Get with child easily—ha! When he'd had his body pressed against hers, he could have asked her to walk backward to London and she would have tried to accommodate him. He must have little doubt that she'd acquiesce with nary a peep of dissent to whatever procedure was required to produce children. Had she no pride?
Apparently not. She looked at him, standing with Lady Caroline and Poseidon, and felt that odd liquid heat pool low in her again. How could she want to slap him silly one moment and the next, wrap her hands around him as if she'd never let go?
She was an idiot—a cabbage-headed, corkbrained idiot.
"Shall we join the others, Lady Caroline?"
Emma's eyes narrowed. If Charles could be charming to that she-serpent, he could be charming to anyone. Even his old playmate. It meant nothing. She must remember that. He was an accomplished flirt—he hadn't learned to kiss in such an expert fashion from studying books or fighting Napoleon. He'd had years of practice.
Well, he could exercise his amatory skills on some other stupid girl.
But not Lady Caroline. Emma couldn't let him marry that harpy. Poor Isabelle and Claire would pay the price. And he couldn't marry Miss Oldston for the same reason. Miss Pelham? Doubtful. Her mother was a gorgon; it was hard to imagine the daughter could be much different. And poor Miss Frampton was as spotty as her brother.
Perhaps Miss Haverford was a candidate. She was prettily behaved. Emma could think of nothing objectionable about her—except she was too young, of course. And perhaps a touch vapid. But she might gain character with age.
"Miss Peterson?"
Charles was looking at her expectantly, as if he had asked the question at least once before. Emma smiled and put her hand on the arm he offered: Lady Caroline was hanging on his other side.
"Don't you miss London, Lord Knightsdale?" Lady Caroline asked. "The theatre, the parties, the balls?" She looked over at Emma. "Oh, I'm sorry—have you been to London, Miss Peterson?"
Emma gritted her teeth. "No, Lady Caroline, I have not had that pleasure."
"No?" Lady Caroline tried to look sympathetic, but her eyes—her hard little piggy eyes—gave her away. They glittered with malice. "What a shame. But I imagine country life has its benefits, doesn't it? The slow pace. The familiar activities. It must be quite . . . comfortable for, um"—she smiled up at Charles—"for some people," she finished.
For an old maid such as I, Emma thought. Lady Caroline did not say the words, but they hung in the air.
Charles laughed. "I quite like the country, Lady Caroline. I've grown somewhat tired of Town." He smiled at Emma. "However, I'm certain you'd enjoy a visit to London, Miss Peterson. Perhaps it can be arranged soon."
Lady Caroline shot Emma a look that should have killed her, it was so pointed.
"I don't know that a trip to Town is in my future, my lord," Emma said.
"I would wager that it is, Miss Peterson. In fact, I would be willing to lay odds on it."
"Are you taking your nieces up to London, then, my lord?" Lady Caroline bared her teeth at Emma in a formation resembling a smile. "So educational—the museums, the opera, the Tower. You'll enjoy it, Miss Peterson. I imagine it is paradise for a governess such as yourself."
Charles choked. "Yes." He looked at Emma; his eyes were dancing wickedly. "So educational. I might even be able to help you, Miss Peterson. I could teach a few lessons, I believe."
I bet you could, Emma thought, but what lessons and to whom? Many more like the one he had just delivered and she would be compelled to wed him— though it would almost be worth it to see the look on dear Lady Caroline's face when their engagement was announced.
Had she lost her mind? Whatever was she thinking? Lord Knightsdale would most definitely not be teaching her any more lessons.
"I found the bonnet, Isabelle."
"Good. Do you see Miss Peterson's brush?"
Claire looked on Emma's dressing table. "Yes. It's not very fancy."
'That doesn't matter. She'll need it tonight. Come on, let's put it in Uncle Charles's room."
Isabelle led the way to the connecting door. She pushed it open and saw Henderson, Uncle Charles's valet, folding cravats. She backed up quickly and stepped on Claire's toe.
"Ow!"
Henderson looked up. "May I help you, Lady Isabelle?"
"Um." Isabelle stepped into the room. "We were just looking for Uncle Charles."
"Were you now? And what might you be doing with Miss Peterson's bonnet?"
"It's not very pretty," Claire said. She put it on her head. "Don't you think it looks like a bucket?"
Henderson's face twisted as though he smelled something bad. "It's not my place to comment on Miss Peterson's clothing."
"But if it were your place, Mr. Henderson?" Isabelle asked. "Do you think this bonnet is very stylish?"
Henderson appeared to struggle with himself. He sighed. "No, I can't say that bonnet is particularly stylish."
"I think Miss Peterson would be better off without it, don't you?"
"Lady Isabelle . . ."
"We just don't want her to look bad next to those London ladies. Mr. Henderson," Claire said.
"No. I understand.
"Those London ladies are mean."
Isabelle smiled and pushed Claire back toward Miss Peterson's room. "Well, since Uncle Charles isn't here, we'll just be going. Good-bye, Mr. Henderson."
She closed the door and sighed.
"Too bad Mr. Henderson was in Uncle Charles's room."
Claire shrugged. "I put Mama Peterson's brush under the papers on Papa Charles's bureau while you were talking."
Isabelle grinned. "Good job, Claire."
Claire skipped toward the door to the hall, swinging the bonnet by its strings.
"I bet Miss Russell would like this for the scarecrow in her garden."
Chapter 8
Emma saw Mrs. Graham the moment she returned from the lake. The woman was standing in the Knightsdale entry hall, laughing up at Papa.
A hard knot formed in her stomach. So Lady Caroline was not the only harpy fluttering about the Knightsdale estate.
"Thank you for the outing, my lord," Lady Caroline said behind her. She turned to see the girl batting her eyelashes at Charles. The hoyden put one hand on her ample chest and the other on Charles's arm. "I am a trifle fatigued from the exertion, I fear. I believe I shall go up and take a nap."
Did she expect Charles to join her?
"Come on, Caro." Miss Oldston sounded almost as impatient with Lady Caroline's posturing as Emma was.
"I shall see you later, my lord." Lady Caroline brushed past Emma and followed Miss Oldston up the stairs.
Emma clenched her hands. She wished she had a few of the burs Chubs and the others had been flinging near the cottage—she'd love to see them arranged on Lady Caroline's ample backside.
She took a deep breath. She was being extremely childish. It was beneath her to feel this way.
She glanced at Mrs. Graham and her temper soared again. The woman had the audacity to smile at her, as if she shared her impatience with stupid Lady Caroline. Emma shared nothing with Mrs. Harriet Graham. Nothing.
Except Papa. He smiled down at Mrs. Graham, and Emma's stomach twisted.
No. He was just being polite. He would not bring that woman into the family. He couldn't.
"Reverend Peterson, just the man I was looking for," Charles said. "And Mrs. Graham. Welcome to Knights-dale. I hope you don't mind if I borrow your escort for a moment? I have a small matter to discuss with him."
"Of course not, my lord." Mrs. Graham smiled at Charles. At least she didn't bat her eyelashes at him.
"Splendid. Lambert," Charles said to the butler, who was hovering in the background, "will you show Mrs. Graham to the blue drawing room?" He smiled back at Mrs. Graham. "We really will be only a few moments, ma'am."
"Please take your time, my lord. I'm in no hurry." Mrs. Graham looked at Emma. Emma ground her teeth. "Would you care to join me, Emma?"
"No."
Emma saw Charles stiffen. Her father frowned. Perhaps she had been a bit abrupt.
"No, thank you. I'm a trifle fatigued." Was she using Lady Caroline's excuse? Lud! She couldn't sink that low. "That is, um . . ."
"That's quite all right," Mrs. Graham said. "I shall do fine by myself."
"I believe Lady Beatrice is in the drawing room with a few of the older ladies, ma'am," Mr. Lambert said.
Charles frowned. "A few of the older ladies, Lambert? You don't mean the Society, do you?"
"Yes, my lord." Mr. Lambert cleared his throat. "I took the liberty of securing the brandy, however."
"Well done."
Emma glanced at her father and saw the reproachful look in his eyes. She struggled with her conscience. She was Papa's daughter—her conscience won.
"I suppose I can stay downstairs a few minutes longer and keep Mrs. Graham company. If you'll excuse me, Papa? My lord?"
Emma focused on her father's grateful smile as she followed Mrs. Graham to the blue drawing room.
"May I offer you some brandy, vicar?" Charles showed Reverend Peterson into his study.
"Do I need it, my lord?"
Charles grinned. "I hope not."
"Then, thank you, I will have a glass."
Charles handed Emma's father the brandy and gestured for him to take a seat. Charles stood by the fireplace. Sudden nerves made sitting impossible.
He had not expected to be nervous.
The vicar sipped his drink. Charles felt his eyes studying him.
"I am not going to quiz you on declensions or conjugations, Lord Knightsdale, nor ask you to translate Caesar."
Charles laughed. "No—and a good thing, too. I don't know that I would acquit myself well."
"Nonsense. You were an excellent scholar—when you wanted to be. I understand you did very well at university."
Charles shrugged. He did not mean to be speaking of Latin. He meant to be speaking of Emma.
"Sir, the reason I asked to speak with you . . . Well, I should like to . . ." Charles cleared his throat and started again. "I would like your permission to . . ."
"Yes? Just say it, boy. It can't be that bad."
"I would like to marry your daughter, sir."
Reverend Peterson sat still, an arrested expression on his face. "Emma?"
"Of course, Emma. Meg is much too young."
"Well, she's not really, but I agree, Emma would be a better choice for you. Meg is not interested in any man as far as I can tell. Emma is, if she will only let herself admit it."
"So I have your permission to pay my addresses?"
"Indeed. Though it will be Emma's choice, of course."
"Of course. And I am not ready to ask her yet." "Afraid she'll refuse?"
Charles laughed. "Well, to tell the truth, she has refused, but with time, I think I can bring her about"
Reverend Peterson nodded. "She's worshiped you for years, you know."
"Well, yes, I did know—though I'll tell you she's not acting so worshipful at the moment."
Reverend Peterson sighed. "Emma is not very happy at the moment, Lord Knightsdale, and I fear it is my fault."
"What do you mean, sir?"
It was the vicar's turn to look uncomfortable. He took a large swallow of brandy.
"You know my wife died within a year of Meg's birth. It was a hard labor, and Catherine never completely recovered. I was devastated, as was Emma, of course. She was only nine years old, but she stepped into her mother's shoes. Took charge of Meg and the household. I should never have let her, but it seemed a good thing at the time. It gave her something to do, a purpose, if you will. And I . . ."
The vicar closed his eyes, his mouth tightening as if a spasm of pain had flashed through him.
"Sir, you don't need to—"
Reverend Peterson held up his hand. "No, my lord, I do." He sighed and put his glass on the table by his chair. He clasped his hands, leaning forward, his forearms on his knees. "I had no interest in taking another wife. Emma kept things running smoothly. I could lose myself in my research, my ancient Greek and Latin texts. I was happy—I thought. And I thought Emma and Meg were happy, too."
"I'm certain they were."
"Perhaps. But life goes on. Things change. Not very profound, I know, but very true. Harriet moved to the village after her husband died—she inherited a small cottage here—and when I saw her after services for the first time . . . well, feelings I thought long dead were resurrected. She volunteered to help with the church—not to be forward, you understand, but because she truly enjoys working with flowers and altar cloths and such. She had been very active at her old church, and she found the activity comforting. We became friends—and then our friendship deepened."
"I understand, sir. You needn't go into details that you would rather not."
The vicar laughed, flushing slightly. "Oh, never fear, I won't." He shook his head. "We have kept to the church teachings—barely. And it is getting harder every day. I'm sure you understand."
Charles grinned. "I believe I do."
The vicar grinned back. "So you don't think I'm too old to . . . no, never mind. The point is, I want to marry Harriet—and she wants to marry me. But I know Emma does not like it. I feel I would be betraying her."
"Well, I do have to say she doesn't overly care for Mrs. Graham."
The vicar snorted. "That's an understatement." He ran his hand through his graying hair. "Harriet and I have discussed it, and we really don't understand her reaction. Harriet is as certain as she can be that she never did anything to insult or hurt Emma. In fact, they were friendly—until my interest became apparent."
"How does Meg feel about your marriage? Does she know that you want to wed?"
"Oh, yes. Meg is very different from Emma—well, Meg didn't have to take on all the responsibilities that Emma did. I think Meg doesn't much care, as long as our marriage won't affect her ability to dig in the mud. She's a lot like me in that regard, only my passion is the classics—hers is plants."
Reverend Peterson shifted in his chair. "I've often thought . . . That is, I think . . . Well . . ." Emma's father raised his eyes to stare directly into Charles's. "Now, don't take this the wrong way, young man. I am not advocating you take any liberties with my daughter whatsoever. But I have begun to think that if Emma had more of an idea of what love between a man and a woman was, she might understand my feelings. If she had experienced an . . . attraction . . . for a man, perhaps she would understand how marriage is more than . . . Well, maybe she would understand something about married love. How the love Harriet and I have for each other doesn't threaten the love I have for her and her sister. That I am not betraying her mother or denigrating her efforts all these years. That she will always have a place in my heart as my daughter—she does not need to continue to run my household."
Charles sat down across from the vicar. "Has Emma never had a beau, then?"
"No. I did not lie when I said she worshiped you." The vicar sighed. "Looking back, I should have insisted she have a Season. One of my sisters would gladly have sponsored her. But Emma didn't want to leave Meg—and I didn't want my comfortable routine altered." Bitterness crept into his voice. "I am paying for my selfishness now."
"Now, sir, no self-recriminations, please. I consider you did me a favor, little as we both realized it. I believe Emma and I will suit admirably." Charles grinned. "I just have to convince her of that."
There was really no need for her to be here, Emma thought as Mr. Lambert opened the door to the blue drawing room and she followed Mrs. Graham inside. She would have realized that as soon as Mr. Lambert had said the Society was here, if she had not let guilt cloud her thinking.
"Harriet!" Mrs. Begley raised her teacup as Emma and Mrs. Graham entered the room. "And Miss Peterson. How lovely. Lady Beatrice, have you met Mrs. Graham?"
Emma surveyed the room as Mrs. Begley made the introductions. Mr. Lambert said he had secreted the brandy,
but the ladies were looking suspiciously bright-eyed. The Farthington twins sat together on the settee, giggling, while Miss Russell smiled beatifically at a vase of roses.
"A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Graham." Lady Beatrice was attired in a Pomona green and puce ensemble with plumes in alternating colors, giving the unfortunate impression of a rotting plum. "Would you ladies care for some tea?"
"Yes, thank you," Mrs. Graham said. "Tea would be very pleasant."
Lady Beatrice poured and then reached into her workbasket. She pulled out a bottle of brandy and grinned. "Shall I add a dollop of French cream?"
Mrs. Graham laughed. "Oh, no. I would be asleep before I got to the bottom of the cup."
Emma frowned as she took her tea, also without brandy. "Mr. Lambert said he had put all that away." She bit her lip as soon as the words were out. It wasn't her place to criticize.
Lady Beatrice shrugged and put the bottle back in her basket. "Mr. Lambert may be an excellent butler, but he is no match for me when it comes to deviousness."
"Come, Miss Peterson, don't frown so," Mrs. Begley said. "It's not as if we indulge every day. Why, we didn't take a drop in our tea yesterday, did we, ladies?"
"Not a drop." Miss Esther Farthington shook her head slowly.
"And we've had barely a drop today." Miss Rachel Farthington sighed.
Miss Russell smiled at the roses.
"You worry too much, Miss Peterson, if I may say so." Mrs. Begley pointed her teacup at Emma while the twins nodded. "You are only twenty-six, not sixty-six. You act like an old lady sometimes."
The twins stopped nodding abruptly and their brows snapped into identical frowns.
"Sixty-six is not old." Miss Esther clicked her cup on the table. "We are seventy, and we are not old, Lavinia."
"Indeed not." Miss Rachel waggled her finger. "Eighty-six, that may be old, but sixty-six—never."
Mrs. Begley threw up her hands, almost upsetting her teacup. "My point is, Miss Peterson, you are still single, marriageable, attractive . . ."
With each adjective, the Farthington twins appeared to puff up like angry wrens, feathers ruffled. Mrs. Begley threw them a harried glance.
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