The Naked Marquis

by Sally MacKenzie

  "Good night, Mr. Henderson," he mouthed.

  Henderson shrugged, bowed, and departed.

  "Well, Emma." Charles had meant to say more, but the sight of Miss Emma Peterson in her nightdress with her curly, dark-blond hair frothing over her shoulders took his breath away—as well as most of his rational thought processes. Add the small detail that she was standing between their bedrooms, and it became very hard to focus on anything besides the part of him that was very hard—and what he would most like to do on either or both of the lovely soft beds at their disposal.

  "What, ah, seems to be the problem?"

  Emma raised her arms to push back her hair, making her nightgown pull against her breasts.

  Charles closed his eyes and prayed for self-restraint. And that he wasn't drooling. He rubbed his hand over his face and swallowed.

  "My bonnet is gone, my lord, as well as my hairbrush. I've looked everywhere and I cannot find either."

  Her voice was retreating. He opened his eyes to see her walking toward the fire.

  God, grant him strength. Her lovely, worn, thin nightdress barely obscured her lush form. The fire behind her outlined her wonderful breasts with their dark nipples. Her slender waist, all the more remarkable, placed as it was between such full breasts and hips. Her hips, her thighs, the lovely, dark shadow covering. . .

  A gentleman would tactfully hand the lady her wrapper.

  Gentlemen led exceedingly dull lives.

  "What is the matter with you?" she whispered sharply. Her hands went to her hips, stretching the fabric tighter, giving him an even better view of her glorious body. "You are standing there like a knock in the cradle."

  "Pardon me." Charles averted his eyes from her form—and examined the bed instead. Bad choice. He studied the floor, pausing to ascertain that he was not advertising his attraction too blatantly. Thank God he had put on his dressing gown. Any physical evidence of his admiration was hidden by its generous folds. "My mind has been wanting—um, wandering. My apologies. What is the problem?"

  "My bonnet—someone has stolen my bonnet" Emma stood in front of her open wardrobe and pointed.

  "Are you sure?" Happy to have something to do besides lust after Emma, Charles moved to examine the wardrobe. "Here it is," he said, holding up the bonnet she had worn around the lake.

  "Not that one. The other one."

  "The other one?"

  "The one I wore on our fishing trip."

  Charles blinked. "Miss Peterson, no self-respecting thief would steal your fishing bonnet."

  "Well, it's not here."

  "Perhaps the maid mistakenly thought you had discarded it."

  "Why ever would she think that?"

  "Because you should have discarded it. I believe the most destitute drab in the stews of London would be embarrassed to own that ancient piece of headgear."

  "Well, of all the—"

  "Miss Peterson, did you really think that bonnet was attractive?"

  Emma flushed. Charles could see her struggling between honesty and the honest desire to put him in his place.

  "No," she said finally, "but that doesn't mean I like the idea of someone taking my things."

  "Well, yes, I can see that would be distressing." Charles tried to think. He could smell her now— a heady mix of lavender and lemon and woman. "Did you say there was something else missing?"

  "My hairbrush."

  He frowned. "Was it valuable?"

  "Well, no."

  "Could you have misplaced it?"

  "Where?" Emma gestured at her dressing table. It was completely bare—no chance of the brush going missing on that clean surface.

  "Could it have fallen on the floor?"

  Charles knelt to look under the dressing table.

  Emma leaned close to peer over his shoulder. At least that is what he assumed she was doing. He felt her nightgown brush against his arm and he turned his head.

  Oh . . . God. He was staring directly at the lovely, beautiful, wonderful, unbelievable apex of her legs. Only a thin bit of fabric came between him and the dark, curly hair he could just make out spreading over her . . .

  He swallowed. He tried to remember to breathe— and inhaled the musky scent of her secret place. If he just reached out now, he could clasp her soft, round bottom and bring her to his mouth. He could bury his face in her, then bury another part of him there, too.

  "I don't see it, do you?" Miss Peterson asked.

  "Wha—" Charles sprang out of his crouch and slammed his head against the bottom of the dressing table. He saw stars—and then Emma bent over him and he saw breasts.

  "Where did you hit your poor head? Let me see the back of it."

  She pulled him toward her. If he pretended to lose his balance right now, he would fall face first between the soft, round globes swaying tantalizingly close to his mouth. He could see her lovely, dark nipples rubbing against her nightgown. He knew they would taste sweet, though not as sweet as . . .

  "I'm fine," he croaked, struggling out of her hold. He made certain his dressing gown was firmly closed before he attempted to stand. Frankly, he was surprised that its generous cut was able to cover his tremendous attraction.

  "Are you sure? You look a little . . . odd."

  "No, no." He cleared his throat. "I'm fine. Truly.

  Hard—barely a bump, see?" He touched the top of his head and winced.

  "See, you are hurt." She stretched to touch his head again—that was not the part of him aching the most. He swayed his hips back so as not to impale her on his need. A step or two backward, a careful stumble, and he would land on his back on her bed with her lovely weight on top of him.

  "See, you are in so much pain, you are beginning to perspire."

  He gripped her shoulders and turned her, pushing her ahead of him toward his room. He had to get away from her bed before he ravaged her like the rutting animal he was.

  "I am fine. Miss Peterson. Simply splendid. Couldn't be better."

  "What are you doing?"

  "You need to brush your hair. I am sure I must have a brush you can borrow. In fact, I will even tend to your hair for you."

  It might kill him, but having his hands in her hair—the hair on her head—was a much saner idea than any of the others he was currently entertaining.

  Lord Knightsdale was behaving most peculiarly. Why was he pushing her toward his room? Did he have dishonorable intentions? She should put her foot down—dig her heels in, literally.

  She could not quite bring herself to do so. She really wasn't afraid of him. And she was curious. She wanted to learn what his room looked like—not that it had been his room very long. But still, she wanted to see the place where he was most private. And if she learned one or two other things, well, she was strangely eager to do so. Perhaps Mrs. Begley and Lady Beatrice were right—she worried too much about propriety. She needed to take a few risks.

  She paused on the threshold. The dark, heavy furniture and the blue and gold curtains must be his father's or his brother's choices. Still, there were many masculine touches that could only be Charles's— the cravat pins carelessly tossed on the dresser, the clutter of papers on his bureau, the—

  "Look!" Emma reached under the papers and pulled out her brush. "How did this get here?"

  "I don't know." Charles took the brush from her and examined it. "Pardon me for saying so, but it doesn't look like this would tempt a thief."

  "No, but how did it get in your room? Could someone have been looking through your papers?"

  "And brushing her hair at the same time? Doubtful." Charles shuffled through the things on his bureau. "Looks like everything is in order."

  "In order?"

  He chuckled. "I stand corrected. It looks as though everything is here."

  "Good. Then I'll just take my brush and go back to my room."

  Charles held the brush out of her reach. "I don't think so. I have offered to play your maid, and I am determined to do so."

  Emma's heart st
arted to thump in a most unsettling fashion. "That's ridiculous. I can brush my hair myself."

  "I'm sure you can." Charles sat her at his dressing table and ran his hands through her hair. "However, I will brush it tonight. It is the price you pay for disturbing my evening in the hunt for your missing possessions."

  "I didn't mean to trouble you—"

  Charles laughed. "Oh, Miss Peterson, if you only knew." He started the brush moving through her hair.

  She closed her eyes the better to feel the long sweep of his strokes. He had just the right mix of gentleness and firmness. The bristles massaged her scalp and pulled through her hair, separating, but not pulling it. His broad hands smoothed it off her forehead, off her ear, her neck.

  "You've done this before."

  "Perhaps."

  "You don't have a sister or a wife."

  "You ask too many questions."

  So he had brushed the hair of his ladyloves. The thought took a little of the enjoyment from the experience.

  "Don't frown, sweetheart." She felt his lips on her forehead, and her eyes flew open. He smiled. "Trust me, I haven't done this quite this way before." His voice was oddly husky. "Mmm. No, not this way at all."

  His lips grazed her temple and traveled to her cheek. She made a small sound and instinctively tilted her head. He chuckled and moved to nibble on a sensitive spot just below her ear.

  She inhaled sharply. Her breasts felt so odd. Could her nipples actually be doing whatever it was they were doing? They felt like they were . . . pointing. She was afraid to look in the mirror. And there was a definite dampness between her legs.

  "My lord . . ."

  "Shh, Emma. Don't be afraid. We are only playing. I promise to keep my lips above your shoulders and my hands above your waist, all right?"

  "Uh . . ."

  All thought left her head as Charles's hands found her breasts. "Oh!"

  "Mmm. Lovely. Your breasts are so beautiful, sweetheart. Perfect."

  "But—"

  "Shh. Don't worry. Relax. Doesn't this feel good?"

  Emma certainly could not deny it felt good. Sinfully good. Charles had his hands on her breasts and was massaging them. He cupped them from below, lifting their weight. His fingers stroked their sides. She let her head fall back against his chest. She arched her back, thrusting her breasts higher.

  "That's it, sweetheart. God, you feel so good."

  His lips traced her jaw.

  "Open your eyes, love. Look in the mirror."

  "No . . ." But she did. What she saw was shocking. Her mouth open, her face flushed. His face against hers, the dark stubble of his beard, the brilliant blue of his eyes, heavy now with . . . desire? Was that what the odd light was? And his hands, his fingers, dark against her white nightgown. One finger touched her nipple and she shuddered.

  "Emma." He pulled her up into his arms, flattening her breasts against the hard wall of his chest His hands moved up to cup her jaw, and he opened her lips with his, his tongue surging in to fill her. She had to grab his shoulders or fall. Her body sagged against his.

  His hands slid down her back but stopped at her waist. His mouth traveled down her neck but stopped at her collarbone. She wanted his hands on her bottom, his mouth on her breasts.

  Had she lost her mind?

  She shoved against his shoulders and he loosened his hold.

  "What are you doing to me?" My God, she was panting.

  So was Charles. "What are you doing to me?"

  "You tell me," she said. "You're the one who has been this way before."

  He laughed. "Not exactly." He took a deep breath and grinned. "We are seducing each other, sweetheart. I would love to pick you up right now and carry you over to that delightful bed behind me to continue our explorations. Would you like to do that, too?"

  "No."

  "Liar." He kissed her once more quickly and turned her toward her room. "But you are probably right. You should go back to your own bed—alone."

  Emma almost ran to the door.

  "Do you not trust me, sweetheart? Or is it yourself you doubt?"

  "Good night," she said, pulling the door closed behind her, shutting off Charles's soft laughter.

  "Sleep well," he whispered through the wood.

  Emma touched the door softly, then walked resolutely to her large empty bed.

  She was certain she would not sleep a wink.

  Chapter 10

  Charles stared up at the bed canopy and sighed. It was almost dawn. He would go for a swim. Hell, if he'd taken himself off to the lake last night after Emma had closed the connecting door, he might have cooled his blood enough to have gotten some sleep. As it was, he had tossed and turned all night. His body just could not relax. He took his pillow and put it over his least relaxed body part.

  Well, he must have slept a little because he'd had some splendid dreams. Could there be anything more exquisite than the feel of Emma's large, soft breasts in his hands, their lovely weight resting in his palms? Mmm. Perhaps the taste of her nipples. She had shivered so nicely when he had touched her there—would she scream when he suckled her?

  He closed his eyes, smiling. He'd give anything to cradle those breasts again and to put his face between them. To run his hands over her well-turned ankles, up her shapely legs, her milky thighs to the lovely dark thatch that had tempted him last night. To kiss her there . . .

  He shoved the pillow down. It was most definitely time for a trip to the lake.

  He swung his legs out of bed and grabbed his breeches. He yanked them on, buttoned them securely, and pulled a shirt over his head.

  If only he were not a gentleman, he could have had Emma in his bed last night. It would have been so easy. A few more kisses. A few more touches. If he had let his hands—and his mouth—wander lower. . . . He closed his eyes, imagining her silky wetness, her sweet taste.

  He could have brought her fulfillment without taking her virginity. It would have been his pleasure.

  And maybe he could have taught her to bring him pleasure.

  He hoped the lake was very cold indeed.

  He let himself out of his room and moved quietly down the corridor. He didn't want to wake anyone— he didn't want anyone speculating why the marquis was moving about at this ungodly hour, an hour that could have been spent so delightfully in a warm bed with Emma.

  Why was she fighting him? She certainly appeared to enjoy his touch. Was she afraid? Was that why she would not agree to wed him?

  He would have to coax her out of her virgin nerves.

  He would tease her a little. Tempt her. Brush up against her, stand close to her, touch her lightly when they spoke. Make her burn for him so her fears would burn away. He grinned. And he was certain he could misplace any manner of small objects in her room.

  How had her brush ended up among his papers? He shrugged. It was odd . . . but he wasn't complaining. Not at all. He hoped for many more such odd occurrences.

  * * *

  Emma pulled her brush through her hair—and remembered Charles's hands doing the same task. Well, it wasn't a task when he did it, it was . . . She didn't know what it was. Indescribable. The feel of his hands tangling in her curls, his broad palms smoothing her skin, his fingers touching her . . . She swallowed.

  She put the brush down and hid her burning cheeks in her hands. He had had his fingers on her breasts. On her nip—No, she couldn't even think it. But she could feel it. Her body pulsed with the memory.

  At least he had not touched her bare skin. At least she had had her nightgown on.

  What if she had not had it on? What would his fingers have felt like on her skin?

  She tried to take a deep breath as she fanned herself with her hand.

  She had spent all night twisting in her sheets. She could not get comfortable. Her body felt too . . . sensitive. She wanted that connecting door to open and Charles to come in and finish what he had begun. Whatever the finish might be.

  Mr. Stockley had spoken of urges. Emma
giggled with a touch of hysteria. These feelings were more than urges. They were a fever, an illness—a madness. And her cure was just on the other side of the connecting door.

  What if she opened that door and said yes, she would marry him, if he would put out the fires he had set in her veins?

  She thought he would be happy to oblige.

  Would that be so terrible? She suspected that children resulted from such activity. She would like children. He needed an heir. They would both be happy.

  And then he would go off to London.

  Was a woman impregnated the first time the man did whatever he did? Would they perhaps have to try the procedure more than once? Many times? Maybe if Charles enjoyed the efforts enough, he would stay at Knightsdale, at least for a while. The girls would like that.

  But would she?

  What of love?

  She threw her brush down on the dressing table. She was so confused. She needed to clear her thoughts. She would take Prinny out for an early-morning walk. Then Isabelle could sleep in if she wanted. Emma certainly wasn't sleeping.

  She got dressed, took her good bonnet, and quietly made her way down the hall. Prinny had decided he much preferred staying with the girls. Emma suspected Claire was charming Cook out of a few choice bones and smuggling them up to her room.

  She found Prinny on Claire's bed.

  "Prinny?" she whispered. Prinny's ears twitched and his head popped up.

  "Come on, let's go for a walk."

  Prinny's toenails clicked over the floor, but Claire didn't stir.

  Emma put, him on a lead until they were free of the house and he had expended a small portion of his energy. Then she decided she would risk losing him over having her arm dislocated. He tore off ahead of her in pursuit of a squirrel.

  Was Meg out on the estate somewhere, collecting specimens? She often got up early to go plant hunting.

  Emma paused on the broad greensward and looked back at the house. The sun was just lighting its sandstone walls and glinting off the windows. She had always liked its orderly facade best of the great houses in the neighborhood—Westbrooke had been added to so haphazardly over the centuries that it was now an architectural mishmash; Alvord, a castle, gave her a closed-in feeling.