"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 push 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.
What if the candle had not been unattended?
He pulled on his breeches. He had looked at this problem from every angle, and he always came up with the same answer. Someone had been in Emma's room. There was no other way that candle could have been knocked over yet not have sent the room up in flames. It would have taken only minutes for the blaze to spread from the bed to the rug to the curtains. He had seen fires consume houses that quickly on the Peninsula.
This particular fire had not been burning more than a few seconds.
God! When he had been standing in the corridor lusting after Emma's body, someone had been in her room. On the other side of the door. Someone had heard them and left, knocking the candle over in his, or her, haste.
How had the intruder left? The room had only one door—and he had been standing in front of it with Emma.
Charles ran his hands through his hair. More important, what would have happened to Emma if he hadn't kept her late downstairs? If she had been asleep in her bed?
He took a deep breath, pulling his shirt over his head. There were too many questions. Who, what, how. But at least he had Emma near at hand now. If she cried out, he would be at her side in an instant.
He scratched on the connecting door. "Emma?"
No answer.
He debated for about five seconds before he cracked the door open. The room was in shadows. He padded quietly over to the bed. Emma was there, her hair a tangle of curls spread over her pillow, her blanket pulled up to her chin. She was smiling, as if she were in the midst of a pleasant dream. He hated to wake her, but the fish would not be biting later and his guests, unfortunately, would be.
Should he kiss her awake? No, they would never get to the stream if he did that.
"Emma." He picked up one of her curls and tickled her nose with it.
She grumbled and turned over.
"Emma, sweetheart, time to get up." He gently shook her shoulder.
"Wha—" Her eyes opened. "Ack." She pulled the blanket over her head.
He pulled it back down to her chin. "Remember, sleepyhead, we're taking Isabelle and Claire fishing this morning."
"It's so early. And you shouldn't be in my room."
"I know it's early, but it's getting late if we want to catch any fish. You need to get up. Get dressed and get the girls. I'll fetch the fishing gear and meet you by the summer house, all right?"
Emma grunted.
"If I leave you, will you fall back to sleep?" He grinned. "Should I pull the covers off you and tickle your feet?"
"No, no." She frowned up at him. "I'm awake. Go away."
"You're certain? If you leave me standing outside in the morning chill, I'll bring a big bucket of lake water up here and dump it all over you."
"I'm certain. Now go away."
Emma felt Charles's deep chuckle in the pit of her stomach. Well, perhaps not her stomach—she felt certain this odd hunger had nothing to do with eating. It had everything to do with Charles. She had no doubt he could satisfy the gnawing in her. . . gut, if she would let him.
She waited to crawl out of bed till she heard his door latch. What was she going to do? She had awakened more than once during the night, her sheets twisted into knots, her body aching in embarrassing places, her skin burning. She craved Charles's touch. She wanted to go back to the conservatory to do everything they had done over again. And then do more.
Was this lust? She'd thought only men were susceptible to that malady, but it seemed Charles had managed to infect her. She snorted. Charles had assured Mr. Stockley that she was safe from his animal instincts, but perhaps it was Charles who was in danger.
And being here, in the marchioness's room, didn't help. It was a lovely, spacious room with a lovely, spacious bed and a lovely connecting door that did not lock. She could walk in on Charles any time she pleased.
Enough. She went to the washstand and splashed water on her face. The cold felt good on her heated skin. She would get dressed and get the girls up. Prinny would want a walk. She need not fear there would be any repeat of last night's activities this morning. The girls would be adequate chaperones. And she would keep strict control of her animal instincts.
She put on her oldest dress and pulled her hair ruthlessly back off her face, stabbing pins into it to fashion a bun. A colorless pelisse and the bonnet she had been considering giving Miss Russell for her garden scarecrow completed her ensemble.
She stepped into the corridor and headed for the girls' room. She would simply refuse to think of Charles—Lord Knightsdale—as anything other than a temporary employer. She would definitely not allow herself to consider a more permanent position in his household. He did not love her. He was only interested in expediency—in her he would have a governess and a breeding female whom he could easily plant on his estate and forget about for most of the year. Well, she might be twenty-six years old, an ape-leader, but she was not desperate. Nor was she interested in a tide. She would let the London girls climb over one another to grab the grand marquis's attention.
Perhaps she would see how Mr. Stockley kissed.
"Papa Charles, I've never been fishing before!"
Emma smiled as Claire ran up to Charles. He grinned down at the little girl, and Emma felt her own heart wrench. Claire wanted a father so badly— not just someone to call Father, but a man who would choose to be part of her life. Would Charles do that?
Not if he planned to live in London, only coming to the country to sow his seed.
Emma flushed at the odd feelings that thought awoke in her. She didn't know exactly how children were begotten, but she was fairly confident the procedure was closely related to the activities she had experienced in the conservatory.
Prinny lunged to greet Charles and almost dislocated Emma's shoulder.
"Do you need to keep him on a lead?" Charles asked.
"If I want to see him again, I do. Once he's expended some of his energy, I can let him off, but if I do so now, he'll be after a squirrel and we'll never see him again."
"Well, let me take him for you. Here, girls, would you carry your fishing poles so I can help Miss Peterson with Prinny?"
"Of course, Uncle Charles."
"Yes, yes, Papa Charles. I've never held a fishing pole before."
"Well
, here you are, then." Charles distributed the poles and took Prinny's lead, shifting the basket for their catch to his left hand. "You know, Miss Peterson and I used to go fishing when we were children. I was a little older than you, Isabelle, and Miss Peterson was six the first time we went to this particular fishing hole."
Claire skipped along next to him. "Really? Did you catch any fish, Papa Charles?"
"I did, but Miss Peterson just caught cold." He laughed. "She fell in, and I had to pull her out."
"I believe I was pushed in, my lord."
"Well, we never did settle that, did we? Robbie insists you tripped."
"With some help from his foot!"
They walked into the woods, following a narrow dirt path. The air was cooler here and damp. A wren warbled in the high branches. Emma breathed in the sharp, clean scent of pine and the softer smell of old leaves. She heard the stream burbling over the rocks up ahead.
She had spent so many hours of her childhood in these woods, tagging along after the man who was now laughing at something Claire had said. Even Isabelle had drawn close to him.
Charles Draysmith had been only a second son, had carried only a courtesy tide—one he had never used, to her knowledge—but he had more charm in his little finger than his father and brother combined. People loved Charles—farm workers, shopkeepers, the village children. Little Emma Peterson.
He had let her be Maid Marian when they played Robin Hood. Or Guinevere, ignored by the Knights of the Round Table, true, but still a part of the game. The Duke of Alvord and the Earl of Westbrooke— then the Marquis of Walthingham and Viscount Manders—had tolerated her, but only because Charles did. Mostly they acted as if she were invisible, except when Robbie chose to squabble with her. Charles had stopped more than one of their arguments and had fished her out of the stream the time she'd "tripped" over Robbie's foot.
"Here's a good spot, wouldn't you say, Lady Claire?" Charles put down the basket. Claire ran to the edge of the water.
"I don't see any fish, Papa Charles."
"Of course not! Fish are wily creatures. They don't want to be caught, you know."
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