“I’m fine,” he croaked, struggling out of her hold. He made certain his dressing gown was firmly closed before he attempted to stand. Frankly, he was surprised that its generous cut was able to cover his tremendous attraction.
“Are you sure? You look a little…odd.”
“No, no.” He cleared his throat. “I’m fine. Truly. Hard—barely a bump, see?” He touched the top of his head and winced.
“See, you are hurt.” She stretched to touch his head again—that was not the part of him aching the most. He swayed his hips back so as not to impale her on his need. A step or two backward, a careful stumble, and he would land on his back on her bed with her lovely weight on top of him.
“See, you are in so much pain, you are beginning to perspire.”
He gripped her shoulders and turned her, pushing her ahead of him toward his room. He had to get away from her bed before he ravaged her like the rutting animal he was.
“I am fine, Miss Peterson. Simply splendid. Couldn’t be better.”
“What are you doing?”
“You need to brush your hair. I am sure I must have a brush you can borrow. In fact, I will even tend to your hair for you.”
It might kill him, but having his hands in her hair—the hair on her head—was a much saner idea than any of the others he was currently entertaining.
Lord Knightsdale was behaving most peculiarly. Why was he pushing her toward his room? Did he have dishonorable intentions? She should put her foot down—dig her heels in, literally.
She could not quite bring herself to do so. She really wasn’t afraid of him. And she was curious. She wanted to learn what his room looked like—not that it had been his room very long. But still, she wanted to see the place where he was most private. And if she learned one or two other things, well, she was strangely eager to do so. Perhaps Mrs. Begley and Lady Beatrice were right—she worried too much about propriety. She needed to take a few risks.
She paused on the threshold. The dark, heavy furniture and the blue and gold curtains must be his father’s or his brother’s choices. Still, there were many masculine touches that could only be Charles’s—the cravat pins carelessly tossed on the dresser, the clutter of papers on his bureau, the—
“Look!” Emma reached under the papers and pulled out her brush. “How did this get here?”
“I don’t know.” Charles took the brush from her and examined it. “Pardon me for saying so, but it doesn’t look like this would tempt a thief.”
“No, but how did it get in your room? Could someone have been looking through your papers?”
“And brushing her hair at the same time? Doubtful.” Charles shuffled through the things on his bureau. “Looks like everything is in order.”
“In order?”
He chuckled. “I stand corrected. It looks as though everything is here.”
“Good. Then I’ll just take my brush and go back to my room.”
Charles held the brush out of her reach. “I don’t think so. I have offered to play your maid, and I am determined to do so.”
Emma’s heart started to thump in a most unsettling fashion. “That’s ridiculous. I can brush my hair myself.”
“I’m sure you can.” Charles sat her at his dressing table and ran his hands through her hair. “However, I will brush it tonight. It is the price you pay for disturbing my evening in the hunt for your missing possessions.”
“I didn’t mean to trouble you—”
Charles laughed. “Oh, Miss Peterson, if you only knew.” He started the brush moving through her hair.
She closed her eyes the better to feel the long sweep of his strokes. He had just the right mix of gentleness and firmness. The bristles massaged her scalp and pulled through her hair, separating, but not pulling it. His broad hands smoothed it off her forehead, off her ear, her neck.
“You’ve done this before.”
“Perhaps.”
“You don’t have a sister or a wife.”
“You ask too many questions.”
So he had brushed the hair of his ladyloves. The thought took a little of the enjoyment from the experience.
“Don’t frown, sweetheart.” She felt his lips on her forehead, and her eyes flew open. He smiled. “Trust me, I haven’t done this quite this way before.” His voice was oddly husky. “Mmm. No, not this way at all.”
His lips grazed her temple and traveled to her cheek. She made a small sound and instinctively tilted her head. He chuckled and moved to nibble on a sensitive spot just below her ear.
She inhaled sharply. Her breasts felt so odd. Could her nipples actually be doing whatever it was they were doing? They felt like they were…pointing. She was afraid to look in the mirror. And there was a definite dampness between her legs.
“My lord…”
“Shh, Emma. Don’t be afraid. We are only playing. I promise to keep my lips above your shoulders and my hands above your waist, all right?”
“Uh…”
All thought left her head as Charles’s hands found her breasts.
“Oh!”
“Mmm. Lovely. Your breasts are so beautiful, sweetheart. Perfect.”
“But—”
“Shh. Don’t worry. Relax. Doesn’t this feel good?”
Emma certainly could not deny it felt good. Sinfully good. Charles had his hands on her breasts and was massaging them. He cupped them from below, lifting their weight. His fingers stroked their sides. She let her head fall back against his chest. She arched her back, thrusting her breasts higher.
“That’s it, sweetheart. God, you feel so good.”
His lips traced her jaw.
“Open your eyes, love. Look in the mirror.”
“No…” But she did. What she saw was shocking. Her mouth open, her face flushed. His face against hers, the dark stubble of his beard, the brilliant blue of his eyes, heavy now with…desire? Was that what the odd light was? And his hands, his fingers, dark against her white nightgown. One finger touched her nipple and she shuddered.
“Emma.” He pulled her up into his arms, flattening her breasts against the hard wall of his chest. His hands moved up to cup her jaw, and he opened her lips with his, his tongue surging in to fill her. She had to grab his shoulders or fall. Her body sagged against his.
His hands slid down her back but stopped at her waist. His mouth traveled down her neck but stopped at her collarbone. She wanted his hands on her bottom, his mouth on her breasts.
Had she lost her mind?
She shoved against his shoulders and he loosened his hold.
“What are you doing to me?” My God, she was panting.
So was Charles. “What are you doing to me?”
“You tell me,” she said. “You’re the one who has been this way before.”
He laughed. “Not exactly.” He took a deep breath and grinned. “We are seducing each other, sweetheart. I would love to pick you up right now and carry you over to that delightful bed behind me to continue our explorations. Would you like to do that, too?”
“No.”
“Liar.” He kissed her once more quickly and turned her toward her room. “But you are probably right. You should go back to your own bed—alone.”
Emma almost ran to the door.
“Do you not trust me, sweetheart? Or is it yourself you doubt?”
“Good night,” she said, pulling the door closed behind her, shutting off Charles’s soft laughter.
“Sleep well,” he whispered through the wood.
Emma touched the door softly, then walked resolutely to her large empty bed.
She was certain she would not sleep a wink.
CHAPTER 10
Charles stared up at the bed canopy and sighed. It was almost dawn. He would go for a swim. Hell, if he’d taken himself off to the lake last night after Emma had closed the connecting door, he might have cooled his blood enough to have gotten some sleep. As it was, he had tossed and turned all night. His body just could not relax. He took his
pillow and put it over his least relaxed body part.
Well, he must have slept a little because he’d had some splendid dreams. Could there be anything more exquisite than the feel of Emma’s large, soft breasts in his hands, their lovely weight resting in his palms? Mmm. Perhaps the taste of her nipples. She had shivered so nicely when he had touched her there—would she scream when he suckled her?
He closed his eyes, smiling. He’d give anything to cradle those breasts again and to put his face between them. To run his hands over her well-turned ankles, up her shapely legs, her milky thighs to the lovely dark thatch that had tempted him last night. To kiss her there…
He shoved the pillow down. It was most definitely time for a trip to the lake.
He swung his legs out of bed and grabbed his breeches. He yanked them on, buttoned them securely, and pulled a shirt over his head.
If only he were not a gentleman, he could have had Emma in his bed last night. It would have been so easy. A few more kisses. A few more touches. If he had let his hands—and his mouth—wander lower…. He closed his eyes, imagining her silky wetness, her sweet taste.
He could have brought her fulfillment without taking her virginity. It would have been his pleasure.
And maybe he could have taught her to bring him pleasure.
He hoped the lake was very cold indeed.
He let himself out of his room and moved quietly down the corridor. He didn’t want to wake anyone—he didn’t want anyone speculating why the marquis was moving about at this ungodly hour, an hour that could have been spent so delightfully in a warm bed with Emma.
Why was she fighting him? She certainly appeared to enjoy his touch. Was she afraid? Was that why she would not agree to wed him?
He would have to coax her out of her virgin nerves.
He would tease her a little. Tempt her. Brush up against her, stand close to her, touch her lightly when they spoke. Make her burn for him so her fears would burn away. He grinned. And he was certain he could misplace any manner of small objects in her room.
How had her brush ended up among his papers? He shrugged. It was odd…but he wasn’t complaining. Not at all. He hoped for many more such odd occurrences.
Emma pulled her brush through her hair—and remembered Charles’s hands doing the same task. Well, it wasn’t a task when he did it, it was…She didn’t know what it was. Indescribable. The feel of his hands tangling in her curls, his broad palms smoothing her skin, his fingers touching her…She swallowed.
She put the brush down and hid her burning cheeks in her hands. He had had his fingers on her breasts. On her nip—No, she couldn’t even think it. But she could feel it. Her body pulsed with the memory.
At least he had not touched her bare skin. At least she had had her nightgown on.
What if she had not had it on? What would his fingers have felt like on her skin?
She tried to take a deep breath as she fanned herself with her hand.
She had spent all night twisting in her sheets. She could not get comfortable. Her body felt too…sensitive. She wanted that connecting door to open and Charles to come in and finish what he had begun. Whatever the finish might be.
Mr. Stockley had spoken of urges. Emma giggled with a touch of hysteria. These feelings were more than urges. They were a fever, an illness—a madness. And her cure was just on the other side of the connecting door.
What if she opened that door and said yes, she would marry him, if he would put out the fires he had set in her veins?
She thought he would be happy to oblige.
Would that be so terrible? She suspected that children resulted from such activity. She would like children. He needed an heir. They would both be happy.
And then he would go off to London.
Was a woman impregnated the first time the man did whatever he did? Would they perhaps have to try the procedure more than once? Many times? Maybe if Charles enjoyed the efforts enough, he would stay at Knightsdale, at least for a while. The girls would like that.
But would she?
What of love?
She threw her brush down on the dressing table. She was so confused. She needed to clear her thoughts. She would take Prinny out for an early-morning walk. Then Isabelle could sleep in if she wanted. Emma certainly wasn’t sleeping.
She got dressed, took her good bonnet, and quietly made her way down the hall. Prinny had decided he much preferred staying with the girls. Emma suspected Claire was charming Cook out of a few choice bones and smuggling them up to her room.
She found Prinny on Claire’s bed.
“Prinny?” she whispered. Prinny’s ears twitched and his head popped up.
“Come on, let’s go for a walk.”
Prinny’s toenails clicked over the floor, but Claire didn’t stir.
Emma put him on a lead until they were free of the house and he had expended a small portion of his energy. Then she decided she would risk losing him over having her arm dislocated. He tore off ahead of her in pursuit of a squirrel.
Was Meg out on the estate somewhere, collecting specimens? She often got up early to go plant hunting.
Emma paused on the broad greensward and looked back at the house. The sun was just lighting its sandstone walls and glinting off the windows. She had always liked its orderly facade best of the great houses in the neighborhood—Westbrooke had been added to so haphazardly over the centuries that it was now an architectural mishmash; Alvord, a castle, gave her a closed-in feeling.
If she married Charles, she would be the mistress of Knightsdale.
She walked down toward the lake. She liked Mrs. Lambert, the housekeeper. She would have no trouble getting along with her. She loved Isabelle and Claire. She would be close to Meg, able to keep an eye on her. And she’d be close to her father.
What was she thinking? The house, the children—none of that really mattered. What was important was Charles. Did he love her—or was she just a simple solution to a pressing problem? Could she stand to enter into a marriage of convenience?
No, not with Charles. Not the way he made her feel.
She needed him too much. She knew it. She would hang on him when he was in the country and pine for him when he was in Town. That would not be good for either of them. He would come to resent her—and her heart would break.
She heard Prinny yapping up ahead.
“Prinny!”
The yapping only got louder. Had he found Meg? Did she need help? Emma picked up her skirts and ran down to the lake.
She could hear Prinny, but she couldn’t see him. He must be behind the bushes ahead of her. She ducked under a hanging branch and between two overgrown shrubs.
“Pri—”
She skidded to a stop, gaping.
“Good morning, Miss Peterson.”
“Uh.” She scrunched her eyes tightly closed and then opened them again. The vision had not gone away. The Marquis of Knightsdale was standing under a tree by the lake, bare as the day he was born. Well, not quite so bare. He did have a towel wrapped around his waist—a towel that Prinny was frantically trying to remove.
She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. She had gotten a generous look at him the night he had come ghost-hunting in the nursery, but then he’d been partly wrapped in a sheet. Quite a bit more of his glorious body was displayed for her inspection this morning. The strong column of his neck; the broad expanse of his shoulders; the muscles bulging in his upper arms as he clutched the towel; the light brown curls sprinkled over his chest, trailing down to his navel and below—how far below, she couldn’t say. The towel blocked her view. Fortunately. Yes. She was very fortunate the towel blocked her view.
Prinny gave another tug on the corner he’d gotten in his mouth and the towel slipped slightly.
“Do you suppose you could call off your dog, sweetheart? Unless you would like to see even more of me than you are currently studying? Not that I object, of course. I am always happy to oblige a lady. I’ll just let Prinny have the blaste
d towel, shall I?”
“No!” Emma leapt to grab Prinny’s collar. She reattached his lead and tried to persuade him to release his prize. She struggled to keep her eyes on Prinny’s jaws, not Charles’s legs. His bare feet. His toes.
“Prinny, bad dog!” she said. Her voice sounded weak to her own ears. Forget the marquis’s toes, she told herself. “Prinny, let go now!”
Prinny growled. He was not interested in cooperating.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” she said, looking up the length of him from where she crouched on the ground with Prinny. “It looks like—oh!” She stared at his towel. There was a very large bulge poking out from his body. “Have you dislocated something?”
“What do you mean?”
“Something is not right, my lord. See?” She reached toward the object.
“Don’t touch.”
Emma sat back quickly. “There’s no need to shout. Are you in much pain?”
His entire body—at least all that she could see—turned bright red.
“Yes. I am in intense pain. I am going to die in about five seconds if you do not turn around and close your eyes this moment.”
His voice sounded clipped. She looked all the way up to his face. His mouth was pulled tight.
“Can’t I do something to help?”
“Yes, you can. I am positive you can cure my condition, but not today. Today you will turn around, put your hands over your eyes, and keep them there until I tell you to remove them. No peeking. Do you understand?”
“I am not one of your privates, my lord.”
“Privates. Oh, God. Just do as you are told, Miss Peterson. Please? I beg of you.”
“Oh, very well.” Emma did not really want to add to his suffering, but she did not care to be shouted at. Still, she supposed allowances needed to be made for a man in obvious pain. She turned…but if she put her hands over her eyes, she’d have to let go of Prinny. “My lord,” she said, beginning to turn back.
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