ТОП просматриваемых книг сайта:
The Naked Marquis. Sally MacKenzie
Читать онлайн.Название The Naked Marquis
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781420114201
Автор произведения Sally MacKenzie
Жанр Исторические любовные романы
Серия Naked Nobility
Издательство Ingram
SHE COULDN’T RESIST
“Marry me, Emma. Please.” Did he sound too enthusiastic? She must think him a lunatic. But it would be a sensible decision on her part. Charles tempered his voice. “Our marriage would solve so many problems. We’d get rid of these London idiots. My nieces would get a mother and you’d get a home of your own. Your father could marry Mrs. Graham without disturbing your peace.” He grinned at her, leaning closer. “And I’d get the lovely opportunity—many lovely opportunities—to produce an heir. What do you say?”
Emma’s stinging slap was eloquence itself.
The Naked Marquis
SALLY MACKENZIE
ZEBRA BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
For Mom and Dad,
and Kevin and the boys, of course,
and for Ruth.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
And with thanks to Elin
for the bachelor’s buttons.
CHAPTER 1
Why the bloody hell did Paul have to die?
Major Charles Draysmith stood on the broad gravel drive, rain dripping down his neck, and stared at the immense sandstone facade looming before him. He did not want to go inside.
He had lingered in London as long as he could, meeting with the solicitor, with Paul’s bankers, taking care of all the details of the succession—and hating every bloody minute. Every “yes, my lord” tore another piece of his life from him.
Thanks to an anonymous Italian thief, he was now the Marquis of Knightsdale.
A gust drenched his greatcoat, sending more rain cascading down his neck. He couldn’t stand out here forever like a great looby. Aunt Bea would be along shortly with the carriages and her servants and her overfed cat to prepare for the house party.
God. Tomorrow a horde of aristocratic young virgins and their mamas would descend on Knightsdale. Dread clawed at his gut, and his palms started to sweat, just as they had before every battle he’d fought on the Peninsula. He wanted to turn and run.
He stepped forward and banged on the door.
“Good morning, my lord.”
“Is it a good morning, Lambert?” Charles let the butler take his wet hat and coat. It had been ten years since he’d last seen the man—since Paul’s wedding. Lambert had new lines around his mouth and eyes, and his hair had thinned.
Doubtless the man noted changes in him as well, Charles thought. He’d barely been out of university when he’d last been home; now he was thirty, aged by the blood and dirt of war.
“Have someone look after my horse, will you?”
“Certainly, my lord. Is Lady Beatrice with you?”
“No, I rode on ahead. I—what is that racket?” Charles swore he heard the rumble of distant artillery.
“I believe it is Miss Peterson, my lord, with Lady Isabelle and Lady Claire.”
“What the hell are they doing?” Charles started for the stairs. The noise was coming from one of the upper floors.
“Skittles, my lord. In the long gallery.”
Skittles, Charles thought. How can the girls be playing skittles? They’re only infants.
He heard another rumble and then shrieking. Was someone hurt? He started running, taking the stairs two at a time. The long gallery, if he remembered correctly, had a number of heavy, marble busts of past Draysmiths. If one of them fell on a small child…And was that barking? A dog, too? Whatever was this Miss Peterson thinking? He had assumed Nanny and the governess—was her name Peterson? He hadn’t thought so. He would have remembered, surely, as that was the vicar’s name. He had assumed his young nieces were in good hands. Apparently he had been mistaken. Well, this Miss Peterson would shortly be finding herself seeking other employment.
He reached the long gallery just in time to see a small black and white terrier crash into the pedestal that supported Great-Uncle Randall’s bust.
Emma Peterson leapt to steady the statue just as a man bellowed from the stairs. The surprise of hearing a male voice almost caused her to knock over the ugly sculpture herself. Surely Mr. Lambert would not have let a bedlamite into the house?
“What the bloody hell do you think you are doing, woman, letting that animal run loose? One of your charges could have been crushed.”
Emma stiffened. Who was this man, to come here, cursing and criticizing? She pushed her spectacles higher on her nose. Did she know him? His voice sounded slightly familiar. If only he would come closer.
What was she thinking? She should be wishing him back downstairs and out the door. He was not overly tall, but his broad shoulders and general air of command indicated he was used to getting his way. What if he proved threatening? If she shouted, would anyone hear her in time to come to her aid?
“Prinny didn’t mean any harm, sir.” Brave Isabelle faced their intruder with her narrow shoulders back, though she did step closer to Emma.
“Course he didn’t mean any harm.” Little Claire threw her arms around Prinny’s neck. “You’re a good dog, aren’t you, Prinny?”
Prinny barked and licked her face.
“Prinny? Good God, Prinny! He may be a good dog, miss, but he doesn’t belong racing around in here.”
“Sir.” Emma was pleased that her voice did not waver or crack. She pulled herself up to her full, if insignificant, height. “Sir, I must ask you to leave. Immediately.”
“You must ask me to leave? Madam, I shall be telling you to leave in no short order.”
Emma swallowed. Lud, he was coming closer. “Isabelle, Claire, come here, darlings.”
The man stopped. “Isabelle and Claire?”
“Yes.” Emma raised her chin.
He was close enough for her to see him clearly now. His face was sun-darkened, his curly brown hair cut ruthlessly short. He was older, stronger, more assured than the man she had last glimpsed from a distance at the late marquis’s wedding, but she knew him. She could never forget those eyes—clear blue, like lakes, with dark rims. Charles Draysmith, the boy she had idolized and the man she had sighed over, had returned to Knightsdale.
“These are my nieces?” Charles stared at the girls. The older one—Isabelle—looked to be about nine years old. She was thin with straight, wispy white-blond hair, high cheekbones, and Paul’s green eyes. The other one still had the plump curves of babyhood, but