The Naked Marquis

by Sally MacKenzie

  "Yes. Thank you. I'm sure I understand now."

  Mrs. Begley leaned forward. "But do you understand this is your best chance? Maybe your only chance? I don't mean to be rude, Miss Peterson, but thirty-year-old women—"

  "Twenty-six!"

  Mrs. Begley waved her hand dismissively. " Twenty-six-year-old women, if you will, are quite firmly on the shelf. Few, if any, men are interested in shopping there when they can have their pick of the new crop of fresh, young maidens. I mean, what exactly are you saving yourself for?"

  Emma took an agitated turn around the garden. If she saw another member of the Society for the Betterment of Women, she would run away screaming. She turned a corner and spotted Lady Beatrice. Fortunately, Charles's aunt had not seen her. Emma ducked back behind a rose bush.

  "Miss Peterson."

  She turned to see where the whisper had come from. The voice didn't sound like it belonged to one of the Society ladies.

  "Over here, Miss Peterson."

  The Duchess of Alvord was sitting on a bench under a tree and waving. She laughed as Emma reached her.

  "Whom are you hiding from?"

  Emma smiled. "Lady Beatrice."

  "Ah. Well, sit here beside me. We shall pretend to be in close conversation. If she comes our way, I'm certain she will be too polite to interrupt."

  Emma was not certain of that at all, but, fortunately, Lady Beatrice did not come their way.

  "If you don't mind my asking, Miss Peterson, why are you hiding from Lady Beatrice?"

  "I'm afraid she is going to tell me why I should marry her nephew." Emma flushed. "I must sound very conceited, but I've had four other ladies corner me today to give me that message, so I expected I would hear the same thing from Lord Knightsdale's aunt."

  "Interesting. And you do not want to marry Charles?"

  Emma studied the duchess's face. Here was a woman—a young woman—who surely would understand. She was obviously completely in love with her husband—and the duke was wildly enamored of his wife.

  "Lord Knightsdale doesn't love me."

  "Oh." The duchess blinked. "Has he told you so?"

  "No, but it's obvious, isn't it?"

  "Not to me. In fact, I do think James said Charles was rather interested in you."

  Emma shook her head. "Oh, he wants a wife—he needs one, now that he is the marquis. And I'm convenient. That's all it is."

  "Are you certain? I have noticed his eyes follow you when you are in the room with him."

  Emma blushed, her heart suddenly pounding. "Surely you imagine it!"

  "No, I don't think so." The duchess smiled. "Has he shown you any marked attention? Has he sought you out in private? Has he perhaps kissed you?" She laughed. "Don't feel you need to answer those questions aloud. I am not so bold as to pry into your personal life."

  Emma smoothed her dress over her lap. Mr. Stockley had kissed her, and he definitely did not love her. Lusted after her, perhaps, but love? No. Why would Charles's interest be any different?

  Well, Charles had offered marriage.

  This was exceedingly embarrassing, but she desperately needed to get some answers. She forced herself to confide in the duchess.

  "Lord Knightsdale has, um, been somewhat particular in his attentions, so much so that I, I. . ." How could she say it? The duchess sat quietly, waiting. Emma reminded herself she needed advice. "I. . . I asked him if he loved me, and he . . ."

  ". . . he said no?" The duchess sounded appalled. "But you just told me that he had not said he didn't love you."

  "No! Yes. I don't know. He didn't actually say he didn't love me, he just sat there and stared at me, mouth agape like a, a great cod!" Emma sniffed. She was shocked to feel tears trickling down her cheeks. She swiped at them with the back of her hand and bit her lip, but a hiccup escaped anyway.

  She wanted to cover her face and wail. She felt as young . . . as lost. . . as if she were Claire's age.

  "He said he liked me very much, that of course he cared for me. He went on and on, getting more and more tangled in his words." She swallowed, her face burning. "I think he just. . . lusts for me," she whispered.

  "Miss Peterson—Emma." The duchess patted Emma's knee. "Please, it is not so bad. Actually, I think it is quite good. Here, dry your eyes."

  Emma took the handkerchief the duchess offered— something had happened to her own—and sat back. She sniffed and hiccupped again.

  '"Where did this conversation take place?"

  Emma blushed. "In my room."

  'Your bedchamber?"

  'Yes. It's shocking, I know, but. . ."

  "No, no. I'm not shocked. It is quite all right." The duchess smiled. "I met my husband in an inn bedchamber. In bed. Naked."

  Emma gaped. The duchess was an American. Perhaps . . . no, she could not imagine that American customs could be that different.

  The duchess laughed. "It was rather a comedy of errors that led to that situation, and it took us quite a while to sort everything out, but I do believe—well, I'm actually happy to say—that James lusted after me from the very first moment he saw me." She blushed. "And he saw quite a lot of me. And I lusted after him, too. A little—or a lot of—lust is a very good thing, as long as it leads to marriage, of course."

  "Lust is good?" Emma had never heard her father preach that sermon.

  'Yes, I believe so, if by lust we mean strong physical attraction. Marriage is a very physical relationship, you know."

  "Oh." Emma did not remember her own parents' marriage—she had been too young when her mother died—but Mrs. Begley had alluded to kissing and, and something earlier. And certainly her encounters with Charles had been extremely physical. Emma flushed, remembering their highly physical encounter by the lake.

  "Yes, indeed. Without the physical component, there would be no babies." The duchess grinned, putting her hand over her stomach. The thing to keep in mind, Emma, is that men are often uncomfortable with words. They are much better with actions."

  "I don't understand."

  "Well, what I mean is, men and women are different. Not that I presume to be an expert, of course, but I have given the matter some thought recently."

  "I see." Emma swallowed her disappointment. She had hoped to find answers and instead got platitudes.

  The duchess laughed. "No, I am not a complete widgeon. Of course men look different, but what many women never comprehend is that they really are different."

  "I still don't understand."

  "Of course you don't. It's a difficult concept to grasp. I spent weeks—months—at cross-purposes with James because I didn't understand that." She smiled. "Well, I was also trying to divine the thought processes of an English peer—quite a challenge for an American republican, I assure you. I will never understand the British system of primogeniture or . . . well, that's not the point, is it?"

  She leaned closer. "Men don't think the way we do, Emma. For example, suppose another woman ignored you after church. I don't mean she gave you the cut direct—nothing so obvious as that. She just didn't greet you. What would you think?"

  Emma frowned. "I suppose I might wonder if I had offended her in some way."

  "Exactly. You might think about it and worry about it, wondering what you had done."

  "Yes, I suppose I might."

  The duchess nodded. "Women analyze every emotion, study every action, always expecting there to be some meaning to deduce. Men don't. I'm convinced of it If a man ignored James—not that anyone would— the toadying he has to put up with . . ." She sighed and shook her head. "Anyway, if a man ignored James, James would simply assume the fellow hadn't seen him." She smiled. "It's quite refreshing, actually— makes life so much simpler."

  Emma frowned. "I'm afraid I still don't see what that has to do with Charles."

  "When you asked Charles if he loved you, Emma, you asked him to analyze what he felt for you. He probably didn't know the answer because he had never asked the question. He just knew he wanted you." The duch
ess grinned. "I assume you weren't just sitting primly in separate chairs having this conversation in your bedchamber?"

  Emma blushed furiously. "Well, no. . . but then how can you tell if it's love or lust a man feels for you?"

  "Emma, you are still thinking like a woman. There's probably not a difference in Charles's mind at the moment. Once he has satisfied the worst of his lust, he'll be able to realize that he loves you. Right now, he's not thinking with his head so much as"—the duchess blushed—"something else."

  "Something else?"

  "I am most certain Charles will be delighted to tell you all about that. I am not quite bold enough to attempt it."

  "Sarah."

  The duchess turned, and a broad smile lit her face. "Over here, James."

  Emma watched the duke approach. He, too, was smiling, and his face had the softened expression it got only when he looked at his duchess. But this time Emma noticed something else as well.

  The duke's eyes held a familiar glint. She had seen it in Charles's eyes when he looked at her.

  Chapter 12

  Charles sat in his study, surrounded by mountains of papers. He definitely needed a secretary. He'd swear there were more papers now than the last time he'd sat here. Were they breeding?

  Breeding. He sat back in his chair, his hands linked behind his head. How he would love to be busy breeding little Draysmiths with Emma. She had been exquisite by the lake. So responsive. He had almost spilled his seed in his breeches just watching her innocent passion.

  He was dying to touch her without layers of clothing between them. To feel her skin against his— everywhere. To put himself inside her . . .

  He shifted in his chair. The throbbing anticipation was almost unbearable.

  God, when she'd come against his hand—it had been heaven. Well, purgatory, really. Heaven would be coming with her, in her, on a lovely, soft bed.

  He had not handled the time in her room well, though. He frowned, rocking forward to put his elbows on his desk, running his hands through his hair. He had done fine until the end, until she had asked if he loved her. He should have anticipated that question, but he had not.

  It had been a question he had scrupulously avoided for so many years.

  Why did women have to talk of love? When he was younger, many of his bedmates had ended their sessions with that question—did he love them? It had ruined a perfectly satisfactory coupling. He had felt trapped. They all wanted something from him— a promise, a pretty bauble—something. The country girls wanted a few extra coins; the widows, a marriage proposal.

  They all wanted to own a piece of him, if only a piece of his heart. He would not give it. He wanted no ties. He liked his freedom too much.

  He learned to play only with professionals, women who understood that everything between them was strictly physical—well, and financial, of course. Women who understood the rules. Emotion, beyond satisfaction and perhaps some friendship, did not enter into bed play.

  But this wasn't bed play, was it? This was marriage. Family. Children. A line to continue.

  Odd. Since he'd taken such a distinct interest in Emma, the title didn't weigh on him anymore. The crushing depression he'd always felt when he thought of being tied to Knightsdale was gone. Instead he felt. . . anticipation.

  Because of Emma.

  If that anonymous Italian thief had not shot Paul and Cecilia in the Italian Alps, sending their carriage splintering down the mountainside, he would not have come back to Knightsdale and found Emma Peterson all grown up. That—not knowing a treasure such as Emma lived in Kent—would have been the tragedy of his life. If his brother appeared on the doorstep today, he would be happy to see him. He would gladly hand back all his duties and leave, but he would take Emma with him, if he could. Well, and he would share with Paul his thoughts concerning the proper upbringing of young girls before he left.

  Did he love Emma? If love was this consuming need that hummed through him every moment of the day and night—especially the night—and almost overwhelmed him whenever he was near her—yes, he loved her. He had to have her in his bed—not just once but every day. Several times a day. In several different ways. His lips slid into a slow smile. He would so enjoy teaching her the pleasures of the marriage bed.

  And he would learn a few pleasures himself. He could bury himself in her and let his seed flow into her womb with no need for a condom or withdrawal. She was a virgin and fertile. He was supposed to give her children.

  He wanted to watch her grow round and heavy with his babes. He wanted to watch them nurse at her breast. He wanted to raise Isabelle and Claire with her. He wanted to wake with her head on the pillow by his every morning. He wanted to grow old and wrinkled with her, to know her body as well or better than his own.

  He grinned. Yes, he loved her.

  He would tell her, and then he would give her the Knightsdale betrothal ring. He would get it now. It was in the safe here in the study. The thief had not stolen it—it had still been on Cecilia's finger when her body had been returned to England.

  He frowned. The solicitor had not been able to tell him what exactly had been stolen, yet the man had insisted an Italian thief had caused the deaths. Paul, Cecilia, all their servants had been killed. There were no witnesses. Crandt, the solicitor, had relied on Italian investigators who had examined the accident scene. All the baggage had been torn apart as if the thief were searching for something. Even the coaches' seats—those that had survived the fall off the mountain—had been slashed and the padding ripped out.

  Why? Had Paul turned smuggler? Was he carrying state secrets? Charles had not been able to discover anything in London. He had given up trying. What was the purpose? Paul was dead.

  He opened the safe. All the family jewels were there. Well, maybe not all. He chuckled as he took out the betrothal ring and slipped it in his pocket. The summer he was seven—it was before Emma moved to Knightsdale—Great-Uncle Randall had come to visit. He and Paul had pretended the man was a pirate. They'd spent the summer digging around the estate, searching for hidden jewels and gold doubloons. Great-Uncle Randall had probably laughed himself silly when he'd been sober enough to notice.

  He closed the safe. Still, it might have been true. Randall had a raffish quality to him. The sculptor who had fashioned the bust of him that summer had captured it well.

  Charles grinned as he left the study. Perhaps he would tell the girls the story. He would wager Claire would love to go treasure hunting.

  Every time Emma looked at Charles during dinner, he was looking back at her. It was extremely disconcerting. She pushed a French bean around her plate and tried to listen to Squire Begley discuss his hunting dogs. She couldn't look at him without recalling his wife's conversation earlier. She couldn't look at his waist without blushing. She kept her attention firmly on his face. His lips. The Squire and Mrs. Begley kissing? And snuggling, whatever that meant. It couldn't mean what Charles had done with her, could it?

  Emma scooted her bean under a cabbage leaf. She had quite lost interest in eating.

  She turned to address a question to Mr. Frampton on her other side. Mr. Frampton responded enthusiastically, displaying a significant quantity of masticated mutton for her inspection. She returned her attention to her French beans.

  Could the Duchess of Alvord be correct? Was it possible that Charles did care for her?

  She glanced at him again. He was listening to Lady Haverford, his head tilted politely toward the older woman, but when he noticed Emma looking at him, he gave her a slow smile that caused the most amazing creases in his right cheek.

  Oh, my. Emma's eyes retreated to her plate once more. She was eager for the next course, if only so she'd have a change in scenery.

  Charles had that glint in his clear blue eyes again. And that . . . focused look, as if there were no one else in the room but her—as if, for that instant, Lady Haverford had ceased to exist.

  "Gentlemen," Lady Beatrice said as the sweets were set on the ta
ble, "I propose you dispense with your port this evening and join us ladies in the drawing room immediately after dinner for a game of charades."

  This announcement was met with groans from all sides of the table.

  "Not charades, Lady Bea," the Earl of Westbrooke said. "Have pity, please."

  The Duke of Alvord laughed. "Now, Westbrooke, I'd wager there's a frustrated actor somewhere in that soul of yours."

  "Well, you'd lose, Alvord. I hate acting, and I hate guessing even more."

  "Aunt," Charles said, "our goal is to entertain, not torture our guests."

  "Well, I love charades, Lady Beatrice." Miss Pelham leaned forward to address Charles's aunt at the other end of the table. "I'm quite good at them, so I would be happy to be on Lord Westbrooke's team." The young lady batted her eyelashes furiously in Lord Westbrooke's direction.

  Lord Westbrooke's face assumed a hunted expression.

  Emma glanced at Meg, who rolled her eyes and tilted her head, gesturing up the table to Lady Elizabeth. Lizzie, brows furrowed, mouth in a tight line, was scowling at Miss Pelham.

  "We'll play, won't we, Rachel?" Miss Esther Farthington chirped from Mr. Maxwell's left.

  "Indeed yes, but only if we are on different teams," Miss Rachel said from Mr. Maxwell's right.

  Mr. Maxwell continued working his way through the sweet tray some unwary footman had set within the old man's reach.

  "We fight when we are on the same team," Miss Esther confided to the table at large.

  "Can't agree on anything."

  "Argue terribly."

  "Much better to separate us."

  The Farthington twins smiled genially—and identically—at the company. The company goggled back.

  'Yes, well," Lady Beatrice said, breaking the stupefied silence, "if everyone is quite finished here, we should adjourn to the drawing room. Mr. Maxwell, Mr. Maxwell," Lady Beatrice shouted in an attempt to get the man's attention. "We are going to do charades now."