The Naked Marquis Page 4

  "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."

  Chapter 3

  This kiss was different. The first one had been a light brush, cool and dry. This was hot and wet. Charles's mouth slanted over hers; his tongue traced the seam
of her lips. She gasped and he slipped inside.

  Who would have thought such a thing possible? She had certainly never conceived of the idea. She should be disgusted—but she was not. Not in the least.

  There were so many sensations. The fullness of his tongue in her mouth. The slight friction as he swept through her. The shifting pressure of his lips. The smell of his shaving soap and skin.

  His tongue withdrew and she whimpered. He surged back into her and she moaned. She grabbed his arm again so she wouldn't fall out of the curricle.

  Lud. Her body throbbed in places she blushed to consider. Her heart pounded. When Charles finally, gently, let her go, she shuddered and blinked up at him. His magical lips were smiling, but there was a hunger, a blue flame in his eyes—a flame that must reflect the fire running everywhere under her skin.

  Is this what she had seen on the Knightsdale terrace so many years ago? Surely not. The woman would have spontaneously combusted, just as Emma was certain she would at any moment.

  "What did you just do to me?"

  "Not everything I'd like to, sweetheart."

  Emma looked delightfully dazed. He felt rather dazed himself. If his horses hadn't protested the long inaction, he wasn't certain when he would have stopped. And he definitely had to stop. An open carriage on a public road was not the place to initiate a virgin into the joys of lovemaking.

  "Sweetheart, next time we do this, it will not be in a curricle with two prime bits of blood threatening to bolt."

  "Next time? There will be a next time?"

  "Oh, definitely. As soon as I can manage it."

  "My lord!" Her brain must have finally emerged from its sexual stupor. A hot flush turned her cheeks a very becoming pink. She straightened her spectacles. "I am certain this is most improper."

  "Most, I'm sure." He grinned. "But oh, so delightful."

  She turned to face squarely forward. "I believe we should be returning to Knightsdale."

  Charles obligingly gave his horses their office to start. "Don't you think you should call me Charles now, love? The 'my lording' seems a trifle disingenuous. We have just been somewhat intimate, after all."

  "I'm certain we have not."

  "No? Well, what would you call it? I did have my tong—"

  "My lord!"

  "If you do not wish me to describe in detail everything we just did, I think you'd better call me Charles. Not that I would mind describing it."

  "My lord, please!"

  "Please continue? I shall be delighted to. In fact, perhaps I shall also say exactly what I would like to do the next time I have the pleasure of putting my tong—"

  "Charles!" Emma shouted his name, grabbing his arm and shaking it.

  "See? That wasn't so difficult, was it?"

  She pressed her lips together. "I believe I would prefer to finish this trip in silence."

  "Splendid. I shall entertain myself contemplating all the lovely things we can do together the next time we have the opportunity."

  Miss Peterson did not rise to the bait. Charles contented himself with imagining what it would be like to strip each article of her clothing slowly from her lovely body. He had a very good imagination. He shifted on the curricle seat. Too good an imagination. He had better turn his mind to less elevating thoughts.

  Emma made a small sound, a cross between a hiss and a moan. He glanced at her. She was scowling at her hands. Where had her thoughts wandered now? Hopefully not the same place his had—he wanted her smiling, not frowning, when she pictured them together. More than smiling. Groaning. Writhing with need.

  "Don't care for your style of glove, my dear?"

  She grunted. "My father did not do that with Mrs. Graham."

  "Ah. If you say so."

  "He couldn't have—could he?"

  "I hesitate to point this out, love, but your mere presence on this earth would indicate that he could."

  Her hand flew to her lips. "Surely that is not how children are conceived?"

  Charles swallowed his laughter. "Not exactly, but it does have something to do with the process."

  "How much?"

  "Ah, love, how I long to show you." He laughed at the annoyance in her eyes. If there'd been a china dog handy, he would definitely have felt it cracking over his head. 'Think of it as the opening bars of the waltz, sweetheart. There are quite a few more steps to be completed before the dance is over."

  "Miss Peterson!"

  The call came from a man up ahead. Charles studied the fellow as he rode closer. He had a terrible seat—stiff and awkward. But then the nag he was astride was a sorry specimen as well. Showy, but with terrible gaits. Obviously bought by a man who knew nothing of horseflesh.

  "A friend of yours?"

  "An acquaintance—Mr. Albert Stockley. He's renting Mr. Atworthy's house while Mr. Atworthy is in Town." Emma nodded and smiled as the man drew up next to them. "Good afternoon, Mr. Stockley."

  "Miss Peterson." Mr. Stockley bowed stiffly.

  Charles liked him even less on closer inspection. He was just as showy as his horse. Small and wiry, he wore his mud-colored hair fussed into some stylish arrangement and his shirt points so high he risked poking out his watery blue eyes. His nose and lips had the perpetually pained expression of someone who smells something bad—or expects he will smell something bad in just a moment. He looked to be one of those tiresome small men who always have something to prove.

  "Mr. Stockley, have you met Lord Knightsdale?" Emma was saying.

  Charles definitely did not like the way Stockley's gaze sharpened when he heard his title.

  "No, I have not." He bowed in Charles's direction. "A pleasure, my lord."

  "Stockley." Charles inclined his head slightly. He was delighted to see Stockley's eyes narrow.

  "Miss Peterson," Stockley said, "I had been going to call on you at Knightsdale, but now that his lordship is in residence, I assume you have moved back to the vicarage."

  "Well, actually—"

  "Miss Peterson has kindly offered to stay and help with my nieces while their governess is away attending her ailing mother."

  Mr. Stockley frowned. "Oh? Is that completely proper, my lord? Not that I wish to criticize, of course, but Miss Peterson is an unmarried lady. She needs to guard her reputation."

  Charles felt Emma stir at his side.

  "You need not be concerned," he said. "My aunt, Lady Beatrice, is in residence. She will see that I keep my animal instincts under control."

  "My lord, I did not mean to imply—"

  "Excuse me, but in case it has escaped your notice, gentlemen, I am still sitting in this curricle."

  Charles smiled—Emma sounded quite annoyed.

  "Mr. Stockley," she said, "I appreciate your concern, but you may put your mind at rest. I am in no danger from his lordship's 'animal instincts.'"

  "No, of course not. I didn't mean to imply . . . I know your virtue is unassailable. . . . Well, I just wished to discover if you would like to go for a drive tomorrow afternoon?"

  "That would be lovely, however—"

  "However, Miss Peterson will be busy tomorrow afternoon, Stockley. I'm hosting a house party, and she has consented to attend, when her duties as temporary governess allow, of course. My guests should be arriving tomorrow—you're quite welcome to come, if you'd like."

  Stockley smiled, a sudden odd eagerness in his face. "I would be delighted to attend, my lord." He bowed again. "I look forward to seeing you both tomorrow."

  Charles was quite pleased to see the man's back, even if he looked like a scarecrow on a job horse.

  "Stockley's an odd fish," he said. "Do you know anything about him?"

  "I believe he has some connection to shipping—he's only been in the neighborhood a few weeks. He seemed a perfectly amiable gentleman, until just now, that is. Really, my lord, I do not enjoy being discussed as if I were not present."

  "I don't like the man."

  "Well, that was rather apparent."

  "Has he been
buzzing around you?"

  "No, he has not been 'buzzing' around me. You are being absurd."

  "Hmm." There was something off about Stockley. Charles didn't doubt the man was interested in Emma, but there was something more, something twisted in his regard. He planned to keep a close eye on him. 'There is something you should know, Emma."

  "What?"

  "You are definitely in danger from my animal instincts."

  * * *

  Emma was relieved to reach Knightsdale. She was hoping to retreat to her room for a short while to gather her composure before she sought out the girls for lessons. At least she could trust Isabelle to have walked Prinny. She was such a responsible girl.

  "Miss Peterson, you have company," Mr. Lambert said as she crossed the threshold.

  "Entertaining already, Miss Peterson?" Charles raised his eyebrows, a smirk hovering on his lips. "I am so glad you are treating my house as if it were your own."

  "My lord! Please. I'm sure there's been some mistake. Are you certain the individual asked for me, Mr. Lambert?"

  "Four individuals, miss."

  "Four?"

  "Four ladies, miss. Older ladies. Lady Beatrice is entertaining them at the moment."

  "Oh." Emma slapped her hand over her mouth. "The Society. This is the second Tuesday of the month, isn't it?"

  "I believe so, miss. Lady Beatrice has requested refreshments. Perhaps you could join the ladies in the blue drawing room?"

  "Certainly. Thank you, Mr. Lambert."

  "The Society, Miss Peterson? Are you some wild-eyed reformer?"

  "Hardly, my lord. I would like to discuss issues, but the other ladies never get beyond the latest gossip." She sighed. This was exceedingly awkward. "I do apologize for the intrusion. Since I was staying here, I thought it would be easiest to have the ladies meet at Knightsdale. I didn't mean to presume."

  "No, no, I would love you to consider Knightsdale your home. What is the name of this society I am hosting de facto?"

  "The Society for the Betterment of Women."

  "My God."

  Emma thought the ladies sounded a bit more animated than usual as she approached the drawing room door. She glanced at Mr. Lambert, who was still hovering nearby. He cleared his throat.

  "Lady Beatrice requested refreshments."