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The Naked Marquis. Sally MacKenzieЧитать онлайн книгу.

The Naked Marquis - Sally MacKenzie


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me go to London. I suppose we could have gotten one of his sisters to sponsor me, but it didn’t seem worth the trouble.”

      Aunt Bea nodded, her plumes bobbing. “Lady Gromwell, the countess, and Lady Fanning, the baroness. Perfectly acceptable.” She reached for another cake. “You did say your sister is seventeen? Did she also decline a trip to Town?”

      “Yes. Father offered her the opportunity. Lady Elizabeth, the Duke of Alvord’s sister, was making her bows—Meg could easily have gone up with her.” Miss Peterson sighed, shrugging slightly. “Meg isn’t interested in gowns and furbelows, I’m afraid. She’d much rather be out mucking around in the fields, looking for plants to add to her collection.”

      She paused, gazing into her teacup. Charles saw the shadow in her expression again. Her mouth tightened.

      “And things were a little…unsettled at home.”

      What was bothering the girl? He wanted to see only laughter in her eyes—or sparks of anger and passion—not sadness.

      “Sounds as if your sister could stand a little polishing, Miss Peterson,” Aunt Bea said. “I suggest we include her in the house party, Charles. It will be a perfect opportunity for her to ease into the ton.”

      “A splendid idea, Aunt. And Miss Peterson will be here to show her the way of it.”

      “Lady Beatrice, I don’t think…”

      “No, we insist—don’t we, Charles?”

      “Definitely. I will escort you home today, Miss Peterson, to present the invitation in person.”

      “But…”

      “Come, Miss Peterson,” Aunt Bea said. “I’m certain your father cannot object. He must be happy to see his daughter—his daughters—acquire some social polish.”

      Miss Peterson abandoned her teacup and sat up, her nostrils flaring, fire back in her eyes. “Lady Beatrice…”

      Aunt held up her hand. “Now, Miss Peterson, don’t be tiresome. What possible objection can you have to a little enjoyment? Some cards, a picnic or two, a ball? All unexceptionable pursuits.”

      Miss Peterson’s chin jutted out much like Claire’s. “I will need to attend to the girls.”

      “Of course, but not every instant of the day, surely. Nanny can keep an eye on them in the schoolroom, can’t she?” Aunt Beatrice looked at Charles.

      “Certainly.” He grinned. “She’s looking after them at the moment, in fact. And it’s not as if they are babies. Isabelle struck me as very responsible.”

      “Too responsible,” Miss Peterson said. “And she needs to keep up with her lessons.”

      “Which she shall.” Charles saw victory within his grasp. “I shall visit the schoolroom and assist, as long as you don’t want me to instruct in watercolors. I can’t paint—or draw—at all.”

      “Umm…”

      “It’s decided, then.” Aunt Bea snagged the last cake. “Go get your bonnet, Miss Peterson, and Charles will drive you over now.”

      “But…”

      Aunt Bea made shooing motions with her hands. Miss Peterson looked at Charles. He chuckled at the confused mix of frustration, anger, and resignation on her face. And anticipation? Surely there was a glimmer of anticipation as well? He suspected it had been a long time since Miss Peterson had let herself have any fun. Maybe she had never allowed herself pleasure.

      Charles was determined to change that. He found he would dearly love to give her pleasure. Glorious pleasure. Hot, sweaty pleasure. Late night and early morning pleasure.

      He watched her lovely derriere swish as she stalked out of the room.

      “Settled on her, have you?”

      Charles shrugged, turning back to his aunt. “You’ve been nagging me incessantly to wed ever since we got word Paul had died. Miss Peterson will do.”

      “You have many ladies to choose from.”

      “All of whom I’ve seen before.”

      “Ah, but they are much more interested in you now that you are the Marquis of Knightsdale.”

      Charles felt his stomach twist. God, that was one of the things he hated most about the bloody situation—the toadying. People who could not be bothered to notice mere Major Draysmith stumbled over themselves to greet Lord Knightsdale.

      “That is part of Miss Peterson’s charm, Aunt. I don’t believe she gives a fig for my title.”

      Emma forced herself to walk calmly down the stairs. She was still fuming. The gall of the man! To come here after all these years and suggest she marry him. She’d swear he hadn’t even recognized her when he’d first seen her in the long gallery.

      He just wanted a breeder. She was certainly not going to offer herself up so the Knightsdale dynasty could continue one more generation. The way she felt now, she’d happily terminate the line immediately. With her bare hands.

      She paused on the second-floor landing, gripping the handrail so tightly her knuckles showed white. She took a deep breath.

      She was angry with herself as well.

      Why couldn’t he be ugly—cross-eyed or pockmarked or hunchbacked? Why did he have to be the one man who haunted her dreams?

      She put her hands on her flushed cheeks. He had haunted more than her sleep. Even awake, she had dreamed of him, of the kiss she had seen.

      She had invited him into her bed the very night she had rushed home from his brother’s wedding ball.

      Lud, it was true. Papa’s proper daughter had climbed into bed, blown out the candle, and summoned up her memory of Charles on the Knightsdale terrace. But in her thoughts, he was kissing her, not some anonymous London lady. She had tried to feel his lips moving on hers. Would they be warm or cool, moist or dry? She had imagined his arms around her, his chest against hers, his hands on her—She squeezed her eyes shut. She would not think about just where she had imagined his hands.

      Now he had asked her to marry him. She could discover exactly what his lips felt like. What his hands…

      Enough! She could not marry the man just to test the accuracy of her imagination, could she? No. Certainly not. Such a thought was ludicrous in the extreme.

      She continued down the stairs.

      She had almost died in the study when his eyes had seemed to trace the line of her lips. She could barely keep her attention on Lady Beatrice’s words. The man should be forced to wear a blindfold—those clear blue eyes were dangerous to women. He had probably lured countless society ladies into his arms with them. Well, she would not be another victim—no matter how much she would like to be.

      “Miss Peterson—so prompt. Splendid.”

      Emma looked down. Charles was standing in the hall, grinning up at her. Her heart lurched before she could take it under firm control.

      “It does not take long to put on a bonnet, my lord.”

      “No? I defer to your greater knowledge—I have never attempted the task.”

      “I don’t doubt you’ve much experience with taking off a bonnet, however!”

      Emma bit her lip. Where had that come from? She’d never had trouble minding her tongue in the past. She stared straight ahead as she stepped out the front door, but she heard Charles’s warm chuckle by her ear.

      “Ah, Miss Peterson, do I detect some words left unspoken?”

      “I have no idea to what you might be referring, my lord.”

      “So you are not intimating that I have removed more than a lady’s bonnet?”

      Emma


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