looked at her again. Her arms were tightly crossed under her glorious breasts. She lifted one of her brows. How could he not have noticed before how delightfully they flew up at one end? Or how kissable her mouth was, even drawn into a tight line as it was now. Would it soften if he put his lips over it?

  'There is the matter of an heir."

  "What?" Both eyebrows flew up and then slammed back down. "What do you mean, exactly?"

  The ice in her words was an interesting counterpoint to the fire in her eyes. Charles realized retreat was probably advisable, but he had gone too far into enemy territory. He had to brazen it out now.

  "An heir. I'll need one, now that I am the marquis. And I can't very well get one if I'm in London and my wife's in Kent, can I?"

  He ducked as a small china dog flew by his ear and shattered on the study door.

  Chapter 2

  "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, A
unt."

  "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 reac-quainted 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, a
nd 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.