"Splendid! May I have one?" He looked at Emma. "And you, Miss Peterson? Would you care for one of Cook's gooseberry tarts?"
"No, thank you, my lord."
"Are ye sure, Miss Peterson?" Cook asked. "I have plenty."
"No, thank you, Cook. I don't care for gooseberries, but I will take a slice of your lemon cake, if I might."
"Not care for gooseberries, Miss Peterson?" Charles asked as Cook went to fetch the tarts. "You have no taste, I fear."
"Not everyone loves gooseberries as you do, my lord."
"Well, perhaps that is a good thing. It leaves more for me, doesn't it?"
Charles took a tart from the top of the plate Cook put on the table. Emma watched him bite into it. He had strong, white teeth, so unlike Mr. Stockley's yellowed, crooked ones. A little of the gooseberry filling squirted onto his chin and his tongue slid out to capture it. Lud, even his tongue looked strong.
People did not have strong tongues! Though his tongue certainly had felt strong when it had been in her. . .
Emma took a large bite of lemon cake.
"Would ye like some cold milk, Miss Peterson? Ye look a little flushed."
Emma shook her head no. Her mouth was too full—and she was too mortified—to get the word out. Charles looked at her and lifted one of his masculine eyebrows.
Masculine eyebrows? She contemplated banging her head against the wooden table to knock some sense into it—or at least the lust out.
"We went fishing, Cook," Claire said. "Papa Charles showed us how to put the worms on the hooks. Then I catched a fish, but I fell in and Papa Charles saved me, and now he's going to teach me and Isabelle to swim."
Cook's eyes widened when she heard "Papa Charles" and then she beamed at Lord Knightsdale. Charles's ears turned red. Good—he could stand a little embarrassment. Isabelle added to the story, her voice young and enthusiastic, like a nine-year-old girl instead of a small adult.
Charles had to stay at Knightsdale. He brought fun—adventure and laughter—into the girls' lives. They had not missed him before, because they had not known him. Now if he left to live most of the year in London—it didn't bear thinking of. Their hearts would break.
Emma refused to consider if it would be only the girls' hearts breaking.
"That was capital, Cook, but I think we had better be going." Charles stood, brushing crumbs from his breeches. "I'm afraid Claire and I are sorely in need of a bath."
"I don't need a bath, Papa Charles. I only have baths on Sundays."
"Or on days when you've had a dunking in the stream," he said.
Claire frowned and stuck out her lower lip. Charles laughed.
"No tantrums now, Lady Claire. Remember the fish don't like them, nor do I. Go with Miss Peterson, and she and Nanny will get you all cleaned up."
"I don't like baths." Claire crossed her arms, her face taking on a distinctly mulish expression.
"Would you like to use a little of my lavender water?" Emma asked.
It was as if a cloud had moved away from the sun.
"Yes! Then I'll smell like you, won't I?"
Emma laughed. "Yes, then you'll smell like me."
"And you smell good. Don't you think Mama Peterson smells good, Papa Charles?"
Charles grinned slowly. "Oh, yes. Miss Peterson smells very nice, indeed."
Emma swore she flushed from the roots of her hair to the ends of her toenails. "Um, well, let's go then, Claire. Come, Prinny." She bent to fasten the dog's lead back on his collar. No use taking chances with so many strangers in the house.
Charles was still smirking as he stepped aside to let her precede him out of the kitchen. He walked with them up the stairs to the bedroom floor.
"Miss Peterson, I will see you later."
"What about us, Papa Charles? Will you see us later, too?"
Charles ruffled Claire's hair. "I will stop by the nursery when I can, imp. I have an appointment with Mr. Coles, the estate manager, and then I have to play host to all these London ladies and gents—that's why we went fishing so early this morning, so I could see you before my other duties."
"Please? You have to see if I smell as good as Mama Peterson."
Charles grinned. For a treat like that, I will certainly try my hardest. Perhaps I can steal a few minutes before dinner. Now run along and get your bath."
Emma and the girls almost made it safely to the nursery. They would have made it easily, if Emma had not stopped to get the lavender water. As it was, they were only a few yards from the nursery stairs when two giggling young ladies emerged from a room right into their path. Prinny barked and lunged forward. The young ladies—Miss Oldston and Lady Caroline—screamed.
"Don't be scared," Claire said. "Prinny's very friendly."
Lady Caroline sniffed, her full cheeks creased into a frown, her stubby nose turned up in disdain. She bore a striking resemblance to Squire Begley's prize pig, Ivy—or "That Damn Ivy," as he was wont to call her.
"I am not scared. I just do not care for dogs, nasty, dirty things."
Miss Oldston guffawed, her lips turning back to show her sizable teeth. "At least it ain't a cat, Caro. At least you ain't swelling up, all red and itchy."
Lady Caroline turned her displeasure on Miss Oldston. "Really, Amanda, you need to control yourself. You look and sound just like a horse."
"Better than looking like a pig. If you want Knights-dale's attentions, you'd better pay less attention to his cakes and cream puffs."
"Well, he certainly isn't going to choose a skinny mare like you."
"Papa Charles is going to choose Mama Peterson."
The sudden silence that followed Claire's artless words was thick enough to suffocate someone. It certainly was suffocating Emma. Lady Caroline gaped; Miss Oldston's already prominent eyes became noticeably more prominent. Emma closed her own eyes briefly, wishing she could vanish into the woodwork.
"Papa Charles?" Miss Oldston said.
"Mama Peterson?" Lady Caroline's hard little eyes examined Emma.
"Claire, Uncle Charles told you not to call him 'Papa' in company!"
Claire shrugged. "I had to tell them, Isabelle." She looked up at Lady Caroline and Miss Oldston. "My mother and father died in It. . ."—she paused, clearly trying to get the word right—"in Italy. Uncle Charles is my papa now. And he is going to marry Miss Peterson."
"Oh, really?" Lady Caroline slowly surveyed Emma's old dress, shabby pelisse, and disreputable bonnet. "How odd. I must have missed the announcement. Did you hear it, Amanda?"
"Lady Caroline, Miss Oldston," Emma said, "Lady Claire is only four. She has a very active imagination."
"Mama Peterson, I did not imagine Papa Charles with you on the blanket."
"The blanket?"
"We went fishing this morning, Lady Caroline," Emma said. "Lord Knightsdale wants to spend some time with his nieces, naturally, to become better acquainted with them, as he is their guardian now. And I'm acting as their governess while their usual governess is off attending to her ailing mother." Emma knew she was babbling. Really, she did not owe Lady Caroline the slightest explanation, but neither could she bear for this gossip to fly through the house party. "I was just taking the girls to the nursery to tidy up after their fishing trip. Lady Claire fell into the stream."
"I see. How kind of Lord Knightsdale to take an interest in his brother's orphans, don't you agree, Amanda?"
"Yes, Caro, very kind."
"Though I'm certain that will change once he weds," Lady Caroline said with a condescending little laugh.
"I am certain it will not change, Lady Caroline." How could this spoiled girl say such a thing with Claire and Isabelle standing right in front of her? Emma wished Prinny were as vicious as she felt at the moment. She would love to let the dog take a bite out of Lady Caroline's ample backside.
"Oh, Miss Peterson." Lady Caroline shook her head, chuckling. "Perhaps if you had made your come out, you'd be more aware of the ways of the ton."
Prinny would have to wait his
turn. Emma wanted to take a bite out of Lady Caroline with her very own teeth.
"I may not be intimately conversant with the ways of the ton, Lady Caroline, but I have known Lord Knightsdale since we were children. He would never abandon his nieces." Physically abandon them for London, perhaps, but never emotionally abandon them. If the girls needed anything, Emma was convinced Charles would see that they had it.
"And you are . . . intimately . . . conversant with Lord Knightsdale's ways?"
"No, of course not, Lady Caroline. I only meant. . ."
"It matters little what you meant, Miss Peterson. You seem to have forgotten one crucial fact—Lord Knightsdale will have a wife. I doubt any lady of the ton will want to take charge of his brother's brats."
"You're a bad lady!" Claire said. Emma heard the tears in her voice. Isabelle looked as white as a ghost
"And you're a very badly behaved child," Lady Caroline said. "You'd better mind your manners if you don't want to end up in the workhouse."
Emma had had enough. She dropped Prinny's lead. Freed, the dog scrambled for Lady Caroline's expansive white muslin skirts. Since he had been out by the stream, his paws had collected a generous quantity of fine Kentish mud.
Emma grinned. Lady Caroline could scream very loudly indeed.
"We have to do something, Claire." Isabelle sat on Claire's bed. Miss Peterson had gone downstairs to join the house party; Nanny was napping. Claire was supposed to be napping, and Isabelle was supposed to be reading, but Isabelle decided this was too important to put off. "We can't let Uncle Charles marry any of the London ladies."
Claire sat up, rubbing the smooth end of her old blanket along her cheek. "Papa Charles is going to marry Mama Peterson."
"I hope so, but we can't take that for granted, Claire. I think we had better do something to make certain they decide to marry each other."
Prinny padded in and jumped onto Claire's bed. After his long romp on the morning fishing expedition and the excitement of chasing Miss Oldston and Lady Caroline down the corridor, he was exceptionally mellow. He rested his head in Isabelle's lap and let her stroke his ears.
"How do we do that, Isabelle?"
That was the question Isabelle had been struggling with ever since Miss Peterson had dragged them up to the nursery. Miss Peterson had been so angry, she hadn't been able to speak. She had stomped around and muttered and apologized in short, rough sentences for the mean London ladies.
"I think we need to see that Miss Peterson and Uncle Charles are together as much as possible."
"We can go fishing every morning. I liked that."
"No, I think they have to be alone, Claire—just the two of them."
"Why?"
Isabelle shrugged. "I'm not certain. Mrs. Lambert was talking to Nanny last week about a Miss Wendle who lives in the house where Mrs. Lambert's sister works. Miss Wendle was alone with Lord Somebody-or-other and they got married right away. I think Mrs. Lambert was going to tell Nanny more, but then she saw me and stopped."
Claire put her chin on her knees. "Mama Peterson sleeps in Mother's room now. There's only a door between her room and Papa Charles's room."
Isabelle nodded. "Maybe if we put something Miss Peterson needs—like her brush—in Uncle Charles's room, she'll have to go in there to find it."
"And let's get rid of that ugly bonnet she had on today."
Isabelle sighed. "Yes. I wish there was a way to get rid of some of her dresses—they are not as pretty as the London ladies' clothes."
"Papa Charles doesn't care about that."
"I don't know, Claire. I think men like women in pretty clothes. Mother always wanted the newest fashions. I heard her and Father arguing about it once."
"Well, if they were arguing, Father must not have liked the clothes."
"No, they were arguing about the cost, not the clothes. And when they made up, they ended up in Mother's room together." Isabelle rubbed Prinny's back. "It's a good thing Uncle Charles's and Miss Peterson's bedrooms are right next to each other. We'll try to get them together there, and maybe the clothes won't matter so much."
"All right. We can do that as soon as I finish my nap. Nanny said all the house guests were going to walk around the lake, so Mama and Papa won't be in their rooms."
Isabelle nodded, but her mind was still on the fashion problem. She wished Miss Peterson's clothes were prettier, but there wasn't anything she and Claire could do about that. But maybe there was something they could do to make the London ladies less attractive. She grinned.
"Let's make those mean women uglier, too."
"You can't make the fat lady uglier," Claire said. "She looks like a pig."
"Yes, but a well-dressed pig."
"Not so well dressed now that Prinny has had his paws all over her skirts." Claire leaned forward and patted Prinny's head. "Good dog."
Prinny licked her hand.
"Yes, but remember how the horsey lady, Miss Oldston, said it was a good thing Prinny wasn't a cat?"
Claire nodded. "She said the piggy lady would get all red and itchy if Prinny were a cat."
"And swollen, though it's hard to imagine how Lady Caroline could be any fatter."
Claire giggled. "Queen Bess is a cat."
"Exactly." Isabelle grinned. "And I bet she would love to see Lady Caroline's bedchamber."
Chapter 7
Emma was still furious when she joined the other house party guests for a stroll around the lake. She stayed as far away from Lady Caroline and Miss Oldston as she could—which meant she also stayed far away from Charles. The young ladies were swarming around him like bees on spilled lemonade.
How could those spoiled misses have said such hateful things in front of Claire and Isabelle? It was beyond her understanding. Did they think the girls were deaf? Or stupid? If Prinny hadn't muddied their gowns, Emma would have . . . what? What could she do? She was only the temporary governess.
"It is a fine day, is it not, Miss Peterson?"
She could accept Charles's offer. She'd like to see those nasty girls' faces when that announcement was made. And if she actually were the marchioness, she could have those two harpies tossed out on their ears.
"Miss Peterson?"
Emma blinked. Mr. Stockley was by her side, looking at her inquiringly.
"I'm sorry, sir. I was woolgathering. You were saying?"
"Merely commenting on the weather, Miss Peterson." 'The weather?"
"Yes. The day is very fine, do you not agree?"
"Yes. Certainly. Very fine."
Emma looked for someone to rescue her from Mr. Stockley's excruciatingly dull conversation, but no savior was apparent. Most of the gentlemen were clustered around the young ladies who were still clustered around Charles. Lady Beatrice and the Society for the Betterment of Women had elected to stay indoors—Emma hoped Charles had locked up the brandy. The Duke of Alvord was keeping his wife company while she napped. At least that is what he'd said he was doing, but Emma had noticed the same intent expression on his face that Charles had had in the conservatory. The Earl of Westbrooke had gone to fetch Alvord's sister, Lizzie, and Meg was probably off investigating Charles's herb garden.
"Are you enjoying your stay at Knightsdale, Miss Peterson?"
"Um. Yes. Of course. And you, sir? Are you finding your accommodations satisfactory?" He should be. Mr. Atworthy's house was comfortable but could not bear comparison with Knightsdale.
"Very satisfactory. I am much interested in grand houses, you know. The architecture, furnishings, statuary."
"Indeed?"
"Oh, yes. Have you had an opportunity to explore Knightsdale, Miss Peterson? In your capacity of governess, perhaps, or as a young girl? I understand you and the marquis were childhood friends. Did you play in the attics or the cellars? In any odd little closets or cubbyholes?"
Mr. Stockley's eyes shone with enthusiasm. Well, Meg could get extremely animated over some twig or other. Getting excited about a house was likely more understandable t
han being in alt over a weed. Knightsdale was a very impressive estate.
"No, Mr. Stockley, the girls and I have stayed in the main parts of the house. And I wasn't really a childhood friend of Lord Knightsdale—more a childhood nuisance. You might ask Lord Westbrooke or his grace. Or Lord Knightsdale himself, of course."
Mr. Stockley chuckled. "I don't believe Lord Knightsdale is terribly fond of me."
That was an understatement. Charles looked at Mr. Stockley just as Lady Beatrice's Queen Bess looked at Prinny. With disdain. Or disgust.
"I'm certain he would give you a tour if you asked, Mr. Stockley. Or perhaps Mrs. Lambert, the housekeeper, would be willing to show you the house."
"And you, Miss Peterson? Would you be willing?"
"Mr. Stockley, I assure you I would not be a suitable guide."
They traversed a bend in the path and came upon a clearing with a Gothic cottage. The ladies and most of the gentlemen had gone up to examine the structure more closely. Charles stood back, hands on hips, staring. He looked over at Emma.
"What the h—" He coughed. "What is this?"
"A Gothic cottage, my lord."
"I know it is a Gothic cottage, Miss Peterson. What I wish to know is what it is doing here." His sweeping gesture encompassed the trees and the lake.
"You've not seen it before, my lord?" Mr. Stockley asked.
"No, I have not."
'That is not surprising," Emma said. "It wasn't here the last time you visited, my lord. The late marchioness had it built shortly after she married your brother."
Charles grunted. "Are there any other monstrosities littering the estate, Miss Peterson?"
"No new monstrosities, my lord. All the other follies were built by your father or grandfather or greatgrandfather, I think,"
'Thank God for that. I was afraid I might stumble onto a replica of Prinny's Brighton stable next."
Emma expected an architectural enthusiast like Mr. Stockley to join the group exclaiming over the building, but he barely gave it a glance once he heard it was a relatively new structure. He wandered on ahead. Emma heaved a sigh of relief.
"Happy to be rid of your beau?" Charles asked.
"Shh." Emma glanced at the others, but they were still cooing over the stained-glass windows. "Mr. Stockley is not my beau."
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