The Naked Marquis. Sally MacKenzieЧитать онлайн книгу.
to hearing crockery shatter as I prepare to enter a room.”
Emma studied her hands clasped in her lap and hoped her cheeks weren’t burning as brightly as she feared.
“I believe I said something with which Miss Peterson disagreed.”
“Really? One wonders what conversational topic could possibly provoke a gently bred young lady to heave the knickknacks about.”
Emma decided that it was past time to flee. “I believe I should be getting back to the girls, my lord, Lady Beatrice. I’m sure they’ve worn Nanny out by now.”
“Don’t go, Miss Peterson,” Lady Beatrice said. “I’ve hardly met you.”
It was not a request. Emma sank back into her chair. “There’s really nothing at all interesting about me, Lady Beatrice.”
Lady Beatrice raised one eyebrow. “That is what I am trying to determine, Miss Peterson.”
“Aunt, leave off. Miss Peterson is kindly filling in while Miss Hodgekiss, Isabelle and Claire’s governess, attends her ailing mother.”
“I see. And she is staying at Knightsdale?” Lady Beatrice paused. Her blue eyes raked Emma from head to toe. “How…convenient.”
Emma sat a little straighter in her chair. Surely the woman could not be insinuating…No, it was impossible. No one had ever accused Emma—no one had ever considered accusing Emma—of anything other than perfectly proper behavior. She must have misunderstood Lady Beatrice’s inflection.
It was hard to misunderstand the hard look in the older woman’s eyes.
“Miss Peterson and I were just becoming reacquainted when you arrived, Aunt.”
“Reacquainted, Charles? So you and Miss Peterson had a…relationship of some sort?”
“No.” Emma hoped she had not shouted the word, but from the way the older woman’s eyebrows shot up, she was afraid she had. She surged to her feet. She was going to leave this room now, whether Charles’s aunt liked it or not. “Lady Beatrice, I can assure you…”
“Please don’t, child.” Lady Beatrice waved a heavily bejeweled hand in her direction. “Sit down. I apologize if I offended you.”
Emma sat but remained on the edge of her seat, ready to leave at the first insult.
“I am not accustomed to such treatment, Lady Beatrice. I hope it will not be repeated.”
Lady Beatrice chuckled. “Got claws, do you? That’s good. So, then, tell me why you threw the”—Lady Beatrice looked over at the shattered pieces on the floor and shrugged—“why you heaved that gewgaw at the door.”
Emma flushed. “It was a dog, Lady Beatrice.”
“Ah.” The older woman rubbed the queen’s ears. “Bess here would probably agree with you—she doesn’t care for dogs herself. I do find it odd you apparently associate with a live version of the creatures, if you despise the beasts so much you feel compelled to rid the world of canine gimcrackery—gimcrackery, I might add, that does not belong to you. You did say Prinny was a dog, did you not?”
“Yes.” Emma looked to Charles for help. The wretch had his hand over his mouth, muffling his laughter. “I didn’t mean to break the figurine.”
“No? What did you mean to do?”
“I was aiming for Lord Knightsdale’s head.”
“Of course. Charles?”
“I merely asked Miss Peterson to wed me. She declined.”
Lady Beatrice blinked. “I see. A simple ‘no’ would not have sufficed?”
“Apparently not.”
Emma wanted to scream—from mortification or frustration, she wasn’t sure which. “Lady Beatrice, I do apologize. I really can’t explain my reaction.”
“Then don’t attempt to, dear. Some things are inexplicable—and others become clear with time. It remains to be seen into which category this little event will fit. You did say you have met before?”
Charles chuckled. “Miss Peterson and I were childhood playmates, Aunt. I saw her again for the first time in years just shortly before you arrived.”
“Years, Charles? How many years?”
Charles shrugged. “A few. At least ten. Probably more like twenty.”
Lady Beatrice stared at Charles. “You haven’t seen Miss Peterson since you were a child and yet you just asked her to marry you?”
Charles shifted his weight and cleared his throat. “Yes.”
Lady Beatrice shook her head. “Miss Peterson, my apologies. I completely understand. Next time I suggest a heavier object at closer range.”
Charles watched the ladies chat. Lambert had brought in tea and cakes—and a saucer of cream for her highness.
“You did say you are staying in the house, didn’t you, Miss Peterson?” Aunt Beatrice helped herself to the largest cake.
“Yes. Miss Hodgekiss left suddenly last week, and I thought it best that I move up here to help Nanny. She is getting on in years.”
“Indeed. And your family can manage without you?”
Emma paused, and Charles leaned forward. Had there been a shadow in her eyes?
“Oh yes. My sister is seventeen, so she no longer needs—nor wants—my daily supervision.”
“Hmm. And I believe your mother died many years ago, didn’t she?” Aunt Bea brushed a few crumbs off her bosom.
“Not long after Meg was born.” Emma smiled, but Charles saw the shadow again. “I raised Meg and kept house, but, well, things change. I can easily afford to teach the girls until Miss Hodgekiss can return.”
Charles watched Emma nibble a piece of cake. She had a nice mouth—a full lower lip, a slightly bowed upper. Kissable lips. He watched the small pink tip of her tongue dart out to capture an errant crumb—and felt heat flood a certain part of his anatomy. He could imagine lovely things for that tongue to do.
“Don’t you agree, Charles?”
“Hmm?” He tore his eyes away from Miss Peterson’s lips to find Aunt Bea staring at him. “I’m sorry, Aunt. I’m afraid I was woolgathering.”
Aunt Bea snorted. “Is that what they call it now? In my day—”
Charles glanced at Emma’s bewildered expression. “Aunt, could you save us all our blushes and just repeat the question?”
Aunt Beatrice glanced at Emma also.
“All right. I was trying to persuade Miss Peterson to join our little house party.”
“An excellent suggestion!” Charles beamed. Trust Aunt Bea to come up with such an inspired notion.
“But Lord Knightsdale, I couldn’t possibly join your guests.”
“Why ever not, Miss Peterson? You would be a lovely addition.”
“But I’m the governess.”
“Pshaw! The temporary governess.” Aunt Bea offered the queen a morsel of cake. Her highness sniffed carefully, then tilted her nose up, rejecting the treat. “Your birth is impeccable—father’s the son of an earl, if I remember correctly.”
“The fourth son of an earl,” Miss Peterson said.
“No matter. Blood’s blue enough.”
Miss Peterson clattered her teacup into its saucer. “Blue enough for what?”
“For the ton, Miss Peterson.” Aunt Bea popped the cake Queen Bess