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The Naked Marquis. Sally MacKenzieЧитать онлайн книгу.

The Naked Marquis - Sally MacKenzie


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would react to that statement. But it was true. He hadn’t thought of her in years, yet to see her now, to have her standing just inches from him…Perhaps it was the contrast—his memories of her as a little girl with her very grown-up figure. Whatever it was, it was distinctly erotic. He shifted position, turning away from her slightly to hide his reaction.

      It was the perfect solution to his problem. Neither of them would be inconvenienced. It was not as if he had to spend a vast quantity of time with her. He had no desire to live at Knightsdale. He’d find something useful to do in Town and just come down from time to time to work on his responsibility to sire an heir.

      Yes, he’d come down to take her to bed. To strip that ugly frock off her lovely body. To bury his face in her soft, shapely breasts. To…

      He turned abruptly to the desk. His breeches were getting distinctly uncomfortable.

      “What could be better, Miss Peterson? You don’t have a beau, do you?”

      “Well, no, but…”

      “And pardon me for saying so, but you are a bit past the usual age for marriage, are you not? As I remember, you are twenty-six, four years younger than I.”

      “Yes…”

      Charles glanced at her, noting her heightened color and heaving bosom. Especially her heaving bosom. He jerked his eyes up to meet hers. Behind her spectacles, gold sparks smoldered under deeply furrowed brows.

      Perhaps he should not have pointed out that she was firmly on the shelf, but surely it must be a factor in her decision. It was unlikely she would have a better offer—or indeed, any other offer.

      “I don’t intend to be in your way, you know. I’ll spend most of my time in Town. You’ll only have to put up with my occasional visits.”

      “Why bother to visit at all? You’ve been able to keep yourself away all these years.”

      Charles coughed into his hand. Surely she saw the obvious? He looked at her again. Her arms were tightly crossed under her glorious breasts. She lifted one of her brows. How could he not have noticed before how delightfully they flew up at one end? Or how kissable her mouth was, even drawn into a tight line as it was now.

      Would it soften if he put his lips over it?

      “There is the matter of an heir.”

      “What?” Both eyebrows flew up and then slammed back down. “What do you mean, exactly?”

      The ice in her words was an interesting counterpoint to the fire in her eyes. Charles realized retreat was probably advisable, but he had gone too far into enemy territory. He had to brazen it out now.

      “An heir. I’ll need one, now that I am the marquis. And I can’t very well get one if I’m in London and my wife’s in Kent, can I?”

      He ducked as a small china dog flew by his ear and shattered on the study door.

      CHAPTER 2

      “Am I interrupting?”

      Three orange plumes poked cautiously around the door, followed by gray sausage ringlets and a very round face with Charles’s clear blue eyes.

      “Not at all, Aunt Bea. Please come in.”

      Emma blinked and adjusted her spectacles, her haze of anger replaced by an equally fiery sight—the rotund form of Charles’s Aunt Beatrice, stunningly attired in a dress of broad red and orange stripes, its neck cut so low Emma feared the woman’s sizable breasts would escape the confines of her bodice. A necklace of diamonds and rubies glittered on the vast expanse of her chest.

      “Are you going to introduce me to your companion, Charles?” Lady Beatrice pushed aside the china fragments with her foot and raised her lorgnette. Two enlarged eyes inspected Emma.

      “Certainly, Aunt. This is Miss Emma Peterson, the vicar’s daughter. Miss Peterson, my aunt, Lady Beatrice.”

      “Lady Beatrice.” Emma curtsied. “I’m pleased to—oh!”

      Emma gasped and jumped to one side. Something had brushed her ankle.

      Lady Beatrice laughed, a rich, musical sound that seemed to come from deep inside her.

      “Don’t be distressed, my dear. It’s only Queen Bess.”

      A large orange cat leapt onto the chair by Emma and curled up to fill the seat. It looked like an oversized muff—an angry, oversized muff, Emma thought, noting how the cat glared at her before turning to clean her paws.

      Charles laughed. “I’m not certain Prinny will approve of the queen, Aunt.”

      “Don’t tell me you’ve invited that fat fool, Charles. He most definitely was not on my guest list.”

      “Nor is he on mine. No, I mean Miss Peterson’s dog.”

      “You have a dog named Prinny, Miss Peterson? Splendid!”

      “He’s actually my sister’s dog, Lady Beatrice.”

      “Ah. Well, then, I look forward to meeting your sister.” Lady Beatrice moved farther into the room. “Is there a reason we are standing, Charles? Some infestation in the furniture, perhaps? Not lice, I hope? Or fleas? Poor Bess does hate fleas.”

      “As far as I know you—and your cat—don’t have to fear the furnishings. Can’t speak with complete authority, of course—I just got here myself. I was waiting for Miss Peterson to sit, but she has been disinclined to do so.”

      “Oh, well, I am not so disinclined—though I did just sit all the way from London. Now that you’re the marquis, Charles, you’ll have to see to the carriages. Thought my teeth were going to be rattled from my mouth—I swear I felt every rock on the road.”

      Lady Beatrice settled gracefully on the settee, quite a feat, Emma thought, for someone of her impressive girth.

      “Come, Miss Peterson, take a seat, do. You’ll give me neck strain if you don’t, and I’m sure poor Charles here needs to take the weight off his feet. Bess will move for you, won’t you, sweets?”

      The queen paused in her ablutions long enough to look in Lady Beatrice’s direction, then went back to applying her tongue to the area under her tail. Emma averted her eyes.

      “Just give her a little push, Miss Peterson,” Lady Beatrice said. “Bess is sometimes a mite stubborn.”

      Just like the Thames is a mite wet, Emma thought. Queen Bess did not look eager to move. Emma certainly was not eager to get her hand clawed.

      “Allow me.” Charles’s arm brushed hers as he reached for the cat. She felt the accidental contact as if a shock had passed between them. He was so close, she could feel the heat of his body and inhale his clean, male scent of soap, leather, and linen. She watched his broad, capable hands gently scoop under the cat’s middle, and remembered the feel of his palm and fingers.

      She hoped he didn’t hear her sudden, sharp intake of breath or notice the way her body stilled. She stepped back so quickly her heel caught on her hem and she had to steady herself on the edge of the desk. When she looked back at him, he was delivering Queen Bess to his aunt’s waiting lap.

      His aunt’s eyes were firmly fixed on Emma. Emma swallowed a nervous giggle. Lady Beatrice glared in much the same way as her cat.

      “Thank you, Charles. He is quite the hero, isn’t he, Miss Peterson?”

      Emma smiled slightly and edged back to the now-vacant chair. She tried surreptitiously to brush off the orange cat hairs before she sat. She glanced at Charles. He bowed and grinned.

      “I try my humble best, Aunt, to save damsels in distress from dragons—and tabbies of all descriptions.”

      “Hmm.” Lady Beatrice stroked her cat and studied Charles. Emma tried not to fidget when the woman’s eyes examined her. “Does this damsel


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