Читать книгу The Naked Viscount - Sally MacKenzie - Страница 12

Where was Lord Motton? Damn it, he’d definitely said he’d talk to her at the Palmerson ball tonight. She hadn’t imagined that; she remembered it quite distinctly. He’d said it right before he’d slipped out Clarence’s window.

“I understand you are, er, staying at the, ah, Widmores’ house, Miss Parker-Roth?”

“Oh.” Jane jumped and got pricked by a palm frond. She’d forgotten that Mr. Mousingly—or the Mouse, as the wags called him—was standing next to her in the foliage. He was a very forgettable gentleman—short and thin, with slightly hunched shoulders, large ears, and light brown hair that had retreated to the back of his head. “You startled me.”

The Mouse’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know how I could have. I’ve been standing here for the last ten minutes. Or fifteen. Yes, I do believe it’s been fifteen. But I’m very sorry if I startled you. I didn’t mean to. I’d never startle a woman. I’d never startle a man, either, at least not intentionally. I—”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure you wouldn’t startle a flea, Mr. Mousingly, and you wouldn’t have startled me if I hadn’t been woolgathering.”

“Er, woolgathering? Ah. I’m very sorry to have interrupted your thoughts then. I’ll just stand here quietly until you are finished, shall I? Unless that would startle you, too?”

Jane wanted to scream, but that would certainly startle the attending ton. Heavens, they might think the Mouse was doing something to provoke her scream. How absurd. She giggled.

The Mouse frowned again. “Did I say something to amuse you, Miss Parker-Roth?”

“Oh, no, it was just a stray thought. Please, disregard it.”

“Very well.” The Mouse nodded and continued to look at her as if waiting for a crumb of cheese.

What did the man want? He’d said something to start this silly exchange. Oh, right. He’d asked where she was staying. What an odd question. Why did he wish to know?

“Did you ask if we are staying at Widmore House?”

The Mouse nodded, looking suddenly eager. Odder and odder.

“We are. Miss Widmore—now Baroness Trent—is off on her honeymoon, and poor Mr. Widmore—”

The Mouse heaved a gusty sigh redolent of garlic. Jane eased back a step or two. “Yes, poor Clarence. He’s gone aloft, hasn’t he? So tragic.” He cleared his throat. “He was an artist, you know.”

“Yes. A sculptor.”

The Mouse nodded. “But he also drew, ah, pictures. Did you know that?” His small—his beady little eyes blinked at her. His expression was meek, deferential—mouse-like—but she’d swear she saw a spark of something else in his gaze.

Good God! Could the Mouse know about the sketch? Could he be in the sketch?

The thought of Mr. Mousingly participating in an orgy was both ludicrous and appalling.

“I believe sculptors often draw their subjects before they begin work on statues,” she said.

The Mouse shook his head. “But Clarence drew pictures. Scenes. Er, details.”

Jane took another step backward. “I’m sure he did. Few artists work solely in one discipline. My mother paints, but she also draws.” Could she steer the conversation away from Clarence? “Mr. Widmore’s sister is a very accomplished painter, you know. She’s—”

“Have you seen any of Clarence’s sketches lying about?” The Mouse stepped closer; Jane stepped back once more—and onto someone’s foot. She heard a grunt of pain as two gloved, male hands steadied her.

“Oh! I’m so sorry. Please excuse me.” Jane turned quickly and almost bumped into an elegant black waistcoat embroidered with silver threads. She looked up. Viscount Motton smiled down at her.

Oh, my. Her heart slammed into her throat, and her mouth turned as dry as a field in the middle of a summer drought. He was so close. She drew in a deep breath and inhaled his scent—clean linen, eau de cologne, and…male.

He’d been incredibly handsome last night, but he was impossibly handsome now, dressed so elegantly in waistcoat, coat, and cravat.

“L—Lord Motton.”

“Miss Parker-Roth.” His gaze was so intent. He made her feel as if she were the only woman in the room. No, more than that. As if everything else—the orchestra, the ton, everything but the two of them—had faded away.

His eyes grew sharper, hotter. What was he going to do? She held her breath…

He dropped his hold on her and stepped back.

Oh. She wanted to cry with disappointment or frustration or…something. But the extra space between them freed her from her stupor. Awareness and sanity rushed back.

They were in the middle of Lord Palmerson’s ballroom, and she would have kissed the viscount right there in front of half the ton if he’d offered her the opportunity. Good God!

“Well, well. If it isn’t Motton and my little sister.”

Her head snapped around. Damn! Stephen was sauntering toward them, a glass of champagne in his hand. She hoped he hadn’t noted her stupefaction. If he had, she’d never hear the end of it.

“Stephen.” She tried to smile. He was her favorite brother most days. John tended to lecture her far too much, and Nicholas was still up at Oxford—and still too young and full of himself to be pleasant company.

But Stephen was not her favorite brother this evening. “You should be surprised to see me. You were supposed to stop by Widmore House and escort Mama and me to this ball, you know.”

If Stephen had arrived as he was supposed to, she wouldn’t have been subjected to Mama’s worried gaze. It would have been a much pleasanter trip—as long as Stephen hadn’t made note of her distraction. On second thought, she’d take Mama’s worry over Stephen’s teasing any day.

“I do know, and I give you my deepest apologies.” Stephen bowed slightly, looking properly contrite—except for the teasing light in his eyes. “But I see Mama managed to drag you here without my help.”

Jane laughed. She could never stay angry with Stephen. “Yes.” No need to mention there’d been no dragging involved. She angled a glance at Lord Motton. Fortunately, he was looking at Stephen, and Stephen was now looking at…Oh, she’d forgotten Mr. Mousingly. The man was still lingering amidst the greenery.

“What are you doing hiding in the palms there, Mousingly?” Stephen asked.

The Mouse executed a small, jerky bow. “I, ah, was just having a pleasant, brief, er, conversation with Miss Parker-Roth when Lord Motton arrived.”

“Oh? And what were you discussing?”

Heavens, Stephen’s voice had an edge to it. What did he think she’d be discussing with the little man? She opened her mouth to tell him to stop being absurd, but the Mouse was already speaking.

“Nothing. Just this and, er, that. I was on the point of leaving, actually. If you’ll excuse me?” The man bobbed his head and darted off through the palms without giving them the opportunity to reply.

Stephen snorted. “What were you doing hiding in the foliage with that rodent, Janey?”

Why did Stephen sound so accusatory? She looked at Lord Motton; he was frowning as well. “I was not hiding with the man. I was standing here, and he came up to speak to me. Things like that happen at a ball.”

“Don’t be saucy with me, sister mine. I know what happens at balls. And let me ask you this—at how many balls have you seen the Mouse?”

“I don’t know. I don’t pay attention to the man. He’s very forgettable.”

“I can tell you how many,” Stephen said. “None. Zero.”

“What do you mean? I see him everywhere.” He’d been in Town for at least as many Seasons as she had.

“Everywhere but balls.” Stephen shot a significant look at Lord Motton. The viscount’s face was carefully blank.

The men obviously knew something they weren’t sharing with her. How annoying. She snapped open her fan. It was getting infernally hot in here. “So are you going to tell me why he doesn’t go to balls?”

Stephen shrugged, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “He doesn’t dance.”

Lord Motton made an odd noise that sounded like a laugh turned into a cough. Jane scowled at them both and plied her fan faster.

“Zeus, Janey, are you trying to start a gale in here? You’re going to blow us clear across the Channel.”

She’d like to blow Stephen into the Channel. Perhaps she’d just break her fan over his head. She hated being kept in the dark. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing.” Stephen pointed his finger at her. “But here’s something I am telling you—stay away from the Mouse.”

Jane pointed her finger back at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s harmless.”

“Oh, no he’s not.” Stephen glared at her.

Lord Motton cleared his throat. “If I may interrupt this little sibling squabble?” He turned to Jane. “I do believe your brother is correct in this case, Miss Parker-Roth. You should most definitely avoid the man.”

“Why?” Trust the men to band together.

“Because,” Lord Motton said, “I have evidence someone—or several someones—are taking a marked interest in Clarence Widmore’s work.”

“Oh?” This was interesting. “Who besides Lord Ardley?”

The viscount looked as though he was grinding his teeth, but Stephen was the one who hissed at her. “Will you keep your voice down?”

“What, the palms have ears?” But she did glance behind her. No one looked to be within earshot.

“Precisely.” Stephen’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly was the Mouse chatting with you about?”

“Er…” Oh, dear. Perhaps Stephen and Lord Motton did have a point. “Clarence and, well, his drawings.”

“That’s odd. Clarence was a sculptor mainly,” Stephen said.

“Right. But he also drew.” Lord Motton reached into his pocket. “I was looking for you tonight partly to show you this.”

He handed the scrap of paper over to Stephen. Jane tried to steal a look, but Stephen was careful to shield it from her. His eyebrows shot up and he gave a low whistle. “I guess old Clarence did draw once in a while. That’s Ardley and Lady Farthingale.”

“Obviously. And you’ll note this is only part of the full sketch,” Lord Motton said. “There must be other members of the ton depicted.”

“Like the Mouse?” Jane asked. That was the only logical explanation for the man’s questions.

Lord Motton nodded. “He’s not in this portion of the drawing, but, yes, it would seem so. Do you have any idea who else might be involved, Stephen?”

“No, sorry. I’ve heard rumors about a new club—well, not new, precisely. More an old club that’s changing. No one will say much—never more than a word or two, and then whoever is speaking stops, looks around, and changes the subject.”

“Damn.” Lord Motton glanced at Jane. “Your pardon, Miss Parker-Roth.”

Jane waved her hand dismissively. “Please, my lord, don’t regard it.”

He smiled briefly and then turned to point something out to Stephen. “What’s that, do you know?”

Jane tried again to see the drawing, but Stephen held it up, out of her sight.

“It’s a rather well-done rendering of Magnolia grandiflora.” Stephen handed the sketch back. “Clarence was obviously very talented in a number of areas. He could easily have drawn for Curtis’s Botanical Magazine had he wanted to.”

“I see.” Lord Motton put the paper back in his pocket. “And do you happen to know where I could find one of these plants?”

Stephen laughed. “You might try the garden here. Last time I looked, Palmerson had an excellent specimen.”

“Really? Then I think we should—”

“Why, look who’s here!” Lady Lenden came up in a rustle of silk and a choking cloud of lily of the valley, Lady Tarkington behind her. She appeared completely unaware that she had just interrupted the viscount. “Lord Motton and Mr. Parker-Roth! How wonderful. We don’t see enough of you gentlemen, do we, Bella?”

“No, indeed. I believe this is the first time I’ve laid eyes on you two all Season.”

Jane rolled her eyes. It was not as if the women had had many opportunities to encounter Lord Motton and her brother—the Season was barely underway.

Lady Tarkington tapped Stephen on the arm with her fan. “Are you just back from foreign climes with crates full of exotic plants, sir?”

Neither of the women had yet even blinked at Jane. Had she vanished? She looked down. She could still see herself. She reached out to brush one of the palm fronds. It moved. So she hadn’t turned to vapor and disappeared.

“No, Lady Tarkington,” Stephen was saying, “I’ve been here since the Season opened; I suppose our paths just haven’t crossed.”

“Ah, well, we will have to fix that, won’t we, sir?” Lady Tarkington dimpled up at him.

Stephen shrugged. “Unfortunately I leave shortly for Iceland.”

“Oh, dear. What a tragedy! What can we do, Lydia?”

“I don’t know.” Lady Lenden put her hand on Lord Motton’s arm and stroked it. “You aren’t going away as well, are you, Lord Motton?”

Jane had never liked Lady Lenden, but she truly detested her now. The woman had just passed her thirtieth year. She was forty years younger than her husband, the earl, and had done her duty promptly, presenting him with his heir and spare in the first three years of their marriage. She had been amusing herself with other men ever since. It was common knowledge her third child, a daughter, was the product of her liaison with Mr. Addingly.

Lord Motton removed his arm. “Not from London, but I’m afraid I must leave this little group. I was just about to ask Miss Parker-Roth to stand up with me for the next set.” He turned to Jane. “Would you care to dance, Miss Parker-Roth?”

Jane grinned at him. She had lov—admired him for years, but he’d just risen even higher in her estimation. “Why, thank you, yes, my lord. That would be very pleasant.”

“Miss Parker-Roth?” Lady Lenden laughed. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you standing there among the palm fronds.”

Was the woman blind? Jane nodded and smiled politely. She could afford to be gracious—she was going to be dancing with Viscount Motton in a moment.

“Yes, Miss Parker-Roth, how nice to see you.” Lady Tarkington had a slight edge to her overly sweet voice. “We made our come-out together, didn’t we? Seven—no, I suppose it’s going on eight Seasons ago, isn’t it?” She laughed. “Dear me, and I’ve been married to Tarkington six years already—how time does fly!” She paused, adopting a vaguely pitying look. “You never did marry, did you?”

A host of replies occurred to Jane, but she realized they would all make her sound like a harridan. She had sisters, though. She knew how to play this game. She smiled as pleasantly as she could. “I haven’t sworn off the wedded state, Lady Tarkington. I just have not been as fortunate as you in finding true love.”

Ha. Tarkington was a fat, old, ugly spider of a man, whose only redeeming feature was his title.

Lady Tarkington’s smile turned brittle. She was clearly trying to think of a suitably caustic rejoinder she could sugarcoat sufficiently so the men wouldn’t notice its acidity. Lady Lenden came to her assistance.

“Time marches on, Miss Parker-Roth, as I’m sure your looking glass has told you. Not all of us can wait for love.”

Jane raised her eyebrows and looked Lady Lenden in the eye. “I know, but I do admire how you’re making the best of things.”

Lady Lenden and Lady Tarkington both sucked in their breath; Stephen turned his sudden bark of laughter into a cough.

Lord Motton smiled briefly. “If you’ll excuse us? I believe the next set is forming.” He took Jane’s hand, placed it on his arm, and directed her toward the dance floor before the ladies could recover from her effrontery.

“Are we actually going to dance?” Miss Parker-Roth looked surprised when they did, indeed, join the couples gathered on the ballroom floor.

“I think it advisable, don’t you? We did tell the ladies that was our intention. No need to further ruffle their feathers.” Ah, excellent. A waltz. He put his hand on her back. She blushed and dropped her eyes to his cravat.

She was such an intriguing mix of fearlessness and timidity. She’d stood up to those two harpies just now without any apparent hesitation, and she’d certainly been brave—and bold—last night. He grinned as they moved through the opening steps. Definitely bold. Could he persuade her to be even bolder?

He glanced over the room—and happened to meet Aunt Winifred’s eye. Damn and blast. He looked away immediately, but the damage had already been done. Winifred was sure to have noted his expression, which, given his thoughts at that particular moment, must have been markedly lascivious.

“I don’t like either of those women,” Jane was saying. “I never have.”

He directed their steps so fat Mr. Clifton and his partner were between them and Aunt Winifred. Were the other aunts lurking about the room somewhere? He’d thought one of their ancient beaus had escorted them to Miss Welton’s musical evening. “They are not especially popular.”

Miss Parker-Roth snorted at his cravat. “Oh, yes they are.”

“Excuse me?”

She finally looked up at him. “Admit it. They are quite popular with the male members of the ton.”

He choked back a laugh at Jane’s innocent double entendre. Yes, those particular ladies had had frequent intimate contact with many of the ton’s male members, though not his. “Why do you say that?”

She shrugged. “I’ve watched men watch them. As Lady Tarkington so kindly pointed out, I’ve endured more than a few Seasons. You must have noticed Lady Lenden, in particular, has two exceedingly large—”

Miss Parker-Roth’s sense of decorum finally caught up with her tongue. She flushed violently.

He couldn’t resist the temptation. “Yes? Two exceedingly large…?”

She frowned fiercely. “You know.”

“I do?” He’d danced them into a less crowded spot where they were less likely to be overheard.

“Yes. You are male.”

“Ah.” He was suddenly feeling exceedingly male—almost painfully male—and the sensation had nothing to do with Lady Lenden or Lady Tarkington. “But I confess I’m not entirely certain what you’re getting at. Two arms? Eyes? Br—”

“Yes!”

“—ows?”

“No!” She blew out a sharp, short breath. “You are being purposefully obtuse.”

“I am?” Miss Parker-Roth was just about emitting sparks.

He had a sudden overwhelming desire to see what kind of sparks the lady could emit in his bedchamber…in his bed…

Oh, Zeus. Aunt Winifred was arguing with Aunt Gertrude and gesturing in his direction. He swung Miss Parker-Roth through a turn that put them behind a sturdy pillar.

“Yes, you are,” Miss Parker-Roth was saying. “I have brothers, Lord Motton. I am familiar with the male thought processes. John may not show much interest in females unless one is speaking of botany, but Stephen…” She rolled her eyes. “You know Stephen is called the King of Hearts.”

“He is a very accomplished card player.” And his skill with cards was one reason he’d got that nickname. Motton was not going to discuss any other possible reasons for the moniker with Stephen’s sister.

Miss Parker-Roth gave him a very long, skeptical look. He smiled blandly back at her. It was past time to redirect the conversation.

“Miss Parker-Roth, I assure you I am not an admirer of either lady—nor is Stephen, for that matter.”

“Then why did they come rushing up to you like that?”

“Hmm. That is an interesting question.” Why had the women sought him out? He could understand them looking for Stephen, even though Stephen had long ago made it clear he did not dally with married women. Stephen was the King of Hearts. Women found him devilishly attractive for some reason. But women, as a rule, did not flock to Viscount Motton. Oh, he’d had the occasional pleasant liaison, but he’d never had Stephen’s success. And he’d never been interested in furthering his acquaintance with ladies of the ton.

A young cub and his giggling partner galloped toward them, and he pulled Jane close to avoid a collision. Her breasts brushed his waistcoat; he breathed in a light scent of lemons. His unruly cock responded immediately.

The music had better not end soon. Aunt Winifred’s eagle eye would be sure to note the bulge in his breeches.

Apparently, too apparently at the moment, he was now interested—very interested—in furthering his acquaintance with one particular lady of the ton.

“I don’t know why they accosted us.” Perhaps he was wrong; perhaps it was only Stephen they’d been seeking. He glanced over at the palms. Stephen had left—probably to lighten some peers’ pockets in the card room—but the women were still there, talking furiously to each other, their lips shielded by their fans, their eyes…

Damn. They were watching him, ready to pounce the moment the set was over. Now he had to dodge the harpies as well as the aunts. Perhaps he would hide in the foliage.

Speaking of hiding and foliage…“Why were you in the greenery with the Mouse?”

Jane scowled at him. “I wasn’t in the greenery with the Mouse.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Miss Parker-Roth, you were speaking to the man when I arrived.”

“Well, yes, I was. But I wasn’t in the foliage with him.” Lord Motton looked extremely displeased. His eyebrows had shot up and his mouth was twisted as if he’d just bitten into a lemon—or had had a poker shoved up his…ahem. “I was there, and he just came along and started talking to me.”

“About Clarence’s drawings.”

“Y—yes.” She had been so focused on Lady Lenden and Lady Tarkington, she’d forgotten about the Mouse. Their conversation had been very odd. Well, the fact that they were having a conversation at all had been the oddest part; she could not remember a single time during her many Seasons that she’d exchanged more than a brief greeting with the man. And then there’d been the subject matter they’d been discussing…“I do think the Mouse knew about Clarence’s sketch. How do you suppose he found out about it?”

“That is the question, isn’t it?” Lord Motton was frowning now. “Or one of the questions.” He spun her through a turn. “But perhaps more importantly, why is he—and Lady Lenden and Lady Tarkington, I suspect—so interested in it?”

“Yes.” Jane considered those issues—or she tried to consider them. It was very difficult to concentrate on anything other than Lord Motton. He was so close. She could see the very faint shadow of his beard and the tiny laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and his mouth. And she was surrounded by his scent; she breathed in deeply and let it fill her lungs.

The music wrapped around her, weaving its magical spell. She and Lord Motton moved together so effortlessly, and his hand on the small of her back was both comforting and tantalizing. She never wanted the waltz to end, but it would end all too soon.

“What are you going to do next, my lord? We must do something. I have not forgotten Miss Barnett’s peril.”

He brought her a little closer. Lovely. “I am not so concerned about Miss Barnett’s peril as yours, Miss Parker-Roth. You must be very careful.”

“Oh?” A thread of alarm twisted through the warmth she felt at his obvious concern.

“Yes. I plan to speak to your brother about the situation.”

Her brother wasn’t going to be much help. “You know Stephen is leaving for Iceland, and he can’t change his plans at this late date. Too many arrangements have been made.”

“I realize that. I’m sure he’ll agree to entrust you—and your mother, of course—to my care.”

“Oh.” Excitement coiled in her gut. What exactly did that mean? At a minimum she would be seeing much more of Lord Motton.

She bit the inside of her cheeks to keep from grinning.

He swung her through one last turn. As the music ended, she glanced across the ballroom. Lady Lenden and Lady Tarkington were glaring at her. She tried not to smirk at them.

She would definitely like to know if they appeared in Clarence’s drawing. “Are you going to look for another piece of the sketch tonight, my lord?”

Lord Motton nodded. “Yes. As you heard Stephen say, Clarence drew a picture of some flower. As soon as I return you to your mother—”

Jane grabbed Lord Motton’s sleeve. “Oh, no. You are not dumping me with Mama. I’m coming with you.”

“But Miss Parker-Roth—”

“You need me, my lord. How else are you going to find the Magnolia grandiflora?” She grinned. She had him there. “I may not be a plant expert like John and Stephen, but I couldn’t live in the same house with them without picking up some basic facts.”

Lord Motton snorted. “I do not need you, Miss Parker-Roth. I can look for the flower myself. As your brother said, Clarence was extremely detailed in his drawing.”

She should let the arrogant man wander around the garden all night, but Lady Lenden and Lady Tarkington were coming their way. If he went out in the dark alone, he wouldn’t be alone for long.

“That would be an excellent plan, Lord Motton, except for the fact that Magnolia grandiflora doesn’t bloom for another month or two.”

“Oh.” Lord Motton’s expression of dismay was comical. “I see. Well then, I shall look for the leaves. Clarence drew those, too.”

“My lord, it is dark in the garden and to an untrained eye, many leaves look the same.”

“Well…”

“And furthermore, you cannot be so unchivalrous as to abandon me to those two harridans.”

“What?” He looked in the direction Jane indicated. Lady Lenden and Lady Tarkington were now only twenty yards away.

“Nor do you want to find yourself alone and unprotected in the garden should either of them try to compromise your virtue.”

He laughed. “Too true. You win your point, Miss Parker-Roth. Come on.”

He put her hand on his arm and they stepped out into the darkness.