"I am continually surprised, Westbrooke, at how little we know our closest friends. Who would have thought Knightsdale had taken to deflowering virgins?"
Emma flushed and turned to find the Duke of Alvord and the Earl of Westbrooke at her elbow.
"Your grace, I did not mean—"
"Of course you did not mean anything, Miss Peterson." The duke smiled at her, but his expression hardened as he faced Mr. Stockley. "However, I do wonder what your companion meant."
"Mr. Albert Stockley, your grace, and no offense meant, of course. I was just cautioning Miss Peterson in a general way, as a friend."
"As a friend. I see." The duke looked at Lord West-brooke. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Westbrooke, but I believe Miss Peterson is a childhood friend of Knightsdale, is she not? One would think he would make it his responsibility to see that she came to no harm under his roof."
"One would think," Lord Westbrooke agreed.
Emma had had enough. "Oh, stop it." She had been offended by Mr. Stockley, true, but she didn't need these two defending her. "I'm sure Mr. Stockley was just trying to be a gentleman. You don't need to throw your consequence around."
"Miss Peterson, you wound me." The duke's amber eyes held a definite twinkle. "My consequence is too great to be 'thrown around.'"
"Right." Lord Westbrooke grinned. "Alvord's not strong enough for the task. Gotten too soft, now that he's a married man."
"Mr. Stockley," Emma said, "as you have probably surmised, I knew his grace and Lord Westbrooke when we were all children, though they hardly acknowledged my presence then." Nor had they paid much attention to her in recent years, Emma thought. Why were they both at her side now?
"Of course we ignored you, Miss Peterson," the duke said. "You were a girl, and we were most assuredly not interested in girls at that time."
"You can thank me you were even tolerated," Charles said. He had divested himself of his harem. "These fellows would have banned you from our games."
Deftly, Mr. Stockley had been excluded from their group. The duke and Lord Westbrooke took a slight step to the side, a shirting forward, and Mr. Stockley was invisible, hidden behind their height Nor could he participate in the youthful recollections. The circle had tightened physically and conversationally, and he was firmly on the outside. Emma watched him hover there for a moment, then turn and wander away.
"Where is your wife, your grace?" she asked.
"Resting." The duke grinned so widely he looked like a boy again. "She tires easily these days."
"Alvord thinks he's so clever he's figured out how to—"
"Robbie!" Charles nodded at Emma. Lord Westbrooke's eyes fell on her, and he reddened.
"As I'm sure you've deduced, Emma," Charles said, "the duke and duchess are expecting their first child."
"That's wonderful news, your grace." Emma was touched that the man was so obviously thrilled. "I hope to meet her grace tomorrow."
"Charles." Lady Beatrice appeared at Charles's elbow with a hunchbacked elderly man in tow. "It's time to go in to dinner. Duke, you're the highest-ranking man here—you get to take in Lady Augusta."
"My pleasure."
Lord Westbrooke snorted. "Unlikely. Lady Augusta will jaw you to death before you've finished your turtle soup."
Lady Beatrice pointed a bejeweled finger at Lord Westbrooke. "And you, my lord, will be squiring Lady Barworth."
"Not Lady Barworth!" Lord Westbrooke's hands flew up as if to ward off a blow, while the duke and Charles tried unsuccessfully to muffle their laughter.
"Have pity, please. I'm too young to suffer detailed accounts of gout and indigestion."
"My lord, I am certain it is not as bad as that."
"You're right, Aunt," Charles said. "I believe Lady Barworth also discusses her grandchildren's ailments."
"And word has it that the youngest Barworth is recovering from the measles," the duke said, "so you're in for a treat, Westbrooke."
"Gawd." Lord Westbrooke rolled his eyes.
Lady Beatrice glared. "I trust you will behave yourself, my lord."
"Of course. I promise to try not to nod off during Lady Barworth's medical report, and, if I cannot keep Morpheus at bay for the entire meal, I promise not to snore." Lord Westbrooke grinned. "Or, at least not loudly."
Lady Beatrice grunted and turned to Emma. "Here is your escort, dear." She shook the elderly man's arm and shouted in his ear, "This is Miss Peterson, Mr. Maxwell. You'll be taking her in to dinner. "
"What? Thinner?" Mr. Maxwell was so bent over, his face was only inches above Emma's bosom. "Sacrilege! Don't take an ounce off 'em, my dear."
Emma stepped back before a bit of drool hit her bodice.
"Maxwell, you forget yourself." Charles looked like a thundercloud.
Mr. Maxwell twisted his head to look up at him. "What? No need to get tetchy, my lord. Didn't know you had your eye on 'em." Mr. Maxwell wheezed with apparent laughter. "Man can look, can't he, without giving offense?"
"Come on, Charles," Lady Beatrice said. "Take me in to dinner. Your Miss Peterson is safe. Poor Mr. Maxwell can't do much more than look."
Mr. Maxwell gave no indication that he had heard, but Emma was certain her face was redder than Lady Beatrice's dress. She watched Charles lead his aunt across the room.
"Shall we go in to dinner?" Mr. Maxwell asked her bosom.
"I don't suppose we have a choice, do we?" Emma said, batting away Mr. Maxwell's errant fingers.
"I don't believe I've seen a dress quite like yours this Season, Miss Peterson. Who is your mantua-maker?" Lady Oldston's prominent eyes glittered with malice.
Emma forced a smile. "Mrs. Croft—a local woman." "I see."
"How quaint—using local. . . um . . . talent. I have never tried it. Perhaps it will become the rage." Lady Dunlee permitted herself a tiny smile, small enough not to crease her substantial jowls.
"I don't recall seeing you in Town, Miss Peterson." The third gorgon, Mrs. Pelham, yawned. "You must have made your come out"—she paused artfully, brows arched, nostrils flared—"a few years ago."
"I'm certain I did not see you or your sister," Lady Oldston said. "I would have made note of it. We were bringing out dear Amanda."
Dear Amanda looked like a cross between a horse and a toad, all bug-eyed and toothy—like her mother.
"And I had Lady Caroline." Lady Dunlee stressed her daughter's title ever so slightly. Lady Oldston flushed. She was merely the wife of a baronet; Lady Dunlee was a countess.
And Lady Caroline was rounder than her mother. She was whispering with Miss Oldston by the garden windows.
"I do think it quite magnanimous of dear Lord Knightsdale to invite the neighbors," Mrs. Pelham said. "Don't you agree, Miss Peterson? It must be such a treat for you."
Emma grunted—politely, she hoped. The ladies appeared not to expect more coherency from such a provincial as herself.
If she'd had half an ounce of intelligence, she would have made good her escape right after dinner just as Meg had, between the dining room and the drawing room. It would have been so easy. If anyone had asked, she could have claimed a need to check on the girls.
She smiled and nodded vaguely at Mrs. Pelham's next drop of verbal poison.
She would not lie to herself. She had followed the ladies into the drawing room in the hopes of seeing Charles again. How stupid could she be?
Incredibly stupid, she concluded, feeling her heart jump as the man crossed the threshold. His eyes sought hers.
Lady Oldston sighed. "Isn't it so romantic, how Lord Knightsdale looks for my dear Amanda as soon as he enters a room? He paid her marked attention in Town this Season. I was not at all surprised to receive this invitation."
Mrs. Pelham laughed. "Oh, Lady Oldston, how droll! Of course you know the marquis is only interested in my Lucinda. Not that Amanda isn't a fine young lady, of course, but Lucinda. . . well, dear Mr. Pelham has already had to turn away an earl and a viscount." Mrs. Pelham sighed. "We feel Lucinda is a bit
young for marriage, but my husband might be persuaded to turn over the reins, as it were, to a gentle-man as serious and mature as Lord Knightsdale."
"It is a pity about the orphans, though," Lady Dunlee said. "So inconvenient. Whomever Knightsdale marries will have to contend with his brother's brats."
"Ah, but that is what governesses are for, are they not, Miss Peterson?" Mrs. Pelham smirked.
Emma gritted her teeth. She wished the tea had been served—Mrs. Pelham's appearance could only be improved by a teacup turned over her head.
"I'm certain Lord Knightsdale expects any woman he marries to treat his nieces with kindness and consideration."
"And you know Lord Knightsdale's mind, Miss Peterson?" Mrs. Pelham asked. "How. . . odd."
"Don't let the honor of mixing with this company raise false hopes, dear," Lady Oldston said. "I understand you don't have a mother to guide you, though one would think at your advanced age . . . But, no matter, let me whisper the word in your ear—marquises do not marry governesses."
"No, indeed," Mrs. Pelham said. "If you think to angle for an offer, well. . ."
"You'll get an offer, all right." Lady Dunlee chuckled. "An offer of carte-blanche."
"A slip on the shoulder," Lady Oldston said. "Necklaces, bracelets, and rings—but never a wedding ring."
"Set your sights on someone more attainable, dear," Mrs. Pelham said. "Someone like Mr. Stockley, perhaps."
"Miss Peterson."
Emma looked up. Lady Beatrice stood by the tea tray, cup in hand. "Would you be so kind as to pour?"
"Of course." Emma would pick the tea leaves herself to get away from these harpies. "If you'll excuse me, ladies?"
"Whatever were you thinking, sitting down with that crowd?" Lady Beatrice muttered when Emma joined her.
"They sat down with me. I had no idea they were so unpleasant."
"Unpleasant?" Lady Beatrice snorted. "If they're 'unpleasant,' old Satan is slightly naughty. I imagine they didn't care for the fact Charles singled you out before dinner—Charles and his friends, Alvord and Westbrooke." She smiled and leaned a little closer. "Give me their cups, Miss Peterson. I'm feeling a trifle clumsy. Maybe hot tea down their fronts will melt their frozen hearts."
Emma smiled back. "Do be careful, Lady Beatrice."
"Very. Anyone you particularly wish me to douse?"
"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 that 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.
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