The Naked Marquis Read online

  "Yes, you said that."

  Charles chuckled. "Broke out the sherry, did she, Lambert?"

  "And the brandy, my lord."

  "And the brandy? I suspect you will have some inspired discussions this afternoon, Miss Peterson. How long have they been at it, Lambert?"

  "The ladies arrived shortly after you and Miss Peterson departed."

  "Ah. So plenty of time to get well and truly foxed."

  A burst of raucous laughter erupted into the hall when Emma opened the door. She stepped over the threshold cautiously.

  'There she is. Come in, Miss Peterson. Let Lady Bea fill up your glass—uh, cup." Mrs. Lavinia Begley, the squire's wife, sat—well, sprawled, really—in a chair facing the door. Her nose was two shades redder than normal, and her face was definitely flushed.

  Charles's aunt looked over. She had changed into an apple green and jonquil striped dress with a diamond tiara. The tiara had slipped slightly so it was in danger of sliding over her eyes. She pushed it back and smiled.

  'Yes, do come in, Miss Peterson—and you, too, Charles."

  Emma glanced around the room. The regular Society attendees were all here—Mrs. Begley, the Misses Farthington, and Miss Blanche Russell. She had tried to get the younger ladies of the neighborhood interested in Society meetings, but so far she had not been successful. Mrs. Begley, who was comfortably over fifty, was the youngest of the group besides Emma.

  "I'm very sorry, Lady Beatrice. I forgot about the meeting—and I never would have invited the ladies here if I'd known you would be in residence. I mean, I never meant to impose. . . ."

  "Don't get yourself in a pucker, Miss Peterson. I've enjoyed making Mrs. Begley's acquaintance and reminiscing with Miss Russell and the Misses Farthington. It's been too long since we've enjoyed a comfortable coze, hasn't it, ladies?"

  Miss Esther and Miss Rachel Farthington, twins who had made their come out when the Prince Regent was an infant, nodded in unison.

  'Yes, much too long." Miss Esther had a green ribbon threaded through her sparse white locks.

  "Since poor Paul's wedding." Miss Rachel's red ribbon unfortunately accentuated the pink of her scalp.

  "No, Rachel, remember. . ."

  ". . . we didn't go to the wedding. That's right."

  "Because you were sick."

  "Had a touch of dyspepsia."

  "Which I caught from you the next day."

  "Would you care for some more inspiration, ladies?" The twins nodded and held out their teacups for Lady Beatrice to pour another dollop of brandy. "And you, Miss Russell?"

  Mousy Miss Russell hiccupped and nodded. Well, at least the spirits had put a sparkle in her watery eyes, Emma thought.

  "Come in and join us, Miss Peterson, Lord Knightsdale." Mrs. Begley took the bottle from Lady Beatrice and helped herself. "There's still some left."

  "Oh, sister, there's the new Lord Knightsdale." Miss Rachel elbowed Miss Esther so hard a little of the liquid in her teacup splashed out.

  "So it is."

  The two elderly ladies stared at Charles. "He's gotten big," Miss Esther said. "I remember when he used to get into all sorts of mischief."

  "And Miss Emma, she was always following him around."

  "Think they'll make a match of it?"

  Emma assumed the twins thought they were whispering. Since they were both more than a little deaf, their whispering was only slightly quieter than their regular speech.

  Miss Esther nodded. "Smelling of April and May, I'd say."

  Emma bristled. She was afraid if she looked at Charles, she would find him grinning.

  "They'll make nice-looking babies, don't you think?"

  "Yes, indeed. Lovely babies."

  Emma heard a choked laugh behind her. 'Wonderful babies," Charles murmured. "Many wonderful babies."

  She felt an odd trembling in her stomach. Perhaps she had a touch of dyspepsia.

  "Aunt, I believe these ladies would make brilliant additions to our house party, don't you?"

  "Yes, indeed. Splendid idea, Charles." Lady Beatrice held up her teacup. "What say you, ladies? Who's for a house party?"

  The ladies—even Miss Blanche—raised their cups high.

  "A house party," they said. "Huzzah!"

  "I believe I'll go check on Lady Isabelle and Lady Claire," Emma said.

  "Were the girls well-behaved, Nanny? Down, Prinny! Shh, you idiot dog. Whatever are you wearing?"

  Prinny, attired in a doll's red bonnet and cape, yapped and danced around Emma's skirts.

  "Course we were behaved, Mama Peterson." Claire frowned at the dog. "Come back, Lady Prinny, it's time for you to go to the ball."

  "I thought ye said that dog was yer sister's." Nanny took a mutton bone from behind a battered copy of The History of Little Goody Two-Shoes on the schoolroom shelf. "Here, ye heathen beast, go chew on this."

  Prinny grabbed the bone and brought it over to where Claire had arranged her dolls. Isabelle was curled up in the window seat, reading.

  "He is Meg's dog."

  "Don't look like it to me." Nanny adjusted her spectacles and tucked a few stray strands of white hair back under her cap. "Looks like he's making himself right at home, I'd say."

  Emma watched Claire try to tie a small cart around Prinny's waist.

  "Don't worry, I'm sure he'll go home quite happily when Miss Hodgekiss comes back." Emma hated to disturb the girls. Isabelle looked so engrossed in her reading. Perhaps sums could wait for another day. "How is Miss Hodgekiss's mother? Has anyone had word?"

  Nanny grunted. "Better, I believe."

  "Well, see then. You won't have to suffer Prinny's presence much longer. I am sorry about the flowers."

  "Oh, I don't mind him, not since I got some bones from Cook." Nanny pursed her mouth and looked at Emma. "I'm just wondering if yer making yerself at home, too."

  "Nanny!" Emma's stomach dropped to her slippers. "What are you saying?"

  "Nothing bad, miss, so ye can wipe that look off yer face. I'd be happy if ye married his lordship. The girls like ye. And they need a ma. Why, Lady Claire's been talking about Mama Peterson all afternoon."

  "Nanny, you know how Claire is."

  Nanny chuckled. "Aye—a bossy little devil."

  "Exactly. And much as I feel for her, she can't arrange other people's lives to suit her wants."

  "Why not?"

  "Why not?" Emma hardly knew what to say. She stared at the older woman, who shrugged.

  "If Lady Claire wants what's best for everyone, why not?"

  "Best for everyone? Nanny, the marquis just arrived this morning. I barely know him—nor does he know me."

  "Oh, pish! Ye've been in love with the boy forever."

  "I have not." Emma knew the words came out a little too forcefully—she didn't need to see Nanny's smirk to tell her that. A hot flush ran up her neck.

  "I watched ye follow him around when he was a lad."

  "I was a child—younger than Isabelle."

  Nanny grinned. "And was ye a child when ye spied on him at his brother's wedding ball?"

  Emma closed her eyes. Perhaps this was all just a bad dream and when she opened her eyes, she'd see her room at the vicarage.

  "William, the footman, saw ye hiding in the bushes."

  Emma was going to expire from embarrassment. No wonder Charles had thought she'd be eager to marry him.

  "No, I'm sorry. Marrying Lord Knightsdale is clearly out of the question. He is having a house party and will find a suitable bride from the selection presented, I'm sure."

  Nanny made dismissive clucking noises. Emma looked over and saw Isabelle staring back at her.

  "That one worries too much," Nanny said softly.

  Emma nodded. She walked over and sat down next to Isabelle on the window seat. Claire was still happily playing on the floor. Prinny had his head on his paws, a look of resignation in his eyes, as Claire tried to tie a bow on his tail.

  "Could you be our mama, Miss Peterson?"


  "Isabelle." Emma gently pushed the girl's soft blond hair off her forehead. She suddenly remembered her conversation with Charles on the way back from the vicarage, how she had said she did not want a mother. She did not, now. But she had wanted one desperately when she was Isabelle's age.

  "Isabelle, I would love to be your mama, but it isn't that easy."

  "Why isn't it?"

  Emma looked at the girl's small, serious face. How could she explain? When she'd been nine, she had not understood about men and women. She thought about Charles's kisses in the curricle, how they had made her feel. She was twenty-six and she still didn't understand.

  "Isabelle, I would love to be your mama, but then I would have to marry your Uncle Charles."

  "Don't you like him?"

  Emma took a deep breath. "I don't know him well enough to know if I like him or not."

  "Is there someone else you would rather marry?"

  "Isabelle." Emma was afraid she saw where this conversation was headed. "No, there is no one else— now. But I might find someone else, and then I couldn't marry him if I were married to your Uncle Charles."

  Isabelle smiled. "That's not a problem, then. Molly, one of the upstairs maids, says if you haven't found a man by your age, you aren't going to find one. So you can marry Uncle Charles."

  Emma was tempted to quiz Isabelle to determine which of the upstairs maids Molly was so she could strangle the cheeky girl.

  "Your Uncle Charles may find a girl he would rather marry, Isabelle. That's the point of this house party, you know."

  "No, I'm sure he won't like any of them better than you. You are beautiful, Miss Peterson."

  No one had ever called Emma beautiful before.

  "Thank you, Isabelle." Emma touched the girl's cheek. "Just keep an open mind, will you? I'm sure any lady your uncle marries will love you and Claire."

  "Mama Peterson, look!"

  Emma turned to see Prinny tearing toward her, wearing a purple bonnet now and dragging a small cart with two of Claire's dolls inside. Emma laughed—and heard the wonderful sound of Isabelle giggling.

  "What have you done to that poor dog?" Charles asked from the doorway.

  "Papa Charles!" Claire scattered her toys as she leapt off the floor and ran to her uncle. He caught her up and swung her high while she screamed and laughed.

  "Now don't get Lady Claire all stirred up, my lord."

  "Nanny." Charles lowered Claire to put her down, but the little girl wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his cravat. Emma saw his eyes widen slightly, and then his lips slid into an odd little smile and his arms tightened around his niece.

  "See," Isabelle whispered, "Uncle Charles will make a wonderful papa."

  Emma heard the longing in Isabelle's voice, and it went straight as an arrow to her heart. She swallowed sudden tears.

  Perhaps Charles would make a wonderful father— but would he make a wonderful husband?

  "Would you care for more peas, Miss Peterson?"

  "No, thank you, my lord."

  Charles leaned back in his chair and observed Miss Peterson sample her turbot. Something odd was afoot. He had come to the schoolroom to invite her to take dinner with Aunt Beatrice and him. She had tried to decline, but Isabelle of all people had urged her to accept. Now Emma was concentrating on her meal as though it were an epicurean feast.

  It was not. Charles sighed, taking another forkful of dry fish. Good, honest English cooking—edible, but not quite what his impending house guests would expect from a marquis. He didn't want to offend Cook, but perhaps she'd be happy to have some help in the kitchen. Certainly Alvord or Westbrooke, if they valued their palates, would lend him the services of one of their chefs for the duration of the house party.

  "Haven't had food like this in ages," Aunt Bea said, frowning down at her plate.

  "Bland food will settle your stomach, Aunt."

  "Bah—I don't want the stuff. Just pour me some more Madeira, will you, Charles?"

  "I will not. I have just finished loading a carriage with drunken ladies—I do not want you more bosky than you already are."

  "I can hold my liquor."

  "You are certainly holding a vast quantity of it at the moment, so we will not add to it, I think." Charles hoped she did not take an opportunity to admire herself in any mirrors. Her green and yellow ensemble was making him queasy, and he had not downed several bottles of brandy.

  "You'd better have thrown some chamber pots into the carriage as well, Charles. Don't doubt if several of the ladies will cast up their accounts, especially once the coach starts swaying."

  "Yes, that thought had occurred to me."

  Emma put down her fork. "I am sorry, Lady Beatrice, for presuming to invite the Society to meet at Knightsdale. I never would have done so if I had realized how, um, inopportune it would be."

  Aunt Beatrice hiccupped. "Nothing inopportune about it, miss. Had a wonderful time—hadn't seen the twins or Blanche in ages. Liked Lavinia, too. Don't think the ladies will be feeling too lively in the morning, though. Doubt they'll be the first of the guests to arrive."

  She reached for the wine bottle. Charles moved it.

  "When are your guests arriving, Lady Beatrice?"

  "Charles's guests, miss. That's the point, don't you know? Find Charles a wife. Needs to get himself an heir. Don't want the title to pass to Cousin Aubrey. That idiot would probably scream if he found a woman in his bed." Aunt Bea leaned closer. "You want to know what I think? I—"

  "Aunt Bea! I am quite certain we do not want to know what you think."

  "Well, I'm sure it's true." Aunt Bea stabbed a portion of turbot and waved it at Miss Peterson. "You could save us all a significant amount of trouble, miss, if you would just agree to marry Charles now. He's quite a catch, you know."

  "Aunt!"

  "Lady Beatrice!"

  Aunt Bea tasted the fish. "Bleah! Terrible." Her fork clattered on her plate. She leaned close to Emma again and nodded at Charles. "Clean those spectacles of yours, girl, and look at the man. That's no Cousin Aubrey sitting there. I'm sure he'd make getting an heir quite an experience. Am I right, Charles?"

  Charles was afraid his face was as red as Miss Peterson's.

  "If you'll excuse me," Miss Peterson said in a strangled voice, getting to her feet, "I really must. . . I'm feeling a trifle . . ."

  "Hot?" Aunt Bea said to Miss Peterson's fleeing back. "You should be feeling hot, girl. Think of the shoulders on the man. The legs. The thighs. The—"

  "Aunt Bea!"

  She stopped and looked at Charles.

  "You didn't have to yell, Charles. Thought you was used to plain talk, but I swear you're blushing more than Miss Peterson."

  * * *

  Charles untied his cravat. He had finally poured Aunt Bea into bed—well, he had turned her over to her long-suffering maid to deal with—and had found his own bedchamber.

  "That will be all, Henderson. I won't need you anymore tonight."

  "Very well, my lord."

  He watched the door close behind his valet. He wanted to be alone. Needed to be. Needed to come to grips with . . . this.

  He looked around the room at the dark paintings, the heavy furniture, the huge bed. God. He gripped the bedpost so tightly, the carved ridges dug into his fingers. He shouldn't be here. This was his father's room. Paul's room. It was never, ever supposed to be his room.

  Poor Paul, having to move in here when he was only fourteen. Father had died of impatience in an inn yard, screaming at a post boy who'd moved too slowly for his tastes. The innkeeper had been most apologetic, but Charles had understood completely. He'd made avoiding his father's short temper and sharp tongue a high art. It was one reason he'd roamed the countryside so much.

  And he'd been only the second son, hardly worth Father's notice. Paul had borne the brunt of the marquis's attention.

  But at least Paul had been ready for the tide. Well, not ready, perhaps—who could be ready to take over such vast
holdings so young? But Paul had been bred to the job—he had known from the cradle he would be the marquis. It was Paul's fate, Paul's destiny. Not his.

  He stripped off his shirt and flung it across the room.

  He remembered that afternoon at White's as if it were yesterday. He'd been sitting with Robbie, the Earl of Westbrooke. They'd been celebrating their small role in bringing together their friend James, the Duke of Alvord, and his wife, Sarah. Charles had been rolling a mouthful of port on his tongue when the messenger found them.

  "Major Charles Draysmith?"

  Dread knotted his gut. He knew from the man's stern, serious face and solemn tone that his life was about to change irreversibly. He swallowed quickly.

  "Yes? I am Major Draysmith."

  "I am sorry to inform you, Major, that the Marquis of Knightsdale and the marchioness have had a tragic accident."

  Damn, damn, damn. He flung away from the bed to stare out the window at the dark expanse that was Knightsdale. There was no moon; the clouds were as thick as his feelings.

  In that moment, when that damn messenger had told him Paul was dead, he had stopped being himself. His plans, his future, his identity all were stripped from him. He'd become the Marquis of Knightsdale. All that remained were the legal details. The heretofores and thereinafters.

  He snapped the curtains closed. He ripped off his stockings, his breeches, his drawers. He would have liked to have ripped off his skin. Escape this room, the title, all the unwanted responsibilities.

  He couldn't. Knightsdale was his duty now— unsought, unwanted, but still his duty. If the army had taught him anything, if the years of mud and blood had imprinted anything on his soul, it was duty. It had become his one constant in the madness of battle, the long marches, the days of hunger, thirst, exhaustion. Duty had carried him through the Peninsula, and it would carry him through here in England, too.

  Unbidden, the memory of Claire crept into his thoughts, the sounds of her happy squeals when he had picked her up in the schoolroom, the feel of her baby-soft arms around his neck and her small body, light as feathers, in his hold. Well, perhaps it was more than duty.

  He stretched. And there was Miss Emma Peterson. Bedding her would certainly be more than mere duty. He imagined her stretched out, naked, on his sheets. Yes, she would definitely make this room, this bed, more appealing. He chuckled. At least one unruly part of his anatomy was quite inspired by the thought of her lovely curves.