The Naked Marquis. Sally MacKenzieЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Charles untied his cravat. He had finally poured Aunt Bea into bed—well, he had turned her over to her long-suffering maid to deal with—and had found his own bedchamber.

      “That will be all, Henderson. I won’t need you anymore tonight.”

      “Very well, my lord.”

      He watched the door close behind his valet. He wanted to be alone. Needed to be. Needed to come to grips with…this.

      He looked around the room at the dark paintings, the heavy furniture, the huge bed. God. He gripped the bedpost so tightly, the carved ridges dug into his fingers. He shouldn’t be here. This was his father’s room. Paul’s room. It was never, ever supposed to be his room.

      Poor Paul, having to move in here when he was only fourteen. Father had died of impatience in an inn yard, screaming at a post boy who’d moved too slowly for his tastes. The innkeeper had been most apologetic, but Charles had understood completely. He’d made avoiding his father’s short temper and sharp tongue a high art. It was one reason he’d roamed the countryside so much.

      And he’d been only the second son, hardly worth Father’s notice. Paul had borne the brunt of the marquis’s attention.

      But at least Paul had been ready for the title. Well, not ready, perhaps—who could be ready to take over such vast holdings so young? But Paul had been bred to the job—he had known from the cradle he would be the marquis. It was Paul’s fate, Paul’s destiny. Not his.

      He stripped off his shirt and flung it across the room.

      He remembered that afternoon at White’s as if it were yesterday. He’d been sitting with Robbie, the Earl of Westbrooke. They’d been celebrating their small role in bringing together their friend James, the Duke of Alvord, and his wife, Sarah. Charles had been rolling a mouthful of port on his tongue when the messenger found them.

      “Major Charles Draysmith?”

      Dread knotted his gut. He knew from the man’s stern, serious face and solemn tone that his life was about to change irreversibly. He swallowed quickly.

      “Yes? I am Major Draysmith.”

      “I am sorry to inform you, Major, that the Marquis of Knightsdale and the marchioness have had a tragic accident.”

      Damn, damn, damn. He flung away from the bed to stare out the window at the dark expanse that was Knightsdale. There was no moon; the clouds were as thick as his feelings.

      In that moment, when that damn messenger had told him Paul was dead, he had stopped being himself. His plans, his future, his identity all were stripped from him. He’d become the Marquis of Knightsdale. All that remained were the legal details. The heretofores and thereinafters.

      He snapped the curtains closed. He ripped off his stockings, his breeches, his drawers. He would have liked to have ripped off his skin. Escape this room, the title, all the unwanted responsibilities.

      He couldn’t. Knightsdale was his duty now—unsought, unwanted, but still his duty. If the army had taught him anything, if the years of mud and blood had imprinted anything on his soul, it was duty. It had become his one constant in the madness of battle, the long marches, the days of hunger, thirst, exhaustion. Duty had carried him through the Peninsula, and it would carry him through here in England, too.

      Unbidden, the memory of Claire crept into his thoughts, the sounds of her happy squeals when he had picked her up in the schoolroom, the feel of her baby-soft arms around his neck and her small body, light as feathers, in his hold.

      Well, perhaps it was more than duty.

      He stretched. And there was Miss Emma Peterson. Bedding her would certainly be more than mere duty. He imagined her stretched out, naked, on his sheets. Yes, she would definitely make this room, this bed, more appealing. He chuckled. At least one unruly part of his anatomy was quite inspired by the thought of her lovely curves.

      He climbed into bed, forcing his…mind to ignore its desire to have Miss Peterson present. She might not be quite so delighted to see him.

      He should have gone to her immediately after dinner to apologize, but he suspected she would not have been happy to speak to him just then. She’d needed time to regain her composure. Truth to tell, so had he. It was going to be a very interesting house party if Aunt Bea remained so frank. He made a mental note to lock up all the brandy.

      He would talk to Emma in the morning, before the guests arrived. She was an intelligent woman. She would see the wisdom in their marriage. It was obvious she cared for Claire and Isabelle. Well, anyone would love Claire—she was a sweet baby. Isabelle, with her serious reserve, was harder to reach, yet she had been sitting close to Emma, leaning into her and whispering in her ear when he had come to the schoolroom earlier.

      And their marriage would have benefits for Emma as well. Charles smiled up at the bed canopy. Though Reverend Peterson hadn’t said a word, Charles was certain he and Mrs. Graham would be happy to have Emma out of the vicarage.

      She was twenty-six. It was past time for her to have her own home, her own family—and he was more than happy to provide her with those things. More than happy. He would especially enjoy teaching her how delightful an activity family-making could be.

      If her response to his kisses this afternoon was any indication, it would be quite an invigorating exercise.