The Naked Marquis. Sally MacKenzieЧитать онлайн книгу.
“Claire!” The woman frowned. “This is your Uncle Charles, the new Marquis of Knightsdale.”
Charles studied the governess. How did she know who he was? Well, the servants should have been expecting him—he’d sent word that he and Aunt Bea were coming—so it wouldn’t have taken a genius to deduce his identity. But she had not known who he was at first or she would not have ordered him out of the house. She had bottom, he’d grant her that. She’d stood her ground in the face of his bellowing. Many an army private had blanched when on the receiving end of his temper.
She was only a few inches taller than Isabelle, but she did not look at all childlike. Not at all. He jerked his eyes higher to study her face. Dark blond hair, the color of warm honey and even curlier than his; a sprinkling of freckles; golden-brown eyes, fringed with long, dark lashes…
“Runt?” He swallowed a shocked laugh of recognition. Surely this could not be Emma Peterson, the vicar’s daughter, the skinny little waif who used to follow at his heels like a lost puppy? The other boys had taunted him, but he hadn’t had the heart to turn her away. “Your pardon. I mean, Miss Peterson. Surely you are not the girls’ governess?”
“No, my lord. The governess, Miss Hodgekiss, was called home suddenly to care for her sick mother. I am merely filling in while she is gone.”
A delicate flush colored her cheeks. She did not meet his eyes. His gaze sharpened. His gut told him Miss Emma Peterson still harbored a shred of hero worship for him. Interesting. She was an attractive armful. Perhaps she would prove to be the solution to his problem. What if he asked her to marry him? He could certainly do worse. If he got her consent before the bloody house party, he wouldn’t have to spend the next few days running before the matrimonial hounds.
Charles felt Claire tug on his sleeve.
“Miss Hodgekiss is afraid her mum might die.” Big brown eyes stared up at him. “My mum died on a mountain in It-lee.”
“Italy. Your mother and father died in the mountains of Italy.” Charles had to clear his throat. He had never much liked Cecilia, Paul’s wife. He’d thought her beautiful and shallow, like so many of the society misses. He tangled his fingers in Claire’s curls and glanced at Isabelle. The girls did not look grief-stricken. Not surprising. From what his friends the Duke of Alvord and the Earl of Westbrooke had said, Paul and Cecilia had not been doting parents. They’d spent most of their time in London or at someone else’s country estate.
“Are you our papa now?”
“Claire, don’t be a ninny!” Isabelle scowled. “Uncle Charles doesn’t want us. He wants his own family.”
Charles heard Miss Peterson draw in a sudden, sharp breath. He, too, felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut. True, he hadn’t given the girls much thought—hell, he’d thought they were still babes in arms—but that wasn’t at all the same as not wanting them.
“I’m your uncle, Isabelle. Your papa’s brother. So you are my family, and this is your home. Claire is right—I am like a father to you now.”
He smiled, seeing some of the tension leave the older girl’s shoulders. Surely he could be as much a father to his nieces as Paul had been.
“Tell me about your dog—Prinny, did you call him? He doesn’t look much like our Regent.” All Charles could see of the small white and black dog was its stubby tail and hind legs. The rest was wedged between the wall and Great-Uncle Randall’s pedestal. “Hey, sir, get away from there!”
Prinny stopped scrabbling at the base of a pilaster, sneezed, and padded over to investigate Charles’s boots.
“Prinny’s Miss Peterson’s dog, Papa.”
“Claire, dear, Lord Knightsdale is your uncle, not your papa.”
Claire’s lower lip stuck out. “But I don’t want an uncle—I want a papa!”
Charles knelt so his face was level with Claire’s. He saw the uncertainty and fear behind the stubbornness in her eyes. He’d seen those emotions in the eyes of so many children in Spain and Portugal. Claire was the child of a wealthy English family, but she was still a child.
“Some people might get confused if you call me Papa, Lady Claire. And it wouldn’t be nice to forget your own papa, would it?”
Claire’s lower lip trembled; her small arms crossed tightly across her chest. “I want a papa. Why can’t you be my papa? And Miss Peterson can be my mama.”
Charles felt as if he were teetering on the edge of a precipice. One false step and Claire would dissolve in tears.
“What if you call me Uncle Charles in company and Papa Charles in private?”
“In private?”
“When it’s just you and I—and Isabelle and Miss Peterson. Would that be acceptable?”
Claire chewed her bottom lip, then grinned and threw her arms around Charles’s neck. His arms came around her reflexively to keep from being knocked backward.
Claire’s skin was baby soft. Her curls tickled his jaw. Her breath, as she kissed his cheek, smelled of milk and porridge. He felt an odd melting sensation in his chest.
“That would be ’ceptable, Papa Charles,” Claire said, before she turned to hug Prinny.
Ah, so he was not so much different from the dog. Were all children so free with their affection? He glanced at Isabelle. No, he thought not.
“You may call me Papa Charles, too, Isabelle, if you’d like.”
“I am nine, Uncle. I am not a baby anymore.”
“No, indeed.” He wished she were. Her body was too straight, too stiff. She reminded him of his young privates before their first battle. Nine was too young to be all grown up.
“Do you suppose I might borrow Miss Peterson for a while? I should like to have a word with her.”
“Of course,” Isabelle said.
Miss Peterson appeared to be suppressing a smile. Good. He definitely wanted her favorably disposed toward him.
“Isabelle, would you take Claire back up to the nursery?”
“Yes, Miss Peterson.”
“Can we take Prinny with us, Mama Peterson?”
Charles bit his lip to keep from laughing at Miss Peterson’s expression. She clearly was uncomfortable with Claire’s new name for her but did not want to hurt the little girl’s feelings.
“All right, as long as you make sure he doesn’t annoy Nanny.”
“Prinny wouldn’t ’noy Nanny, would you, Prinny?”
The dog yapped twice and licked Claire’s face.
“See, Mama Peterson? Prinny is a very smart dog.”
“Yes, well, he can also be somewhat excitable.”
“Nanny likes Prinny, Miss Peterson,” Isabelle said. “She only pretends to be annoyed by him.”
“I don’t think she was pretending when he knocked over the flowers and soaked her dress, Isabelle.”
“But he didn’t mean to do that.” Claire stroked Prinny’s ear. “He just wanted to smell the big red rose.”
“Just be certain he stays away from Nanny’s flowers this time.”
“Yes, Miss Peterson, we will. Come on, Claire.”
Claire’s high voice carried across the gallery as she skipped toward the stairs. “I think Papa Charles will be a splendid papa, don’t you, Isabelle? He has very nice eyes and his hair is as curly as mine.”
Charles grinned, looking down at Emma. Her cheeks were flushed.
“I