Sally MacKenzie Bundle (88 page)

“Had to do my duty, after all, and see to the succession. And you’ll be happy to hear that Aunt Gladys, Lady Amanda, and Lizzie are back in residence. Lizzie is joining the house party tomorrow.”

“So is little Lizzie also joining the pack of young misses baying after the new marquis here?”

“I don’t believe Lizzie is interested in Charles, Robbie.”

“And I’m not interested in any of the young ladies,” Charles said.

“You’re not? So why have you collected this school of ballroom barracudas? I swear I saw Lady Dunlee and Mrs. Frampton glaring at each other in the hall. If you are not the bachelor morsel to be tossed into their jaws, who is?” Robbie put up the hand that wasn’t holding his brandy. “It ain’t going to be me.”

“Well, it can’t be me, can it?” James said. “And if Charles here is unwilling…”

“No. I’m too young for a leg shackle.”

“There are other unattached men present,” Charles said, “so you need not fear.”

“Oh, no? I am not so certain. If the ladies can’t have a marquis, they may pursue a mere earl. No, I shall have my valet check my bedchamber thoroughly for any stray misses before I retire each night, and I will carefully avoid all secluded areas of your lovely estate.” Robbie took another sip. “Perhaps I’ll just attach myself to your Aunt Bea—she’ll have no trouble routing any encroaching misses, and I understand she’s quite free with the brandy bottle.”

“A splendid idea, Robbie,” James said. He leaned back in his chair. “However, I still don’t understand why you invited all these people here, Charles, if you have no interest in selecting a bride. I’m quite certain that lovely Lady Dunlee and charming Mrs. Frampton did not drag their delightful, marriage-hungry daughters down to Knightsdale for the scenery—unless, of course, the scenery included
the sight of you slipping the Knightsdale engagement ring on one of their progeny’s fingers.”

“Yes, I understand that. I thought I was in the market, but I’ve already found a suitable bride.”

“Oh? And who might this paragon be?” James asked.

“Miss Emma Peterson.”

“The vicar’s daughter?”

“Not only the vicar’s daughter, James,” Robbie said, chuckling. “Shadow.”

“Shadow? Who? Oh, yes, I remember. The little girl who used to dog Charles’s steps when we were boys. That
was
Miss Peterson, wasn’t it?”

“And if you haven’t noticed”—Robbie grinned—“and of course you haven’t, being a married man—Miss Peterson is no longer a little girl.”

“Watch yourself, Robbie.” Charles was surprised by the surge of annoyance he felt at Robbie’s slightly leering tone. “I’ll brook no disrespect of Miss Peterson.”

“Oh, I always respect my elders.”

“Elders? Miss Peterson is only twenty-six.”

“As am I, my friend. You are the graybeard at thirty. No, I believe Miss Peterson is two months older than I—I vaguely remember getting into an argument with her on the subject when I turned ten.”

“Gentlemen, let us not hearken back to our infancy.” James raised his glass. “Congratulations are in order. When will you be announcing your betrothal, Charles?”

“Soon.”

“At the ball?” Robbie asked. “That would be the most appropriate time. Perhaps you can keep the other ladies guessing until then so they’ll leave me alone.”

“Yes. At the ball.” Charles remembered the sound of the china dog shattering on the study door. “I hope. There are a few matters still to be resolved.”

C
HAPTER
5

“If the London Season is anything like this, I am glad to have missed it.”

“Meg, keep your voice down.” Emma pushed her sister discreetly in the back to get her to step into the drawing room.

A sea of conversation washed over them. Elegant London ladies in fashionable dresses chatted with gentlemen in elaborate cravats and tight-fitting black coats. Emma felt more than a little dowdy. She searched for a familiar face—and saw Lady Beatrice, resplendent in a crimson gown with knots of lime green ribbons, laughing uproariously with Mrs. Begley. The liquid in their glasses looked suspiciously like brandy.

Where were the other members of the Society for the Betterment of Women? Emma spotted the Farthington twins in the far corner examining a large painting of a naked woman, a mostly naked man, and a sprinkling of fat cherubs. Miss Esther pointed to the man’s bare shoulders and elbowed her sister in the ribs. At least neither lady was drinking. Miss Russell occupied a settee nearby, also with
out a glass or teacup at hand. Emma felt some tension ease from her neck. She did not want to entertain the Londoners with the spectacle of drunken locals.

“Just look at that gaggle of pea-gooses.” Meg nodded at a group of young ladies clustered around Charles at the other end of the room. “Or is it ‘pea-geese’? It’s a good thing Lord Knightsdale favors short hair or his lovely brown locks would be blown into knots by all those batting eyelashes.”

Emma agreed. The girls were fawning over Charles in a most disgusting manner. It certainly could not be good for his already inflated estimation of himself. Not that he wasn’t an arresting sight. He was even more handsome, if that were possible, dressed in eveningwear.

He looked up. His startling blue eyes met hers across the room, and the right corner of his mouth creased up in a half smile.

She felt an odd warmth radiate from her stomach.

“And here comes your own special admirer, Emma. He must have been watching the door for you.”

“My own—oh.” Mr. Stockley was slithering toward her. She had never thought of him as snakelike before, but tonight he struck her as having a distinctly serpentine quality. Perhaps it was his lack of expression. Or his quiet—stealthy, really—way of moving.

Ridiculous! She had not gotten enough sleep last night. It was the odd nocturnal events in the nursery that were feeding this bizarre fantasy.

“I keep expecting a forked tongue to flicker out of his mouth,” Meg murmured. “I think I’ll go help Miss Russell warm the settee.”

Emma resisted the urge to grab Meg’s arm.

“Miss Peterson, I am delighted to see Lord Knightsdale allowed you to join our gathering. Who is watching Lady Isabelle and Lady Claire?”

Emma gritted her teeth. “Nanny is with the girls, Mr. Stockley.”

“Ah, Nanny. A mature, reliable woman. You, ah, have rooms on the nursery floor with the girls and Nanny, I presume?”

The man was presuming too much. “I can’t imagine why you would be interested in my accommodations, Mr. Stockley.”

Mr. Stockley smirked. “I mean no disrespect, Miss Peterson. I am confident a woman of your maturity will guard her reputation closely. It’s just that…well…it would not do for you to be on the same floor as our host. A single woman without a chaperone present, you understand. It might give rise to unsavory speculation. People have such small minds.”

Emma could name one person with a small mind. “Sir, I fail to see why my reputation is in danger. Lady Beatrice is in residence, after all, and now the house is filled with guests. Do you think Lord Knightsdale is going to break down my door and rape me in my bed?”

“I am continually surprised, Westbrooke, at how little we know our closest friends. Who would have thought Knightsdale had taken to deflowering virgins?”

Emma flushed and turned to find the Duke of Alvord and the Earl of Westbrooke at her elbow.

“Your grace, I did not mean—”

“Of course you did not mean anything, Miss Peterson.” The duke smiled at her, but his expression hardened as he faced Mr. Stockley. “However, I do wonder what your companion meant.”

“Mr. Albert Stockley, your grace, and no offense
meant, of course. I was just cautioning Miss Peterson in a general way, as a friend.”

“As a friend. I see.” The duke looked at Lord Westbrooke. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Westbrooke, but I believe Miss Peterson is a childhood friend of Knightsdale, is she not? One would think he would make it his responsibility to see that she came to no harm under his roof.”

“One would think,” Lord Westbrooke agreed.

Emma had had enough. “Oh, stop it.” She had been offended by Mr. Stockley, true, but she didn’t need these two defending her. “I’m sure Mr. Stockley was just trying to be a gentleman. You don’t need to throw your consequence around.”

“Miss Peterson, you wound me.” The duke’s amber eyes held a definite twinkle. “My consequence is too great to be ‘thrown around.”

“Right.” Lord Westbrooke grinned. “Alvord’s not strong enough for the task. Gotten too soft, now that he’s a married man.”

“Mr. Stockley,” Emma said, “as you have probably surmised, I knew his grace and Lord Westbrooke when we were all children, though they hardly acknowledged my presence then.” Nor had they paid much attention to her in recent years, Emma thought. Why were they both at her side now?

“Of course we ignored you, Miss Peterson,” the duke said. “You were a girl, and we were most assuredly not interested in girls at that time.”

“You can thank me you were even tolerated,” Charles said. He had divested himself of his harem. “These fellows would have banned you from our games.”

Deftly, Mr. Stockley had been excluded from their group. The duke and Lord Westbrooke took a slight
step to the side, a shifting forward, and Mr. Stockley was invisible, hidden behind their height. Nor could he participate in the youthful recollections. The circle had tightened physically and conversationally, and he was firmly on the outside. Emma watched him hover there for a moment, then turn and wander away.

“Where is your wife, your grace?” she asked.

“Resting.” The duke grinned so widely he looked like a boy again. “She tires easily these days.”

“Alvord thinks he’s so clever he’s figured out how to—”

“Robbie!” Charles nodded at Emma.

Lord Westbrooke’s eyes fell on her, and he reddened.

“As I’m sure you’ve deduced, Emma,” Charles said, “the duke and duchess are expecting their first child.”

“That’s wonderful news, your grace.” Emma was touched that the man was so obviously thrilled. “I hope to meet her grace tomorrow.”

“Charles.” Lady Beatrice appeared at Charles’s elbow with a hunchbacked elderly man in tow. “It’s time to go in to dinner. Duke, you’re the highest-ranking man here—you get to take in Lady Augusta.”

“My pleasure.”

Lord Westbrooke snorted. “Unlikely. Lady Augusta will jaw you to death before you’ve finished your turtle soup.”

Lady Beatrice pointed a bejeweled finger at Lord Westbrooke. “And you, my lord, will be squiring Lady Barworth.”

“Not Lady Barworth!” Lord Westbrooke’s hands flew up as if to ward off a blow, while the duke and Charles tried unsuccessfully to muffle their laughter.
“Have pity, please. I’m too young to suffer detailed accounts of gout and indigestion.”

“My lord, I am certain it is not as bad as that.”

“You’re right, Aunt,” Charles said. “I believe Lady Barworth also discusses her grandchildren’s ailments.”

“And word has it that the youngest Barworth is recovering from the measles,” the duke said, “so you’re in for a treat, Westbrooke.”

“Gawd.” Lord Westbrooke rolled his eyes.

Lady Beatrice glared. “I trust you will behave yourself, my lord.”

“Of course. I promise to try not to nod off during Lady Barworth’s medical report, and, if I cannot keep Morpheus at bay for the entire meal, I promise not to snore.” Lord Westbrooke grinned. “Or, at least not loudly.”

Lady Beatrice grunted and turned to Emma. “Here is your escort, dear.” She shook the elderly man’s arm and shouted in his ear,
“This is Miss Peterson, Mr. Maxwell. You’ll be taking her in to dinner.”

“What? Thinner?” Mr. Maxwell was so bent over, his face was only inches above Emma’s bosom. “Sacrilege! Don’t take an ounce off ’em, my dear.”

Emma stepped back before a bit of drool hit her bodice.

“Maxwell, you forget yourself.” Charles looked like a thundercloud.

Mr. Maxwell twisted his head to look up at him. “What? No need to get tetchy, my lord. Didn’t know you had your eye on ’em.” Mr. Maxwell wheezed with apparent laughter. “Man can look, can’t he, without giving offense?”

“Come on, Charles,” Lady Beatrice said. “Take me in to dinner. Your Miss Peterson is safe. Poor Mr. Maxwell can’t do much more than look.”

Mr. Maxwell gave no indication that he had heard, but Emma was certain her face was redder than Lady Beatrice’s dress. She watched Charles lead his aunt across the room.

“Shall we go in to dinner?” Mr. Maxwell asked her bosom.

“I don’t suppose we have a choice, do we?” Emma said, batting away Mr. Maxwell’s errant fingers.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen a dress quite like yours this Season, Miss Peterson. Who is your mantua-maker?” Lady Oldston’s prominent eyes glittered with malice.

Emma forced a smile. “Mrs. Croft—a local woman.”

“I see.”

“How quaint—using local…um…talent. I have never tried it. Perhaps it will become the rage.” Lady Dunlee permitted herself a tiny smile, small enough not to crease her substantial jowls.

“I don’t recall seeing you in Town, Miss Peterson.” The third gorgon, Mrs. Pelham, yawned. “You must have made your come out”—she paused artfully, brows arched, nostrils flared—“a few years ago.”

“I’m certain I did not see you or your sister,” Lady Oldston said. “I would have made note of it. We were bringing out dear Amanda.”

Dear Amanda looked like a cross between a horse and a toad, all bug-eyed and toothy—like her mother.

“And I had Lady Caroline.” Lady Dunlee stressed her daughter’s title ever so slightly. Lady Oldston flushed. She was merely the wife of a baronet; Lady Dunlee was a countess.

And Lady Caroline was rounder than her mother.
She was whispering with Miss Oldston by the garden windows.

“I do think it quite magnanimous of dear Lord Knightsdale to invite the neighbors,” Mrs. Pelham said. “Don’t you agree, Miss Peterson? It must be such a treat for you.”

Emma grunted—politely, she hoped. The ladies appeared not to expect more coherency from such a provincial as herself.

If she’d had half an ounce of intelligence, she would have made good her escape right after dinner just as Meg had, between the dining room and the drawing room. It would have been so easy. If anyone had asked, she could have claimed a need to check on the girls.