"Because then they'll be breakfast!" Claire clapped her hands and hop-skipped on her toes. "Can we eat fish for breakfast?"
"Perhaps—if we catch any."
Prinny spotted a squirrel and started yapping madly.
"And if this dog doesn't scare them all away. Miss Peterson, can you take charge of Prinny while I get the girls settled?"
Emma pulled Prinny a short distance away. He barked for a minute in protest and then found something interesting to smell by the base of a birch.
"Would you like me to bait your line for you, Isabelle?"
'Yes, please, Uncle Charles."
Claire leaned against Charles, watching him work on Isabelle's fishing line.
"Eww." She wrinkled her nose. "A worm."
"Want a closer look?" Charles quickly brought the wiggling creature up to Claire's face. She squealed and danced back, giggling.
"No, Papa Charles. Worms are slimy."
"So you don't want to bait your own line? I'll show you how."
'You can show me, Uncle Charles," Isabelle said. "I'm not a baby."
"I'm not a baby, either." Claire put her small fists on her hips and stuck out her tongue at her sister. "Show me, Papa Charles."
"Lady Claire, a little more deportment, if you please!" Charles said, a note of laughter in his voice. "Whatever has your governess been teaching you?"
"Don't blame Miss Peterson, Uncle Charles," Isabelle said. "It is not her fault if Claire is bad."
"I'm not bad." Claire's bottom lip trembled. "Mama Peterson, I'm not bad, am I? Mother used to say I was, but I'm not."
Emma dropped Prinny's lead and came over to hug the little girl. "Of course you aren't, sweetheart. And I'm sure your mother didn't mean you were, either. Sometimes adults just get a little snappish."
"No, Miss Peterson." Isabelle looked seriously back into Emma's eyes. "Mother . . . well, she said . . . she wanted a boy, you see, so she wouldn't have to have any more babies."
Claire nodded. "If she'd had a boy, she'd have done her duty."
"Papa needed an heir, Miss Peterson, and Claire and I can't be an heir."
Emma met Charles's eyes over Claire's head. He looked as stricken as she felt.
"Well, I'm your papa now, Isabelle," he said. "And I like you exactly as you are." He took Claire's chin in his fingers, leaning next to Emma to look the little girl in the eye. "And you are not bad, Lady Claire. Of course not. But you must still learn to behave. Can you imagine what people would say if Miss Peterson stuck her tongue out at my aunt?"
Claire giggled. "Mama Peterson would never do that!"
"Exactly. So you must learn not to either, at least when you need your formal manners. But I only meant to tease you before—you don't need fancy manners when you go fishing, do you?"
"No?" Claire's eyes were huge in her small face.
"No. The fish don't care. But no tantrums, mind! The fish don't like tantrums—too noisy. You'd scare them all away."
"No tantrums," Claire agreed.
Charles dropped his hand and looked at Isabelle. "I think I had offered to show you two young ladies how to bait a fishing line before we got off on all this boring talk of manners."
Isabelle smiled. "Yes, P—Uncle Charles."
"You can call me Papa Charles if you want to, Isabelle."
"No. No, thank you. I'm nine."
"And I'm thirty, goose. Nine is not very old— certainly not too old to still want a papa." Charles held out his hand. "It could be our secret."
Isabelle put her hand in Charles's, but she shook her head. "Show me how to bait the line, Uncle Charles."
"And me," Claire said, pushing closer. "Show me, too." She glanced at Emma. "And what about Mama Peterson, Papa Charles? Are you going to teach her how to put the slimy worm on the hook?"
"Oh, I taught Miss Peterson years ago, when she was just a little older than you, Lady Claire."
"Indeed," Emma said, smiling. "And he is a very good teacher."
"Are you going to fish, too, Miss Peterson?"
"No, Isabelle. I think I'll go keep Prinny company."
"Wait a moment and I'll spread the blanket out for you."
"That's all right, my lord. I can do it."
Emma took the blanket out of the basket and retreated to the birch tree. Prinny had expended enough energy that he was content to lie in the shade. She sat on the blanket and watched Charles with the children.
He would make a wonderful father, if he were only willing to stay at Knightsdale.
"Now don't get your lines tangled up, girls," he said. "I'm going to go sit with Miss Peterson and let you fish by yourselves."
"All right, Papa Charles. We'll catch lots offish for breakfast."
"Don't catch so many I can't fit them in the basket."
"We'll try not to." Claire smiled and turned to stare at the water, as if she could will the fish onto her hook.
Charles took off his coat and sat down next to Emma. He looked at the girls.
"I guess my brother and his wife were not the best parents."
Emma sighed. "I don't know they were any different from most of the ton, but their daughters surely wanted more of them."
"More might have been worse. God, I can't believe Cecilia told the girls she wanted a son so she wouldn't be required to have more children."
"We don't really know she said that, my lord. Children often misunderstand. They hear pieces and put the pieces together in a way that makes sense to them, but they have a very limited knowledge of the world."
Not that Emma believed for a minute Cecilia hadn't told the girls precisely what Isabelle had said. The woman had been exceedingly vain and self-centered. Completely insensitive.
Charles shrugged. "Whatever Cecilia said or didn't say, it's clear the girls need parents now."
"Yes." Emma hesitated. It wasn't really her place, but she felt compelled to speak up. Surely now he would understand the need for him to stay at Knightsdale. "When you marry, my lord—"
"You mean when I marry you, Emma." He turned and looked at her. "The girls like you. They—" He frowned. "Where did you get that hideous bonnet?"
So, he was just now noticing how she looked, was he? Such an attentive suitor.
"It's not hideous. It's a perfectly satisfactory bonnet, especially for an early morning fishing expedition."
"Only if you intend to use it to catch the fish. It might make a satisfactory net—well, bucket. You should get rid of it. In fact, I'll be happy to dispose of it for you." He reached for her bonnet strings. Emma put her hands over them and leaned away.
"You most certainly will not. Keep your hands to yourself, Lord Knightsdale."
A distinctly wicked gleam appeared in his eyes. "But I did so enjoy not keeping them to myself last night."
"Behave yourself, sir!"
"Must—"
"Papa Charles, Papa Charles, I catched a—"
The rest of the sentence was lost in a loud splash.
"Uncle Charles," Isabelle shouted, "Claire has fallen into the water and she can't swim."
Emma lurched to her feet, but Charles was far faster than she. He was in the stream with Claire in his arms before Emma had untangled her skirts.
"Claire, sweetheart," he said, "it's the fish that come out of the water, not little girls that go in."
Claire sputtered and coughed. "The fish got away, Papa Charles."
"Well, you'll catch another one, another day. And I will teach you—and Isabelle—to swim. Would you like that?"
"Yes!"
Emma finally made it to the edge of the stream. She stood next to Isabelle and looked at the two in the water. Claire could have been terrified, but she was grinning and hugging Charles tightly around the neck. He was soaked to the skin, his shirt and breeches plastered to his body.
He looked wonderful. More than wonderful. The lust of the night before surged back, and she considered joining them in the water. She needed some way to cool her heated blood.
Charles carried Claire piggyback to Knightsdale. She sat on his shoulders, chatting and laughing. She didn't seem the worse for her dunking, but he vowed to teach her and Isabelle to swim at the first opportunity. With a lake on the property, it was much too dangerous for the girls not to know how. True, Claire was a little young, but she could learn enough to save herself if she were to fall in again. And Isabelle definitely should know. He had taught Emma when she was only six.
He glanced down at the woman walking next to him. He'd given her lessons after Robbie had tripped her and she, like Claire, had fallen into the stream. The other boys had laughed at first—she had looked funny with her skirts spread out in the water—but he'd seen the fear in her eyes.
She had shown no fear in their lessons. He smiled. She'd been determined not to let Robbie get the better of her again.
Did she remember how to swim? His smile widened. He'd be happy to re-evaluate her skills. This afternoon perhaps, in one of the more secluded sections of the lake. She could wear her shift.
"Papa Charles!"
Claire tugged sharply on his hair. He shifted her on his shoulders as he contemplated the vision of Emma in the water, clothed in her shift. Her wet shift. Her sheer, translucent, wet shift that outlined every one of her lovely curves and teased him with a glimpse, a shadow, of the curls above her thighs. If it were chilly, her nipples would harden into little peaks under the wet cloth, beckoning . . .
"Ouch! That hair is attached to my head, Lady Claire."
"Sorry, Papa Charles, but you weren't 'tending."
"Um." He realized suddenly that his soaked breeches would reveal to anyone who cared to look exactly what thoughts he had been attending to. He forced his mind to consider topics that did not relate to Emma in any fashion. Estate management. Ah. That worked like a charm.
He glanced at Emma again. She was studying the ground. At least he assumed that was what she was doing—he couldn't see her face. Her hideous headgear completely obscured her features. Perhaps a cooper rather than a milliner had fashioned the thing. It certainly did look more like a bucket than a bonnet.
He would just have to contrive some accident to rid the world of its insulting existence.
"Papa Charles, since we didn't catch any fish, what can we eat for breakfast? I'm hungry."
"Don't worry, Lady Claire," he said. '"We'll just stop in to see Cook. She's sure to have something tasty."
"We can't bother Cook, Uncle Charles."
"Why ever not, Isabelle? I used to bother Cook all the time when I was your age, didn't I, Miss Peterson?"
"Yes." Emma still didn't look at him. "Well, you did by the time I met you. You were always hungry. I believe Cook called you an imp of Satan, but she gave you the best of whatever she had—the biggest pastry or the ripest fruit."
"Were you jealous, Miss Peterson?"
Emma glanced at him quickly, then turned her eyes forward. "Of course not, my lord. I was in awe of your ability to consume limitless quantities of food."
"Ah, but I was a growing boy."
"I'm a growing girl, Papa Charles," Claire said, bouncing on his shoulders. "What will Cook have to eat, do you think?"
"Perhaps gooseberry tarts. Mmm. Not exactly breakfast food, but Cook's gooseberry tarts are splendid." Cook might not be up to London standards when it came to preparing a dinner for the ton, but she certainly did some things well. He glanced down at Isabelle. She was too quiet again. "Have you ever had any of Cook's gooseberry tarts, Isabelle?"
"No, Uncle Charles. Mother said we would get fat if we ate tarts, and it is very hard to catch a husband if you are fat."
Charles felt his jaw drop. "Gammon! You are only nine years old, Isabelle. A few tarts will not land you on the matrimonial shelf."
"Mother said it was never too early to think about the future. It's not as if we can live at Knightsdale our whole lives."
Charles stared at Isabelle, not sure whether to laugh or curse. Had Paul not known what his wife had been telling the girls?
"I've had a gooseberry tart, Papa Charles."
"Claire!" Isabelle said. "Don't lie."
"I'm not! I sneaked into the kitchen once and took one. I didn't like it. It burned my mouth."
"Well, there's no need for sneaking anywhere," Charles said. "We shall walk into the kitchen, wish Cook a good morning, and see if she has anything for us to eat."
"Are you certain we can, Uncle Charles?" Wrinkles etched Isabelle's forehead. "Mother said never to bother Cook."
"Of course I'm certain, Isabelle." He turned to Emma. Her head was up, her face tight with concern. "Miss Peterson, you are the governess. What do you say? Am I right that we can enter the kitchen with impunity?"
"Of course, my lord." Emma smiled, but a line still creased her brow. He'd wager that she, too, would scream if she heard "Mother said" one more time. It was wrong to think ill of the dead, but, well, he did not miss Cecilia at the moment.
"See?" he said. "If a governess says so, it must be true. Governesses never want you to do anything fun, do they?"
"My lord!" Emma put her hands on her hips. "You must not malign the noble profession of governess."
Claire giggled. "But it's true, Mama Peterson. Miss Hodgekiss never let us do anything fun."
"Didn't I let you go on this fishing excursion?"
"Yes, but you aren't a real governess," Isabelle said. There was still a note of worry in her voice.
"Well, I am a real marquis." Charles lifted Claire off his shoulders. "And I say we can go into the kitchen." He stood as tall as he could and tried to look like the Duke of Alvord did when he was his most dukeish. "Actually, now that I think on it, this is my kitchen. I am the Marquis of Knightsdale, am I not?"
"The Marquis of Knightsdale!" Claire yelled. "Watch out, Cook!"
"I don't think Cook will like being shouted at, Lady Claire," Emma said.
'Very true, Miss Peterson. As they say, you will catch more flies with honey than vinegar."
Claire wrinkled her nose. "But I don't want any flies, Papa Charles."
"Don't be silly, Claire." Isabelle suddenly sounded very much the more experienced older sister. "Uncle Charles just means you are more likely to get what you want if you ask nicely and don't order people around."
"Precisely. Ordering Cook to give us food will just put her back up. We need a more subtle approach." Charles went down on one knee so he could look both girls in the face. "I've found appealing to Cook's warm heart works very well. You and I, Lady Claire, are a very bedraggled pair after our dunking in the stream. I'm certain Cook cannot resist feeling sorry for us. Do you think you can look pitiful?"
"Oh, yes, Papa Charles." Claire opened her eyes very wide and turned down the corners of her mouth. Even Isabelle giggled.
"Very good. I will let you take the lead in the pitiful approach. Now, Lady Isabelle," Charles said, turning and putting his hands on her shoulders. They felt so fragile under his fingers. "I think you might do well to spearhead our charm attack."
"Charm attack? What do you mean, Uncle Charles?"
"Well, I have noticed that you have the loveliest smile."
"I do?" Isabelle turned bright pink. Charles grinned.
"Yes, indeed. When you smile, your eyes sparkle in quite a remarkable way. I'm sure if you smile at Cook, she will let us have whatever treats we may like."
"Really?"
Charles blinked. He had been teasing Isabelle, but now that she was grinning at him, he saw that it was true. She had a beautiful smile. It lit her thin, angular face with an ethereal loveliness that quite took his breath away. He vowed to get her to smile more often. "I think we're ready to invade the kitchen."
Somehow Emma had to persuade Charles to stay at Knightsdale. The girls needed him.
She sat on the bench at the long kitchen table and watched Isabelle and Claire bloom under Charles's attention. To have any man take an interest in them was wonderful—their father certainly never had—but to have Charles be that man was beyond wond
erful. He was charming them just as he charmed everyone. Just as he had charmed her when she was a girl.
Cook had presented Prinny with a bone shortly after they entered her domain, and he was happily gnawing on it in the corner by the fire. Claire had scrambled onto the bench next to Charles. She sat close enough to touch him. She patted his sleeve and rested her head against his shoulder when someone besides herself was talking. Emma suspected she would have climbed into his lap, given half a chance.
Isabelle sat next to Emma, across from Charles. Being nine, she was too grown-up to cling to him physically, but she was clinging to him with her eyes. Emma saw a slight blush spread over Isabelle's cheeks after one of Charles's small compliments. She'd wager Isabelle was more than half in love with her uncle. An innocent infatuation, one she would soon outgrow.
Unlike Emma.
Emma sat up straighten This would never do. Charles was charming, but he was not for her. She was going to shop among the other eligible men, she had decided. Mr. Stockley, for example . . .
No, she would not think about Mr. Stockley right now. She would just enjoy being here with Charles and the girls.
"Here, Lady Isabelle, have some more bread, do," Cook said, putting a large slice of fresh bread on Isa-belle's plate.
"Thank you, Cook." Isabelle's rare smile lit her face. Cook blinked, then smiled broadly at Emma.
Emma smiled back. She wished she had thought to bring the girls here before. She'd never imagined Cecilia would have kept them from this haven with its sunny, high windows and warm smells of baking. Cook was a plain, cheerful woman, broad of girth and heart. She might not be able to make an elegant French sauce, but she could make a little girl smile.
"And may we have some jam, too, please, Cook?"
Emma had to muffle a laugh at Claire's ingratiating expression.
"Of course ye may, Lady Claire. And would ye like a taste of my lemon cake?"
"Oh, yes, please."
"I don't suppose you have any gooseberry tarts about, do you, Cook?" Charles leaned toward Cook and flashed his own ingratiating grin. This time Emma did not have the urge to laugh—cry, maybe. He was breath takingly handsome.
"Aye—happen I do, my lord."
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