The Naked Marquis. Sally MacKenzieЧитать онлайн книгу.
not, my lord.”
He laughed, a deep, warm sound. “Oh, Miss Peterson, I can see we are going to have a wonderful time together. May I call you Emma?”
“Certainly not.”
“Splendid. And you must call me Charles.”
“My lord, did you not hear me? I did not give you leave to use my Christian name.”
“Well, Emma, I am very sorry, but I am taking that leave. One thing I learned in the war was to ask nicely, but if something is crucial for survival, take it—politely, of course. And I do think using your lovely name, Emma, is crucial to my survival.”
Emma could not think of a single thing to say. She was certain her mouth was gaping open—and it opened even farther when she felt his broad, warm hands around her waist, lifting her to sit in his curricle. He climbed up next to her and grinned, tapping the bottom of her chin with his index finger. She shut her jaw so quickly she heard it snap.
To add to her confusion, the curricle’s seat was extremely narrow. Charles’s side, hip, and leg were pressed tightly up against her. They were amazingly hard—like rock. She shifted, trying to put more space between them. He shifted with her.
“My lord, you are crowding me.”
“Charles, Emma. You know my name is Charles. You used to call me Charles when you were a girl.”
“And you will not hear it on my lips now, my lord. I, at least, have some inkling of decorum.”
“Hmm. Perhaps I can persuade those lips.”
Before Emma had the slightest idea what Charles planned, she felt his mouth on hers.
Her eyes closed, whether to shut out the shocking sight of his face so close to hers or to better feel the touch of his lips, she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say. It was the briefest brush—dry and cool—but she felt it all the way to her toes. It started an odd fire burning in her stomach, a fire that had smoldered in her dreams but had never flared to life. A fire she feared would consume her.
Lud, was she in trouble!
Charles chuckled and moved back to his side of the seat. He would have preferred to spend more time exploring Emma’s mouth, but the horses were restless and Emma might soon recover enough from her shock to slap him senseless. Not to mention the fact that they were in full view of Knightsdale’s many windows. Was Aunt Bea peering down at them? Or little Claire?
He didn’t care. He grinned, feeling a ridiculous urge to laugh. He had not felt this lighthearted in years—certainly not since he’d left for the Peninsula. Definitely not since he’d gotten word of Paul’s death. Even when he’d just come down from university and was racketing around London, he had not felt this pure, carefree joy. He’d thought he’d been living a wonderful life then, acquiring some town bronze, but too many mornings after a night of debauchery, the bronze had felt more like rust.
He took a deep breath of cool English air, drawing in the scent of new-mown grass. Maybe he had not felt this way since boyhood when he’d had a whole glorious day before him to fill with fishing and riding and playing at Robin Hood or Knights of the Round Table—often with the girl beside him tagging at his heels. He chuckled. Who would have guessed he would ever feel more than annoyance for the little curly-headed pest he had nicknamed “Runt.”
“What is so amusing, my lord?”
So Miss Peterson was going to be on her high horse, was she? He glanced at her. Yes, she had her little nose tilted in the air.
“Did you know the other boys called you ‘Shadow’?”
“What?” She turned to look at him. “What are you talking about?”
“When we were children. The other boys called you ‘Shadow,’ because you were always following me around.”
“Oh.” She was looking off at the scenery now, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.
“I didn’t call you that, though. I didn’t mind your following me.”
“You called me ‘Runt.’”
“Well, you were little. You are still not very tall, though some areas of your person”—Charles allowed his eyes to rest on her well-shaped breasts—“have grown considerably.”
“My lord!” Her cheeks were flaming now. Charles braced for a slap.
“Your hands, for example,” he said, laughing. “I’m sure they are larger. Your feet, too. Your lovely, um, ch—”
Emma sucked in her breath, making the relevant anatomical features swell invitingly.
“—chin has grown since you were a young girl as well.”
“My lord, you are so…slippery.”
“I beg your pardon?” Charles tried for his best innocent expression. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do! I can’t quite grab hold of you. I think I know what you are saying, but then somehow I don’t. You are as slippery as a trout.”
“Sweetheart,” Charles said, his voice suddenly husky at the erotic possibilities her artless words conjured in his mind, “anytime you would like to grab hold of me, please do. I will be happy to accommodate you. If I were a trout, I would be delighted to swim in your tight, wet, um…” Charles swallowed, reining in his imagination.
She threw him a puzzled, but wary, glance. “You’re doing it again.”
Charles reminded his body to behave itself. His voice was clearer this time. “I’m doing what?”
“Don’t look so innocent. You meant something else, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“Yes, you did.”
Charles grinned. “Well, perhaps.”
“Tell me.”
“Oh, no, Emma, my love. I most certainly will not tell you. I’ll show you—but only once we are married.”
Charles chuckled, imagining he could hear her teeth grinding. He looked ahead to the familiar stone building where he had spent so many hours learning Greek and Latin from Reverend Peterson.
“Will we find your father at home?”
“Yes.”
Charles noted the sudden chill in Emma’s tone. What was this about? “And your sister?”
Emma shrugged. “Meg is probably out grubbing in the dirt somewhere. If Father and—” She paused. Her nostrils flared, her mouth forming a tight line.
“And?” he prompted, pulling the curricle to a stop.
Emma’s chin raised and she straightened her shoulders, like a soldier readying for battle. All teasing thoughts left his mind. He was quite certain he had found the source of Emma’s shadows.
“…and Mrs. Graham,” Emma said. “Mrs. Harriet Graham. She’s a widow. She helps with the church, arranging flowers and such.”
“And?”
“And what, my lord?”
“And why does the thought of Mrs. Harriet Graham, widow, make you stiffen up like you’ve swallowed a hot poker?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“It can’t be the simple fact that she helps with the church, can it?” Charles watched Emma’s downcast eyes. “You said ‘Father and….’ It’s the ‘and’ that’s the problem, isn’t it? Is this Mrs. Graham a harpy of the worst sort?”
Emma shook her head. “Of course not. Mrs. Graham is a fine member of the congregation.”
“But perhaps not such a fine