The Naked Marquis. Sally MacKenzieЧитать онлайн книгу.
and took her by the waist. He didn’t slide her down his body as he wanted to, nor did he pull her against him when her feet touched the ground. But he didn’t let her go immediately either. He enjoyed the curve of her waist under his hands too much.
To his surprise, she didn’t pull away. She stood quietly, looking down, her eyes hidden by her bonnet.
“Emma, are you all right?”
“Yes. Of course.” She glanced up at him, then stepped back. He let her go. “I’m sorry. Come this way.”
He followed her inside. The smell hit him first—the smell of learning, of old books, leather, paper, and ink. He had breathed in that scent so often when he was a boy struggling with his Latin declensions. He had breathed it at university, also, but this was better. This was home. Emma’s papa had been a kind master. Strict, demanding, but always encouraging. Charles had worked hard to please him.
He had been guilty of wishing Reverend Peterson was his own papa. Perhaps that was one reason he had tolerated Emma. He had thought of her as a little sister.
He certainly did not think of her as a sister now.
Emma stopped outside her father’s study and knocked deliberately.
“We have company, Papa.”
“Please, come in.”
Emma pushed the door open. Charles froze on the threshold.
Reverend Peterson had aged in the past twenty years. His hair was gray; his cheeks, slightly sunken; the bones of his face, more defined. Charles knew this. He had seen the man just four months earlier at Paul’s funeral. But to see him here, in this study—this room should have been an eddy where time and age did not come.
“My lord,” Reverend Peterson was saying, standing. “It is good to see you again. We are all happy you have come home to Knightsdale.”
Charles grinned. “Finally. Thank you for not saying it.”
Reverend Peterson’s smile had not changed. His lips curved only slightly, but his eyes twinkled over his spectacles. “I would never presume to criticize a marquis.”
“Out loud.”
The vicar’s lips twitched, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “I was just eager to see you in the neighborhood, my lord.” He turned to a small woman who’d been sitting in a chair next to his desk. “May I present Mrs. Harriet Graham? Mrs. Graham is relatively new to Knightsdale, my lord, but she has been a very active member of the parish.”
“Mrs. Graham.” Charles took the woman’s hand. He could almost feel Emma bristle. She was still standing stiffly by the door.
“My lord.” Mrs. Graham smiled calmly up at him. He liked her immediately. She had a pleasant, comfortable face with warm brown eyes and hair that had once been brown but was now streaked with gray.
So this is the harpy. She looked like a normal, middle-aged woman, not a candidate for evil step-motherhood.
“Reverend, I’ve come to extend an invitation to both your daughters.”
Emma watched Charles take Mrs. Graham’s hand. She had not been surprised to find the woman in the study with Papa. Lud, she practically lived at the vicarage. Maybe she would, if Meg moved up to Knightsdale for this house party.
Emma bit her lip. No, she truly could not see Papa breaking God’s law, living in sin with a woman—even a jezebel like Harriet Graham.
“A number of ladies will be in attendance who are Miss Margaret Peterson’s age. My aunt, Lady Beatrice, thought this might be an excellent opportunity for your younger daughter to get her feet wet in the social pond, as it were, and in familiar surroundings with her older sister to guide her.”
“And who will guide her older sister?”
“Papa, I am not a complete cabbage-head. I will do very well.”
Emma saw Charles’s eyebrow rise, and she flushed. Perhaps her tone had been a bit sharp.
“I didn’t mean to imply that you were, Emma, but you have not been to London, either.”
“I’ve been to plenty of local assemblies.”
“Yes, I know, but…”
Emma glared her father to silence.
“Do not worry, sir.” There was a slight note of humor in Charles’s voice.
Emma turned to glare at him. He ignored her.
“My aunt will be present, and it will not be a very strenuous gathering. Just a few picnics, a ball. Very relaxed. I believe the Duke of Alvord and his wife and sister will be there, as well as the Earl of Westbrooke, so the ladies will see a few familiar faces.”
Reverend Peterson nodded. “The duke’s sister, Lady Elizabeth, is Meg’s particular friend. I see no objections, do you, Harriet?”
Emma gritted her teeth as Mrs. Graham nodded and murmured her concurrence.
“The guests should begin arriving tomorrow,” Charles said, “so I’ll send a carriage to fetch Miss Margaret Peterson in the morning, shall I?”
“That would be splendid, my lord.” Papa looked at his older daughter. “Emma, you must have some things you need to pack. You didn’t plan for social activities when you went up to take Miss Hodgekiss’s place.”
“No, and I’m not planning on attending many social activities now—I will still be spending most of my time with the girls.”
“But not all your time,” Charles said. “Why don’t you pack your things now?”
Emma did not want to pack anything. She crossed her arms, ready to tell them that, but she caught Charles’s eye before she spoke. Something in his expression warned her she was on the verge of a childish tantrum. She closed her lips.
She was twenty-six, not six years old. Such behavior was beneath her. She drew a steadying breath.
“I suppose that is a good idea. I won’t be long.”
“Would you like some help?”
“No, Mrs. Graham. I am quite capable of managing on my own.” Emma glanced at her father and saw the reproach in his face. She flushed. “But thank you for the offer. I’ll just be a minute.”
It did not take much more than a minute to pack. Her wardrobe was not extensive—most of it was already at Knightsdale. She hurriedly bundled a few extra dresses into a valise. She stopped, a hand on her ball gown. Should she bring it? No. Ridiculous. Her fingers slid over the silky fabric. It had been such a waste of money. She had never worn it.
She could wear it now, at the house party.
No. She wouldn’t go to the ball…would she?
She closed her eyes, remembering Charles and that London lady on the terrace ten years ago. She’d been too young to go to that ball. She was not too young now….
She grabbed the dress, stuffed it in among the rest of her things, and left her room before she could change her mind.
Charles put her valise in the curricle while she said good-bye to her father.
“Should my ears be burning?” she asked after he had helped her into her seat.
“Emma, your father would not talk about you with me and Mrs. Graham.”
“I’m sure he talks about me to Mrs. Graham.” Emma stared ahead, waiting for Charles to defend the woman. He said nothing. She should say nothing, too, but words were clawing at her throat, demanding to be free.
She had no one to confide in. She couldn’t talk to Meg. She had tried once, but Meg was too young. She didn’t understand. And the other ladies she knew were too old. Well, and she didn’t want to air her dirty laundry. But Charles