She sat on the window seat, the morning sun warming her back. Her new room was not much larger than her room on the nursery floor, but it was more lavishly appointed. The bedstead, instead of simple beech, was mahogany, and the wardrobe, washstand, and desk were far nicer than even those in her room at the vicarage. And this was one of the smallest bedrooms, left for last-minute guests such as herself. Nanny and the girls were in a larger room across the hall.
She closed her eyes, letting the heat of the sun relax her neck. She had not slept well last night. There had been that ridiculous incident with the ghost. Why hadn’t she realized Nanny did not have her spectacles on? She felt so stupid. But she had thought there was an intruder in the nursery, and she could not risk the girls’ safety. So she had done the only thing she could think to do—she had sent Claire running to get Charles.
She smiled, remembering his outfit. He had looked so funny. Funny and incredibly attractive. Nanny and Lady Beatrice were correct—Charles had nice legs. Wonderful legs. Not that she had ever seen a pair of bare male legs before, of course.
And not just his legs had been revealed to her interested gaze. His arms, his neck, his shoulders, part of his chest. He’d looked just like a statue of a Greek god, except he was alive. Warm. Flesh and blood.
Suddenly the sun streaming in the window was too hot. She moved to the chair on the other side of the room.
What was the matter with her? Was she sick? She’d spent all night dreaming of Charles. Well, she had dreamt of him before, but now she had so many more details. More, but not quite enough. She did not know how he felt. She flushed. How wanton—she wanted to touch him. To be touched by him. To feel his arms around her. To run her fingers over his muscles, the hair dusting his chest. Was it soft or wiry? And his skin—all that glorious skin—how would it feel under her fingers?
She had dreamt of his kisses also. The first one, the quick, tantalizing brush, and the second, the hot, wet second kiss with his lips and mouth and tong—
She fanned herself with her hand. Her body felt extremely odd thinking of that kiss. She had actually throbbed in a most unusual place last night. The same location felt distressingly damp at the moment. Damp and, well, needy.
Perhaps it was time she married. She had not seriously considered it before, but, as Charles had said, Meg was now seventeen. Certainly her father no longer needed her. He had Mrs. Graham, and, though he had never said so, Emma was convinced he would be happy to have her move out of the vicarage. The only way she could do that was to find a husband.
Perhaps marriage would also cure her of her new…yearnings.
But she wouldn’t marry Charles. She couldn’t, even though it appeared that he and his aunt had selected her. She’d thought she’d expire from embarrassment at dinner last night. Lady Beatrice was too plainspoken for her own good—or Emma’s good. Surely she would not say such things once the house party arrived!
No, Charles had only suggested she wed him because he didn’t want to be bothered courting some society miss. That would change today. Today he would have a selection of attractive young ladies near at hand. He would not have to exert himself in the slightest. He could sit in the drawing room and have them parade past, as if he were choosing a new horse for his stable. There were certain to be any number who were willing to sell themselves for a title.
She was not one of them. Definitely not. And anyway, it was ludicrous to think Charles would want an aging spinster once he surveyed all the younger possibilities.
She went back to the window. Her new room had a good view of the broad front drive. It was empty now, but in a few hours it would be filled with traveling carriages bringing their sacrificial women. Surely a selection of unattached men would also be in attendance. Charles could choose only one of the ladies—there would have to be a few extra males available.
Perhaps one of those could care for her—for herself, not her breeding potential. It might be possible. In any event, this was the closest she would ever come to a Season and the London Marriage Mart.
She would take this opportunity to do a little shopping.
“Meg.” Emma had seen her sister arrive and hurried downstairs to meet her.
Meg was scowling. “You are evil, Emma,” she hissed under her breath.
“Meg! Why ever would you say such a thing?” True, Emma had not expected Meg to be enthusiastic about the house party invitation, but still—it was a wonderful opportunity for her to get some social experience.
“You’re the one who put this house party bee in Papa’s bonnet, aren’t you?”
Emma choked. “Papa doesn’t wear a bonnet.”
Meg was not amused. “You know exactly what I mean. Did you or did you not come to the vicarage and invite me to this ridiculous house party?”
“I believe Lord Knightsdale extended the invitation. And the party is not ridiculous. You can stand to move among the ton a bit.”
“Don’t split hairs. You were there, weren’t you? You could have prevented the invitation. And I don’t want to move among the ton. The ton is a collection of mutton-headed coxcombs and spoiled chits. I want to be out in Squire Begley’s north field. I found a very interesting patch of—Lud, what is that?”
Emma turned to see Lady Beatrice approaching. She was attired in a stunning gown of mulberry and pea green today, with an assortment of ostrich feathers waving among her gray curls.
Meg definitely looked stunned. Her eyes widened and she darted a disbelieving look at Emma. Emma frowned at her, willing her sister to have the manners not to comment on their hostess’s unusual fashion sense.
“Lady Beatrice, may I introduce my sister Meg?”
Meg curtsied. “Thank you for inviting me, Lady Beatrice.”
“You are very welcome, dear.” Lady Beatrice turned to Mr. Lambert. “Have George take Miss Margaret Peterson’s bags up to the yellow bedroom, will you, Lambert?”
“Certainly, my lady.”
Lady Beatrice smiled and turned back to Meg. “You know, I have wonderful plans for your sister.”
Emma stiffened.
“You do?” Meg grinned. It was obvious she had noticed Emma’s discomfiture. “What might those plans be?”
Emma prayed for the floor to open and swallow her, but, wonders of wonders, Lady Beatrice contented herself with an arch look.
“It’s a bit premature to say.”
Emma allowed herself a small sigh of relief.
“But it does involve—”
“Lady Beatrice, um, did you sleep well last night?”
Interrupting one’s hostess was rude, but Emma was certain strangling her was a greater solecism. Still, the selection of last evening’s events as a change of topic was not inspired. Lady Beatrice frowned.
“No, indeed. I barely slept a wink, what with that spectral disturbance and my wretched head. Do not drink brandy, Meg. At least not in excess.”
“Brandy? Spectral disturbance?” Meg murmured while Lady Beatrice rubbed her forehead. “Perhaps this will not be such a boring gathering after all.”
“Hush.”
“What did you say, dear? I’m afraid I wasn’t attending.”
“Nothing, Lady Beatrice. I’m just happy that last night’s events turned out to be nothing significant.”
Emma saw Meg’s eyes were bright with questions, but fortunately Charles chose that moment to appear.
“Good morning, ladies. Did I hear you say this is your sister, Miss Peterson?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Charles took Meg’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Margaret. The last time we encountered each other, you were still in leading-strings.”
Meg rolled her eyes, but she did smile. “Please, Lord Knightsdale, call me Meg. No one calls me Margaret.”
“Meg, then. I believe you’ll find your dog in the nursery.”
“My dog?”
“Prinny,” Emma said. “Your dog, Prinny.”
“I don’t know why you insist Prinny is my dog
, Emma. I may have named him when he was a puppy, but you’re the one he thinks he belongs to. Probably because you’re the one who remembers to feed him.”
This was a familiar argument. Emma took a deep breath and tried to sound calm.
“You know Prinny’s supposed to keep you company on the long rambles you insist on taking. He’s your protection when you are out in the fields alone.”
“Hmm. Have you told Prinny this? On the odd occasion he comes with me, he’s off chasing rabbits. I don’t want him with me. He tramples the specimens.”
“Specimens?” Charles asked.
“I’m very interested in plants, my lord.”
“My lady, Mr. Stockley is arriving,” Mr. Lambert said.
“Ah, the beau.” Meg grinned at Emma. “It will be rather hard to avoid the man if he’s a guest also, won’t it, Emma?”
“The beau?” Charles raised an eyebrow as Lady Beatrice went off to greet her new guest.
Emma would gladly have wrung her sister’s neck. “It’s nothing, my lord. Meg is only funning.” She shot Meg a look that warned of dire consequences should she pursue this topic. Meg ignored her.
“Mr. Stockley has been a frequent—or should I say constant—visitor at the vicarage since he moved into Mr. Atworthy’s house. I’ve missed stumbling over him since Emma came up here. He’s quite smitten.”
“I see. Then I am so glad we encountered him on the road yesterday and invited him to join the party.”
“Yes, it was quite fortunate, was it not? Come, Meg, I’ll help you settle into your room.” Emma grabbed Meg’s arm and fled upstairs.
“What was that about?”
“What was what about?” Emma looked around Meg’s room. It was slightly larger than her own.
“That gallop up the stairs. I’m rather out of breath.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you are speaking of.”
Meg’s room faced the back of the house. She had a very pleasant view of the gardens and the lake.
“Emma, what is going on between you and the marquis?”
“Nothing!” Did she really squeak when she said that? Surely not. “Why would you think anything was going on between Lord Knightsdale and me?”
“Emma, I may be socially inexperienced, but I am not stupid. You are usually as staid as an archbishop, but downstairs just now you acted as if you were waltzing barefoot over hot coals. Would you care to explain?”
“No. I mean, there is nothing to explain. I’m merely the temporary governess.”
“Oh? And where are the children?”
“What?”
Meg put her hands on her hips. “The children. Governesses usually take care of children, do they not?”
“Oh. Oh, yes. Isabelle and Claire. You know them, Meg.”
“Of course I know them, dear sister. If you are their governess, even only temporarily, why are you not governessing?”
“Good point. I’m leaving now. Welcome to Knightsdale.”
Emma closed the door on Meg’s laughter.
So Stockley was taken with Emma, was he? For the first time Charles was happy to have a title so he could shove it down this twiddlepoop’s throat. He watched the man take out his quizzing-glass and examine a large flowered urn by the door, going so far as to lift the lid and peer inside.
“Looking for something, Stockley?”
The little fop jumped, making the vase teeter on its pedestal. Charles steadied it.
“My lord, you startled me. I was just admiring this fine workmanship. Is it from the Ming dynasty, do you know?”
“Haven’t the foggiest. You’re interested in crockery?”
“Art, my lord. Art. Yes, I am very interested in all things valuable—statuary, paintings, jewels.”
“Indeed?” Charles wondered if he should lock up the silver. What had Emma’s father been thinking, letting this bounder over the vicarage threshold?
What had he been thinking? He’d invited the fellow to Knightsdale, hadn’t he? He would just need to keep an eye on Emma. A very close eye. It was his duty as her host.
“Charles, the Society ladies are here.”
“Right. Coming, Aunt.” Charles turned back to Stockley. “I hope you enjoy your stay at Knightsdale. Do you need help finding your bedchamber?”
“Oh, no, my lord. I’m quite capable of finding my way.” Stockley’s lips twitched and he bowed.
Charles watched him mount the stairs.
“Aunt, you didn’t put Stockley in a bedchamber near Emma, did you?”
“Of course not, Charles. What kind of a ninnyham-mer do you take me for? I switched his room with Miss Russell’s this morning, when we moved Miss Peterson down from the nursery. He’s at the far end of the east wing. Wouldn’t want him mistaking his door in the night, would we?”
“Definitely not.”
Charles stood by a window in the study, looking out at the gardens and the lake. All the guests had arrived. It was certainly an odd collection. Well, the husband-hunting mamas and their daughters and the assortment of unattached gentlemen were not so unusual. It was the addition of the ladies of Emma’s Society that made the guest list interesting. Add brandy, and the ton might never be the same.
“Charles, did I just see the Farthington twins in the corridor?”
Charles smiled as Robbie Hamilton, the Earl of Westbrooke, slipped into the study.
“You did indeed.”
“Gawd. I need brandy. Where do you keep the stuff?”
“In the case there—if there’s any left. Just be sure you don’t let the twins catch a scent of it.”
Robbie paused, his hand on the cork. “Brandy and the Farthington twins?”
Charles laughed. “Teacups full. I found the entire Society for the Betterment of Women—minus Miss Peterson—awash in my drawing room. Had to pour the ladies into my carriage to get them home.”
“The thought boggles the mind.” Robbie filled two glasses and handed one to Charles. “Besides the inebriated elders, how have you found things, my friend?”
“Well, I believe.” Charles sipped the amber liquid, savoring the warmth that slid from his tongue to his chest. “It appears Paul invested wisely, so as far as I can tell I’ve got adequate funds. I straightened that all out when I was in London.”
“That’s a relief. And the estate itself?”
Charles shrugged. “Coles, the estate manager, seems competent. I just got here yesterday and I’ve had other, um, affairs to attend to. I’ve promised to give him some time tomorrow morning.”
He frowned, looking into his glass, swirling his brandy slowly. He felt the solid weight of Robbie’s hand on his shoulder.
“You know you can call on me, if you need to.”
Charles nodded. “I know, Robbie.” He clasped Robbie’s arm briefly. “I know.”
Robbie grinned. “I just have more experience with this peer business. And running an estate, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Did Coles have anything else to say?”
“Just that I take it Paul was pretty much an absentee landlord after he married Cecilia. Coles has been rather blunt in expressing his hope that I intend to be in residence more frequently.”
“Cecilia did like London.”
“And apparently any estate other than Knightsdale.”
Robbie sprawled into one of the chairs by the fire. “She needed society’s constant attention.”
“Leaving her children with very little of hers.”
“There is that. But many children grow up with only the servants to raise them. I daresay I didn’t see my parents above five or six times a year—and I don’t suppose you spent much time with yours either, did you?”
“No.” Charles joined Robbie by the fire. “I didn’t want to see my father. You remember his temper.”
Robbie nodded. “And your mother?”
Charles sighed. “Not so different from Cecilia.”
“And did you mind?”
“Not
that I can recal. But my nieces”—Charles took another sip of brandy—“the little one calls me Papa Charles.”
“What’s this?” a man said from the doorway. “Are you a father, Charles? My felicitations—though it might be advisable to acquire a wife before you begin to fill your nursery.”
“James!” Charles stood to greet the Duke of Alvord. “How is Sarah?”
“Quite well, thank you.”
“Expecting the next duke, I hear,” Robbie said.
James grinned. “Perhaps.”
“Really?” Charles offered James the brandy bottle. “This calls for a drink.”
“Just be sure you’ve shut the study door, James. Charles tells me that the Farthington twins are partial to brandy.”
“Really? I never would have guessed. And was that Miss Russell I saw examining the statuary upstairs?”
“Most likely,” Charles said. “Did she have a small man with her?”
James’s eyebrows shot up. “Never say Miss Russell has a beau?”
Robbie laughed. “This is definitely going to be an interesting house party if that’s the case. Did you know Charles got the ladies drunk?”
“I did not get the ladies drunk, Robbie. Aunt Bea did that. I wasn’t even home when they broke into my brandy.”
“I see.” James grinned. “Or rather, I don’t see. Who is the little man who is courting Miss Russell?”
“Mr. Albert Stockley, and he is not courting Miss Russell. I found him examining the vase in the entry hall on his arrival and thought perhaps he had joined Miss Russell in appreciating Knightsdale’s art.”
“Think Stockley might be somewhat light-fingered?” James asked.
Charles shrugged. “Perhaps. I don’t like the man.”
“So why did you invite him?” Robbie frowned. “Isn’t he the coxcomb who’s renting Atworthy’s house?”
“Yes. Do you know anything about him?”
“Can’t say that I do. How about you, James?”
“No.” James grinned. “I’ve had my mind on other matters.”
“I bet you have.” Robbie rolled his eyes. “The Alvord ladies fled to Brighton to give your, um, mind the opportunity for complete concentration.”
Sally MacKenzie Bundle Page 69