“I could never single one out for special attention.”
“No? I could. I have never liked the particular shade of yellow Victoria Pelham is wearing tonight. Especially on her. Makes her look like an overdone lemon tart. I would be doing her a favor to urge her to change her attire.”
Emma smiled. She didn’t expect Lady Beatrice to follow through with her outrageous plan, but in a few moments, Mrs. Pelham emitted a most unladylike screech.
“Aunt didn’t care for something Mrs. Pelham said?” Charles asked as he took a teacup from Emma.
“I believe it was her color choice that your aunt objected to.”
They looked over at the ladies. Lady Beatrice had managed to spill tea on Lady Oldston and Lady Dunlee in her efforts to mop Mrs. Pelham’s front.
“She’s right. Yellow is not Mrs. Pelham’s color.”
Emma chuckled.
“Lord Knightsdale.” Miss Haverford dimpled up at Charles. “Would you come and turn my pages for me?”
“I would be delighted to, Miss Haverford. I will join you at the piano in a moment.”
“Miss Haverford seems like a nice young lady.” Emma tried to swallow her jealousy. Miss Haverford was seventeen with lovely golden ringlets and sweet, deep blue eyes. She was also the daughter of a viscount.
“A very nice young lady—like Meg.”
Emma grinned. “I’m not sure anyone would describe Meg as a nice young lady. Not that she isn’t nice, young, and a lady, of course, but those are not the words which first spring to mind when I think of my sister.”
“Oh? What words do?”
“I don’t know.” Emma frowned. “Intelligent. Single-minded. Stubborn.”
Charles laughed. “Spoken as a big sister.” He dropped his voice. “I need to have a word with you, Emma. Meet me in the conservatory when the ladies retire, will you?”
“That sounds most improper.”
“Doesn’t it, though? But don’t worry—I want to talk about Isabelle and Claire.”
“And it can’t wait until morning?” Emma saw Miss Haverford sitting at the piano, waving in their direction. “I think Miss Haverford is losing patience.”
“Right.” Charles waved back. “No, it can’t wait. Promise to meet me?”
Emma sighed. “All right.”
Emma waited in the shadows of the conservatory. She breathed in the moist, warm scent of earth and growth. The thick vegetation muffled sounds, giving the impression of privacy.
This was lunacy. She should be upstairs in her room.
She heard a step on the path and faded farther into the greenery. What if someone came upon her? How would she ever explain lurking in the leafage?
“Emma?”
Charles’s voice was low and male in the darkness.
“Yes?”
“Ah.” He took her hand and pulled her farther into the darkened conservatory.
“My lord, we were going to discuss your nieces.”
“Shh. We will—in a moment. I don’t want one of the young ladies or their mamas to find me.”
Emma dropped her voice to match his. “I thought they had all gone up to bed.”
“They are supposed to have done so, but a man can never be too cautious.” Charles stepped under the branches of a tall, potted tree. “This should do.”
He had not bothered to release her hand. She tugged back slightly, and he tightened his fingers, pulling her close to his body.
It was so intimate, standing with him in the moonlit darkness, hidden among the leaves. She breathed in the scent of his soap and skin mingled with the warm, damp smell of dirt and flowers.
“My lord, this is a trifle improper.”
“Hmm. Only a trifle, Miss Peterson, and not near as improper as I would like it to be.”
Her brain told her she should step back, but her body refused to respond.
“What did you want to talk about, my lord?”
“Charles.”
“My lord.”
His mouth curved up—his lovely mouth that was only inches above hers. “If you insist on ‘my lording’ me, Emma, I shall have to persuade you again to use my Christian name. Do you remember how I accomplished that feat in the curricle yesterday?”
Could she forget? Her entire body from her toenails to the ends of her lamentably curly hair ached with embarrassment at the memory of his lips on hers.
“Charles, then. You wanted to talk about Isabelle and Claire.”
“Hmm.” He traced her lips slowly with the tip of his finger. His skin was slightly rough, dry, warm. Her lips tingled, and heat pooled low in her body. She wrenched herself back.
“Lord Knightsdale, you wished to speak about your nieces.”
He grinned. “Well, yes, but I also wanted to kiss you, Emma. I quite enjoyed the sensation yesterday, didn’t you?”
Emma was definitely not going to answer that question.
“Your nieces?”
Charles sighed. “I only wanted to suggest we take them fishing in the morning. We can be out to the stream and home again before any of my guests has cracked open an eye. I think Isabelle and Claire would enjoy it, and it would give me some time with them before I have to see my estate manager and then play host.”
“That would be wonderful.” Emma smiled. If Charles did spend time with the girls, got to know them, to care for them, he would be less likely to leave them. They needed him in their lives. “I’m certain they would love it. I doubt they’ve ever been fishing.”
“No? That’s a pity.”
“But you don’t need me to come along.”
“Indeed I do, Emma. I’m certain the girls would feel much more comfortable having you with them. They don’t know me.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “And I would feel more comfortable having you there. I don’t make a habit of entertaining little girls.”
You used to, Emma thought. You used to know exactly how to make anyone feel comfortable. You probably still do. But she could see how he and the girls might feel awkward. And if she were honest, the thought of being out in the quiet of the early morning with just Charles, Isabelle, and Claire was vastly appealing.
She refused to examine exactly why that was.
“All right, my lord. What time and where shall we meet you?”
“I’ll come scratch at your door. No, don’t give me that look—no one will be up to see me, so we won’t scandalize a soul.”
“What about the servants?”
“I won’t come in your room, Emma. I’ll talk to you through your door, if that would better suit your notions of propriety.”
“Very well.” Certainly there could be nothing inappropriate in such a plan. She was the girls’ temporary governess—and an old maid of twenty-six. “Then I believe I shall retire, Lord Knightsdale, since I will be getting up again so soon.”
Emma caught the gleam of his teeth in the darkness.
“Do you still not care for spiders, Emma?”
“Spiders?” Emma swallowed and lowered her voice. She listened, but she didn’t hear any footsteps approaching. If there had been anyone nearby, he or she would have heard her squeak. She could deal with worms and beetles and the general run of bugs, but she had never been able to master her abhorrence of spiders. “What do you mean, spiders?”
“One of the drawbacks of staging an assignation in the shrubbery, sweetheart, is occasionally one plays host—or in this case, hostess—to an uninvited guest. Allow me.”
Charles picked a large black spider off her bodice. She yelped when she saw it—her reaction had nothing to do with Charles’s fingers brushing the top of her breasts. This was, fortunately, a very high-necked dress. No chance of spiders—or fingers—going too far astray.
She had never had her fear of spiders cause her breasts to tingle in this very odd fashion.
He held the disgusting thing over her. “Shall I drop this down your back?” he asked, laughing. “I still remember how loudly you screamed—and how high you jumped—when Robbie put t
hat spider down your back when we were children.”
“Just get rid of it, please.” Emma turned and backed into him, keeping her eyes on his hand. She did not like spiders.
“Of course, sweetheart.” He flicked the creature off into the bushes and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her tightly against his body. She felt his breath warm on her neck. “Shall I brush you off to be certain no other evil beasts have decided to invite themselves onto your person?”
“I only mind spiders.” Emma barely got the words out. Charles’s broad right hand was moving down her skirts. Thankfully it didn’t pause over the part of her that was suddenly, shockingly, hot and wet. Her knees wobbled, but his left arm kept her securely upright, plastered against his body.
She couldn’t breathe. His hand shifted to her bodice. His palm pressed against her breasts; his fingers trailed over her curves.
Her nipples hardened into aching buds.
She was certain she should be mortified to see a male hand on her dress—to feel a male hand on her dress. But the heat surging through her did not feel like mortification. She had the most shocking desire—need—to feel a male hand on her naked flesh.
She moaned.
He turned her, and she melted against him, her hands going up to cling to his shoulders. He felt wonderful, hard and wonderful. There was an intriguing bulge pressing into her belly, and she rubbed against it. If only it were a bit lower. If only it were pressed against the place she ached most.
“God, Emma.” Charles splayed a hand over her bottom and pressed her even more tightly against him. Then he cupped her jaw with his other hand, his fingers stroking the sensitive skin just under her ear while his thumb gently pulled down her lower lip. Her breath released in a sigh, her mouth opening slightly. She moistened her lips. They needed his touch, too.
They got it. His mouth moved over hers, sucking, licking, teasing with fleeting, brushing contact. It was maddening. She needed more—more pressure, more movement, more…something. She whimpered.
The smallest request, and the wish she didn’t know to make was granted. His tongue filled her mouth as it had the day before. Both his hands pressed her bottom against him, then slid up over her waist and along the sides of her breasts. They paused there before continuing over her back and up to burrow into her hair.
She needed to touch him, also. His coat was in her way, so she slipped her hands underneath it, only to encounter his waistcoat. She let her fingers slide to his back and wander lower to the satisfying feel of his pantaloons. She explored the muscular curves of that section of his anatomy.
“Sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice unsteady, “this is lovely, but I’m afraid we had best stop. The conservatory floor would not make a satisfactory bed.”
“What?” Emma was having trouble thinking. All she wanted to do was feel. She ran her fingers over Charles’s strong bu—
She dropped her hands as if scalded. What had come over her? She pushed against Charles’s chest.
“I—”
“Shh.” Charles put his finger over her lips.
“But I had my hands on…I was touching your…” Emma took a great gulp of air. “I apologize, my lord, for my extreme…um…” Emma could not begin to think of words to describe what she had just done. “Well, I do apologize, Lord Knightsdale.”
Charles laughed. “Don’t apologize, Miss Peterson. I was delighted to have your hands on my…”
Emma groaned in embarrassment.
“And you may remember that I had my hands on your lovely—”
“Don’t say it!”
Charles chuckled. “All right, I won’t say it—this time. But I enjoyed every minute of our encounter—your touching as well as mine—and I hope to repeat the experience, but without the annoying presence of clothing and in the more comfortable setting of my bedchamber.”
“Lord Knightsdale!”
“Charles. Please, Emma. Every time you call me Knightsdale, I expect to turn around and see my brother—an especially disconcerting feeling after our rather intimate encounter.”
“Oh. Um. Yes. I see.” Emma didn’t see anything but the vision of her naked in Charles’s bed. With him, bare as a babe. But he wasn’t an infant. Lud, no. Her imagination could not fill in all the details of that picture, but the glimpses she had had of him when he’d come hunting Nanny’s ghost helped her draw some general outlines. His shoulders. The bulge of his arm muscles. The dusting of hair on his chest. His muscular legs. His thighs…
She wanted to feel his skin against hers. She wanted to run her fingers over the muscled expanse that was under his pantaloons. She wanted to see the interesting bulge she had rubbed her belly against.
She was afraid she was panting. She swallowed, straightened, tried to listen to Charles’s words.
“You do remember I suggested we wed? You declined—at least I believe that was the gist of your answer when you threw that china dog at my head. Would you care to reconsider your response now?”
“No.” Emma was in no condition to consider anything. Her entire body ached and throbbed and…well, she clearly was incapable of rational thought. “No. I, ah…No. I believe I shall retire. To my room. Alone.”
Charles placed Emma’s hand on his arm and escorted her out of the conservatory. She definitely looked as though she’d been engaging in some interesting activities in the shrubbery, but he wasn’t concerned her dishevelment would be remarked upon. Everyone else had retired for the night.
And, really, if they were seen, so much the better. She would be compromised and, thus, compelled to wed him. At this point, he didn’t care how she got into his bed, as long as she got there—soon.
God, he had never been so close to losing control as he had been just now. If there’d been a handy couch nearby, he probably would not have stopped. Emma certainly hadn’t been making any effort to bring their activities to an end.
He looked down at her as they climbed the stairs. Her chin was up, her eyes focused in front of her. She was studiously ignoring him. She looked so cool, so self-possessed—but she had been so hot just moments before. He bit his lip to stifle a moan at the memory of her lovely body against his. God, when he had felt her hands on his pantaloons…
He had intended only to discuss the morning fishing trip.
Right.
They reached the bedroom floor.
“Good night, Lord Knightsdale,” Emma said, addressing his cravat.
“I’m walking you to your room.”
Her eyes flew up, skittered across his face, and resumed their study of his clothing.
“That is not necessary, my lord.” She tried to move away, but he put his hand over hers.
“Humor me.”
Her eyes flashed up again, a touch of panic in them.
“Miss Peterson, please. I am not going to rape you.”
“I didn’t think…. Of course not…. If I gave you that impression, I apologize.”
“Oh, hush. You’ll tie yourself into knots. I suppose you can be forgiven some trepidation after our recent activities, but I hope you do realize I would never force myself on you.”
“Of course you wouldn’t.”
“And you weren’t exactly discouraging me downstairs, sweetheart.”
Emma made a strangled sound and stopped trying to wrest her fingers from his hold.
He smiled as they walked the length of the corridor. No, taking her into the conservatory had been a corkbrained notion. He had been thinking with something other than his head—something that still throbbed in frustration. It looked as if he’d be taking a nice cold dip in the lake once he bid her good night.
They stopped outside her door, and he considered kissing her again. If he was going swimming anyway, he might as well heat his blood back to boiling. A pity she wasn’t wearing a more accommodating gown. This dress had much too high a neck. Something cut lower—something that just brushed the tops of her breasts—would be much more satisfactory. It would only take a moment to pu
sh the fabric aside….
“My lord?”
“Hmm?” Could he persuade her to accept his marriage offer now? Her bedchamber door was just behind her. What could be more convenient? They could plight their troth splendidly in her bed. He wouldn’t need a late night dunking in a cold lake—he could dunk the most heated part of him in her lovely warm wetness…
“My lord…”
…many times. Once would definitely not be enough to cool his blood. But she was a virgin…. He reached up to cup her cheek.
She batted his hand away.
“Lord Knightsdale, pay attention.” She shook his sleeve. “Don’t you smell smoke?”
Charles inhaled. The acrid scent of scorched linen cleared his mind of lust. Something besides himself was on fire.
CHAPTER 6
Charles sat on his bed, staring at the door connecting the marquis’s room with the marchioness’s. Or in this case, his room with Emma’s.
They had been very lucky last night. One of the maids must have left a lighted candle in Emma’s room. Somehow it had gotten knocked over and had set the bed aflame. The fire had not spread—he’d been able to douse it with the pitcher of water left by the washstand. He had not had to waken the household. Still, the room was uninhabitable, so he had moved Emma to the only vacant bed. The marchioness’s.
The door between their rooms was unlocked. He had not been able to find the key. He could walk into Emma’s room at any moment—while she was sleeping, dressing, in her bath—as she could walk into his. But he knew not to hope for miracles.
He rubbed his forehead. He hadn’t slept well last night, but, unfortunately, his sleeplessness had not been due to salacious dreams of Emma.
How could that candle have been left lit and unattended? He would ask Mrs. Lambert to have a word with the maids. Such carelessness was extremely dangerous.
He sighed and climbed out of bed. The early morning chill felt good on his bare skin.
He was not really afraid that the maids had been careless. No, he was more afraid of another possibility.
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