THE NAKED MARQUIS
Sally MacKenzie
ISBN: 0-8217-7832-3
Publisher: Zebra Books
Release Date: March 2006
THE MAN IS PRACTICAL
As marriage proposals go, Charles Draysmith's suit is as romantic as the
moors in December. Emma Peterson might be only a vicar's daughter, and he
the new Marquis of Knightsdale, and perhaps he would rather marry her
than endure the marriage mart. But when he suggests how much he'll enjoy
securing an heir, well, a lady can only endure so much.
BUT THE LADY IS PASSIONATE
There's something about a woman throwing pottery at a man that piques his
interest. Perhaps his proposal lacks grace, Charles thinks. But it does seem a
perfect solution. He acquires a wife; his young charges have the mother they so
desperately need, and Emma gains security and position. You see? Simple.
Practical. Sensib—oh no, not the ceramic dog… He will have to confess the truth
to calm her down. And the truth is, he's madly in love…
From Chapter
1:
Charles bit the inside of his
cheek to keep from laughing. Miss Peterson’s jaw had dropped like a rock.
“It’s the perfect solution,
when you think of it, Miss Peterson. The girls need a mother, as you
yourself have pointed out. They know you and like you--and you live nearby,
so you’ll have the comfort of your own family at hand.”
And I find the notion of
bedding you distinctly appealing. Charles smiled, trying to imagine how
Miss Peterson would react to that statement. But it was
true. He hadn’t thought of her in years, yet to see her now, to have her
standing just inches from him... Perhaps it was the contrast--his memories
of her as a little girl with her very grown-up figure. Whatever it was, it
was distinctly erotic. He shifted position, turning away from her slightly
to hide his reaction.
It was the perfect solution
to his problem. Neither of them would be inconvenienced. It was not as if
he had to spend a vast quantity of time with her. He had no desire to live
at Knightsdale. He’d find something useful to do in Town and just come down
from time to time to work on his responsibility to sire an heir.
Yes, he’d come down to take
her to bed. To strip that ugly frock off her lovely body. To bury his face
in her soft, shapely breasts. To...
He turned abruptly to the
desk. His breeches were getting distinctly uncomfortable.
“What could be better, Miss
Peterson? You don’t have a beau, do you?”
“Well, no, but...”
“And pardon me for saying so,
but you are a bit past the usual age for marriage, are you not? As I
remember, you are twenty-six, four years younger than I.”
“Yes...”
Charles glanced at her,
noting her heightened color and heaving bosom. Especially her heaving
bosom. He jerked his eyes up to meet hers. Behind her spectacles, gold
sparks smoldered under deeply furrowed brows.
Perhaps he should not have
pointed out that she was firmly on the shelf, but surely it must be a factor
in her decision. It was unlikely she would have a better offer--or indeed,
any other offer.
“I don’t intend to be in your
way, you know. I’ll spend most of my time in Town. You’ll only have to put
up with my occasional visits.”
“Why bother to visit at all?
You’ve been able to keep yourself away all these years.”
Charles coughed into his
hand. Surely she saw the obvious? He looked at her again. Her arms were
tightly crossed under her glorious breasts. She lifted one of her brows.
How could he not have noticed before how delightfully they flew up at one
end? Or how kissable her mouth was, even drawn into a tight line as it was
now.
Would it soften if he put his
lips over it?
“There is the matter of an
heir.”
“What?” Both eyebrows flew
up and then slammed back down. “What do you mean, exactly?”
The ice in her words was an
interesting counterpoint to the fire in her eyes. Charles realized retreat
was probably advisable, but he had gone too far into enemy territory. He
had to brazen it out now.
“An heir. I’ll need one, now
that I am the marquis. And I can’t very well get one if I’m in London, and
my wife’s in Kent, can I?”
He ducked as a small china
dog flew by his ear and shattered on the study door.
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