“Freeze, Miss Peterson.”
“But…oh!” Emma felt a jerk on the lead and then watched Prinny run off down the lake, dragging Charles’s towel in his mouth.
She slapped her hands over her eyes.
Charles struggled to get his breeches on. He looked longingly at the lake. He needed an icy dip even more now. To have Emma examining him in such detail…God, it had been slow torture. And she didn’t even know what she was doing to him—what she was looking at. He would dearly love to show her. If only he could take her up to his bed now. He could relieve some of his tension. A little relief would make buttoning his bloody breeches easier.
If he didn’t marry her soon, he was going to go mad, utterly and completely mad.
“My lord, you should not be out here without your clothing on.”
“You sound like a governess, Miss Peterson.” He finally got the last button closed. “Are you peeking?”
“No!” she squeaked. “But you should not be out here swimming like that. Anyone could come along.”
“Anyone did come along.” Charles tugged his shirt over his head.
“Exactly. Meg is probably out here somewhere, looking for specimens. What if she had stumbled on to you? Or Miss Oldston or Miss Pelham or—”
“Or the patronesses of Almack’s. Sweetheart, the London ladies will not stir from their beds for hours—and when they do, they are not going to come running outdoors. They will have their chocolate and fiddle with their toilette and maybe make it downstairs by luncheon. I am not worried about encountering any of the London misses by the lake when the sun is barely up.”
“Well, what about Meg, then?”
“Meg is—or was when I came out—in the kitchen, talking to Cook. I warned her I was going for a swim.”
Charles smiled, remembering Meg’s knowing grin. He’d wager Meg had a good idea why he’d felt the need for a morning dip. Certainly more of a clue than her lovely, oblivious sister.
“You can uncover your eyes now, Emma. I’m decent.”
Emma spun around. Her eyes immediately fell to the flap on his breeches.
“You are sure you are all right, my lord?” She reached out again as if to touch him. Charles waited, hoping, but no, she stopped and pulled back her hand. “You do look better. There was something clearly amiss with your anatomy earlier. Did you notice?” She flushed and straightened her shoulders. “I know I should not be raising such an intimate topic, but you seemed in such pain. Have you had a surgeon examine you?”
“God have mercy, woman, there is nothing amiss with my anatomy, as I will be delighted to show you once you agree to marry me.” He grabbed her and pulled her into his arms. “Perhaps I’ll show you sooner, if you continue to torture me in this fashion.”
“My lord!”
He had had enough of looking and talking. It was time for touching—past time.
She struggled for an instant and then sagged against him. Her mouth opened readily when his lips touched hers. She was learning.
He tasted her slowly, thoroughly. There was no rush. They were sheltered here by the lake, and it was true that no one else from the house party would be out this early. And if they were, and Miss Peterson were compromised? Well, his intentions were honorable. Completely honorable.
She made a funny little noise in her throat, like a cat purring. He leaned back against the tree trunk, taking her with him, stroking the side of her breast. She whimpered, arching into his hand. He rubbed her nipple with his thumb, and she melted against him. He ran one hand down her back to her bottom, pressing her against his poor, aching anatomy.
He really, really wished there was a nice, soft bed handy.
Emma was melting. Her limbs felt heavy, her knees were useless—she could no longer stand on her own. There was an aching emptiness low in her belly and a disturbing wet throbbing between her legs. Was she ill? She certainly felt fevered. She should move back from Charles. She would, in just a moment. Once she was capable of movement.
Then his finger touched her nipple, and she was no longer capable of thought. Feeling, yes. Lud, she could feel him. She needed to feel him.
His lips grazed her jaw. She turned slightly, tilting her head back against his upper arm, giving his mouth room to roam where he wished. Where she wished.
His lips touched a spot high on her neck, just below her ear. Tendrils of warmth, of need, coiled through her. He moved slowly down her throat, leaving soft, moist kisses, taking her breath away. She moaned.
She felt so warm. Hot. Her breasts felt swollen. She needed him to touch her. She needed to feel his hands on her as she had the night before. She panted, arching, thrusting her breasts higher, begging him silently to touch her.
He did. One hand cradled her jaw, stroked her neck, her shoulders while the other pressed her lower body close. His leg came between hers and she nestled against him. The pressure of his hard, muscled thigh against her ache felt wonderful. She rocked.
“That’s it, love. Yes, Emma. Sweet.”
His hand loosened the neck of her dress and slipped it down. His fingers—his bare fingers—touched her skin. It was shocking. Or would be shocking if she had any ability to feel shock. She didn’t. Her emotions were too occupied with this strange, fevered need that consumed her.
And then his lips touched her breast. She threaded her fingers through his hair, holding him close. His tongue rasped against her nipple. His mouth sucked. His other hand kneaded her bottom, urging her to rock harder against his thigh.
Something was happening to her.
“Charles.” Her voice sounded thin and reedy.
“Shh, Emma. It’s all right. Come on, sweetheart. You can do it. Come on, love. I’m here. It’s all right. I have you. I won’t let you go.”
Emma felt wild. Wanton. Mad. Desperate.
Something was happening. She was so tense. Charles sucked on one breast and then the other. She felt the cool morning air and the sun on her nipples. She was exposed for the world, for Charles to see. She was beyond caring. She was possessed by need. She panted and writhed against Charles. He grabbed her bottom in both hands, guiding her, helping her rub against him.
It was not enough. Not quite enough. Something was just beyond her grasp.
Charles pulled her tight against him, putting his hand where his thigh had been. He cupped her there, and then his fingers rubbed up against her, against some sensitive small point….
She shattered. His mouth captured the strange sounds she made as something powerful pulsed through her. And then she collapsed against him. She was so limp, she could not lift her head. She let it lie heavy on his chest as her pounding heart gradually slowed to normal.
“Beautiful, Emma,” Charles whispered. “So beautiful.” His hands kneaded her bottom, stroked her hair. She was draped against his thigh. Small tremors still shivered through her. She closed her eyes. She wanted to stay exactly where she was forever.
By the lake, draped across the Marquis of Knightsdale’s body, her gown down around her waist, in full view of any passerby.
Emma yelped, pushed away from Charles, and ran for the house, pulling her dress up as she went.
“What have you done to Emma, Charles?”
“What do you mean, what have I done to Emma, Aunt?” Charles looked up from his papers. This morning Aunt was attired in a violet and apple-green dress. He wondered—not for the first time—how her mantua-maker could bear to perpetrate such crimes against good taste.
“She won’t come out of her room. Says she’s indisposed.”
“Oh? And why must I have anything to do with her indisposition?”
Aunt Beatrice leaned on his desk and skewered him with her eyes. “Because Lavinia Begley said she saw Emma running up from the lake early this morning. It looked as though there was something the matter with her dress. And then, not many minutes later, you came along with Prinny.”
Charles was very much afraid he was blushing. “Miss Peterson had an, um, accident with her
gown. I brought the dog along so she could return immediately to fix the problem.”
Aunt Bea snorted. “Or perhaps she returned to escape the problem. How exactly did this…accident…happen?”
“I really can’t say.”
“Can’t say? That’s rich. Won’t say, more like.”
“Aunt, I hope you are not insinuating I madein-appropriate advances.” Inappropriate? Scandalous, more like. He ignored the thought. “I have only honorable intentions.”
“Oh, climb off your high horse. I am not complaining. Make all the advances you care to, just slip a ring on the girl’s finger before you slip something else between her thighs.”
“Aunt!”
“For God’s sake, Charles, you ain’t a virgin, are you?”
“That is not your affair—but I certainly thought you were.”
Charles blinked. Aunt Beatrice actually blushed—the color did not go well with her ensemble.
“And that,” she said, “is not your affair.”
“Right. Quite agree. Not my affair.” The thought was…There had been rumors…No, he couldn’t let his mind contemplate…Well, if she had had a paramour, the fellow must have been color-blind. Though one assumes she would have removed—No, he would not think about it.
“Emma, however, is a virgin.” Aunt paused and raised an eyebrow. “She is, isn’t she? I mean, still? You didn’t…?”
“No!”
“Good. However, I believe you did something to her.” She shrugged. “Young girls are so skittish nowadays. You probably only gave her a little too intense a kiss, though there is the matter of her dress…”
Aunt looked him over carefully. Charles kept his face expressionless.
“Hmm. Well, whatever happened, it obviously unsettled her. Go upstairs and apologize. Very nicely. Very thoroughly. I want to announce your betrothal at the ball.”
Charles acknowledged as he climbed the stairs that he had let his passion outrun his good sense that morning. He was as certain as he could be that the kiss he’d given Emma in his curricle the day he arrived had been her first. And that kiss had been a mere brushing of lips. Well, with Emma nothing was “mere.” But still, he should never have taken her so far and so quickly down the road to seduction as he had by the lake.
He knocked on her door. “Emma?”
“Go away.”
He looked down the corridor. The Misses Farthington stared interestedly back at him. He bowed and continued on to his room.
He knocked on the connecting door.
“Emma?”
“Go away.”
“We need to talk, sweetheart.” He pushed on the door. It didn’t move. “Have you put something in front of the door, Emma?”
“Yes.” Her voice sounded muffled, as though she had been crying.
“Sweetheart, you don’t have to be afraid of me. Let me in. I promise we will only talk. I won’t touch you or distress you in any way.”
Silence greeted this statement. Charles took this as an encouraging sign.
“Emma, you must have questions. Do you understand what happened at the lake?”
“No!” This was delivered in a wailing, teary tone, followed by a definite sniff. He felt the oddest sensation, as if his heart had turned over in his chest.
“Let me come in, Emma. We can talk quietly. You don’t want anyone to overhear our conversation, do you?”
“No.” This time there was a touch of panic also. He heard her cross the floor and push something out of the way. She opened the door. Her poor eyes were swollen from crying.
“Emma.” He broke his promise without a second thought. He squeezed past the small chest she had pushed in front of the door, and drew her gently up against him, holding her close. “Emma, sweetheart, I’m so sorry I upset you. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
She sighed and leaned against him.
“Come.” He led her back to the big chair by the fire and pulled her down onto his lap. He held her head against his shoulder, stroking her hair as he would Isabelle or Claire.
He loved the feel of her body relaxed and heavy against his. He was amazed he felt no lust. Oh, it was there, of course, but like an orchestra playing in the ballroom when one was standing on the terrace. Wonderful, magical, but in the background.
He felt strangely content. He rested his cheek against her head, kissing her hair, breathing in her sweet scent.
“What did you do to me?” she whispered against his chest.
How to answer that question?
“I made love to you, sweetheart.”
He felt her tense.
“So, am I…um…Am I…p-pregnant?”
He might have found the situation funny, if she hadn’t been so distressed.
“No, Emma, you aren’t pregnant.”
“Are you certain?”
“Completely certain, sweetheart. There is no way you could be increasing.”
“But something very…odd happened to me.”
She was whispering again. He had to hold his breath to hear her.
“I felt so…wild. Needy. I ached for you to…I don’t know…fill me in some way.”
Charles took a deep, shuddering breath. Now he felt lust. It threatened to stampede all his good intentions.
He knew exactly how he could fill her.
“You had your lips on my…um…you know. Like a baby nursing. And then, I—I…shattered. Something inside me pulsed and, and everywhere got hot and flushed and then…it all relaxed.”
“Uh.” God, he was going to explode. “Um, that sounds a little uncomfortable. Did you like it, sweetheart?”
She was silent for a minute, and Charles thought his heart would stop.
“Yes,” she whispered finally. “I liked it.”
He sighed and hugged her closer. “I’m glad.”
“But how do you know I’m not increasing?”
“Because…” What could he say? He did not think she was ready for the specifics. “Because something has to happen to me, too, sweetheart, to make a baby. And that thing did not happen today.”
“Oh.” She looked up at him. “Were you sorry the thing didn’t happen?”
God, he had to kiss her. He brushed his lips over her forehead.
“A little sorry, sweetheart, because it feels very nice. But I knew it wasn’t the right time.”
She dropped her face before he could taste her lips. Her fingers twisted one of his waistcoat buttons.
“So, you’ve made babies before?”
“No!” At least he was almost certain no children had resulted from his other encounters.
“Then how do you know it feels nice?”
Charles felt desperate. “I just do, Emma. You will have to trust me on that. It’s something men know.”
“That sounds like humbug to me.”
“Well, it’s not. Now, do you forgive me for this morning?”
She nodded. “I guess so. But I have one more question.”
“Yes?” Charles felt a sinking in his stomach as she dropped her eyes to her hands. Why did he think this was going to be the hardest question?
“You said you made love to me.”
“Yes.”
“Does that mean you love me?”
Charles felt as if he had just been kicked in the stomach.
Emma had been so frightened and so embarrassed. Embarrassed when she thought of how she had behaved by the lake; frightened when she thought she might be increasing. She was unmarried. How could she care for a child? Where would she live? Hot shame drenched her. Her father, Meg—they would be so shocked, so disappointed.
She could not imagine what her father would say.
She locked the door to the corridor and pushed the chest in front of the connecting door. She did not want to see Charles. She held her hands to her burning cheeks. Oh, God. He had seen her breasts. He had had his mouth on them, on her nip—She squeezed her eyes tightly closed. He had touched her. And she had writhed against him, like, like…She d
idn’t know what she had been like. The entire event was beyond her experience.
No, what had happened at the lake didn’t bear thinking of, yet she had spent these past hours thinking of nothing else—when she wasn’t crying, terrified she was enceinte.
She was possessed by Charles. It was a madness. When she closed her eyes, she saw him as if his image had been burned into her eyelids. She saw him standing in the morning light like a Grecian god, saw his broad shoulders, the muscles of his arms, his chest. Inches and inches of warm skin.
She hugged herself—and felt his hands sliding over her again, over her bottom, her breasts. She felt his lips, his tongue on her skin, his mouth sucking. She felt the wet, throbbing emptiness between her legs. Her skin grew hot and sensitive.
What was the matter with her? This illness was beyond the lust she had felt in the conservatory, beyond the urges Mr. Stockley had warned her of. It truly was a madness.
So when Charles had scratched on her door, she’d been both afraid to let him in and afraid to keep him out. When she’d seen him standing there, she couldn’t say if he were her salvation or damnation. It didn’t matter. Whatever he was, she needed him.
She almost cried with relief when his hands touched her and brought her up against his chest. She breathed in his scent, the clean smell of linen and soap and something else, something male.
He was so calm. His hands and voice soothed her. He made the tight knot of fear and shame in her stomach relax.
He was Charles. He was the boy she had idolized as a girl, who had dried her tears when she’d cried all alone by the stream in the woods. He was the young man she had dreamed of when she was putting her girlhood behind her. He was the first man she had kissed, the only man who had touched her.
She let him pull her down to sit on his lap. She felt warm and protected. There was none of the tension and turmoil she’d felt at the lake. Well, perhaps there was some. Just a little. She felt his hard shoulder under her cheek and his hand stroking through her hair. A pulse began to beat low in her middle.
Sally MacKenzie Bundle Page 80