The Naked Viscount (14 page)

“That's ridiculous.” Jane's voice wavered slightly. Was he frightening her? Good. She'd certainly frightened him. When he'd looked around Easthaven's ballroom and had been unable to see her, his heart had seized in his chest.

“You need to be careful.” He shook her slightly to emphasize his words. “You cannot wander off like you just did.”

Her eyes widened. “I wandered off?”

“Yes. You left the ballroom.”

“With my brother.” She looked at him as if he had escaped from Bedlam. Perhaps he had. He certainly felt mad. “I went to the refreshment room with my brother.”

Hearing her say it, his fear did sound irrational. What could happen to her in Lord Easthaven's refreshment room with Stephen nearby?

It
was
irrational—but he was still afraid. He had to convince her of the danger. If he knew she took the threat seriously, he could relax a little.

She grinned at him, a cocky little expression. “Do you share Mr. Spindel's fear of the lobster patties?”

The damn saucy wench! How dare she dismiss—belittle!—his concern? He was not some bloody little worm like Spindel.

His grip tightened and she sucked in her breath. He was hurting her. He didn't want to hurt her, but he wanted to do something. He relaxed his hold, but anger, frustration, fear, and, yes, lust still flooded his veins.

He couldn't hit her, as he would if she were a man. He couldn't shake her until her head flopped on her neck. He couldn't shout at her here on Easthaven's terrace.

He did the only thing he could do. He kissed her.

It wasn't a gentle kiss; he was too consumed with pent-up emotion to be gentle. He wanted to force her to believe him, to promise to be cautious and alert at all times. He wanted to keep her safe, to guard her, to make her…not afraid of him, no, but compel her to bow to his superior strength and experience.

He didn't frighten her. She was startled, yes. He felt her stiffen; her mouth hardened and her hands moved to his chest to push him away.

He wouldn't allow her to push him away. He'd—

God.

She changed her tactics. She softened against him, and her fingers slid up to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck.

It wasn't surrender, it was seduction—and he was completely and utterly seduced. His anger, his fear and frustration, his lust coalesced into a red haze of need that blinded him to all but her taste, her touch, her scent.

Her lips parted, letting him into her moist heat. His hands slid down her back to pull her hips tight against his hard, aching cock. He wanted her naked and under him on a soft bed, but he'd settle for anything he could get, even if it was only—

He jerked his head up. Bloody hell! Had he actually been thinking of throwing Jane's skirts up around her waist and taking her against the balustrade on Lord Easthaven's terrace with half the
ton
just steps away from them?

“What?” Jane looked disoriented by his abrupt movement. She also looked delightfully debauched. Her eyes were dreamy, out of focus; her mouth, soft; her lips, open; her breath came in little pants; her lovely bosom heaving slightly.

She blinked. Her gaze sharpened and she smiled, tugging on his neck and tilting her chin. “More.”

The word, dark and feminine and tempting as sin, shot straight to his groin.

He forced himself to step back, breaking her hold. The night air was pleasant, but the inch his movement inserted between them felt as chill against his heated skin as an ice bath—which was precisely what he needed.

His voice sounded far harsher than he intended. “See? A ball can be a very dangerous affair.”

The sting of her hand on his cheek actually felt good. It knocked a modicum of sense into his overheated, randy brain.

“Lord Motton is taking a marked interest in you, Jane.”

Jane stopped fidgeting with the bow on her bonnet and met her mother's beaming gaze in the mirror. Oh, dear. Mama was making wedding plans already. “He's just interested in art.”

Mama snorted. “That's not what the gossips were saying at the ball last night. That's not what his aunts are saying—or my own eyes are telling me.”

Jane looked back at her bow and fussed with it some more. “I'm sure he also wishes to escape his aunts.”

“He could escape them just as easily—no, more easily—by retreating to White's.”

Mama shouldn't get her hopes up. She hadn't been on the terrace last night when her darling daughter had left the imprint of her hand on the viscount's face.

“He is merely being a polite host.” She glanced at her watch. How long had she been sitting at her dressing table? She never spent hours perfecting her appearance, yet here she was, obsessing over a bloody bow.

She was supposed to be downstairs. Lord Motton must be checking his own watch, wondering what was keeping her.

And what
was
keeping her? An acute case of cold feet. She squeezed her eyes closed, but opened them quickly. Better focus on this stupid bow. Her fingers were not normally so clumsy.

Fingers…dear God! How could she have been so stupid as to have slapped Lord Motton last night? True, the man had been an idiot—getting angry that she'd gone with Stephen to the refreshment room would be completely infuriating if it weren't so ridiculous. And then he'd taken outrageous liberties—but she'd just about begged him to do that. She hadn't struggled at all. Hell, she'd pulled his head down to her, hadn't she?

How
could
she have been so bold?

“He's being far more than a polite host,” Mama said.

“He's being kind to his friends' sister then.”

She should have been frightened. Edmund was far stronger than she—she'd felt that clearly when he'd put his hands on her shoulders. She'd been trapped, completely at his mercy.

But she hadn't been frightened. She knew he wouldn't hurt her. He might break her heart—
would
break her heart come the end of the Season, or sooner, when they solved Clarence's puzzle—but that was her fault. She wasn't guarding her heart carefully.

She made a face at herself in the mirror. Did she regret not being more careful? No. The pain, when it came, was just the price for all the pleasure she was learning now. And oh, his kisses were
so
full of pleasure. The feel of his lips on hers, his tongue deep in her mouth, his hard body pressed so tightly to hers…

Lord, she was going to spontaneously combust with embarrassment…or something else.
Why
had she slapped him—and hard, too? He'd had to stay on the terrace long after she'd left, waiting for the mark of her fingers on his cheek to fade.

And now she was going to visit this art gallery with him. Spend a number of hours in his company…

Even if he didn't hate her, he must be heartily wishing her at Jericho.

“Perhaps Lord Motton
is
merely being kind and polite, Jane,” Mama said, “though I don't for a moment believe that. But why are you accompanying him? I almost fell over in a dead faint when you went to the Royal Academy. I've never known you to take an interest in art.” She raised her brows significantly. “I've certainly never been able to make you do so.”

“Um.” She couldn't tell Mama the next piece of Clarence's sketch might be in the Harley Street gallery. If it weren't for that—

No, she wouldn't fool herself. Even if she and Edmund weren't searching for another piece of the sketch, she'd be eager to go on this excursion because it meant more time with him.

She glanced at the door—the
unlocked
door—connecting their rooms. She'd tossed and turned all night…

“I suppose I'm just not an…interesting enough companion, mmm?” Mama said.

Jane hunched a shoulder and avoided Mama's interested gaze in the mirror. She should hurry with her toilet just to escape Mama's chatter.

“What gallery are you visiting today, Jane?”

An easy enough question. “The one on Harley Street.”

“What?”
Mama's jaw dropped and her eyes looked ready to start from their sockets. She turned white as a ghost. Whatever was the matter?

Jane leapt up to grab her hands. “Mama! You look ready to swoon. Come, sit down.”

Mama stumbled to take the chair Jane had just vacated. “Harley Street?” she said faintly. “Did you say Harley Street?”

“Yes. I don't see—” Good God! Mama couldn't be in Clarence's sketch, could she?

Impossible. Mama was completely devoted to Da and had been for the thirty-odd years they'd been married. And even if she hadn't been so devoted, she spent very little time in London. There must be something else behind her odd humor. What?

“You really shouldn't go to the Harley Street gallery, Jane. You wouldn't like it at all.”

“Don't be silly, Mama.” She didn't expect to like it—or, she expected to like it as much as she liked any art gallery. “Lord Motton has already made his plans. He said he even asked you the other day what the gallery's hours are.”

“Yes, he might have, but I didn't think he meant to take
you
there.”

Of course Mama would not think a handsome peer would be taking her plain-looking daughter anywhere. Jane straightened.

“I'm going, Mama,” she said. She just hoped she didn't sound as nervous as she felt. “I daresay Lord Motton is impatiently waiting for me downstairs.”

Mama dropped her head into her hands and moaned.

“I'll send Lily up to attend to you. I'm sure you'll feel much more the thing once you've had a bracing cup of tea and perhaps a nap.”

“Ohh.” Mama's hand darted out and grabbed Jane's wrist.

“What is it?”

“Tell Mr. Bollingbrook—he'll answer the door at the gallery, though you may have to wait for him to get there, since he'll likely be painting in the studio.” Mama paused and took a deep breath. “Tell him you are my daughter. But I'm sure he'll recognize you. I did drag you there a few years ago, didn't I?”

“Yes, I—”

“Right. Tell Mr. Bollingbrook who you are. But as I say, he's sure to recognize you—he's got a painter's eye for detail, of course, and a good memory—and tell him that I said he must close the blue room.” Mama finally met her eye. “You must remember that particularly—close the
blue
room. Do you have that?”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“Good. I'm off to lie down.” Mama pushed herself to her feet. “Do have a pleasant visit. Just avoid the blue room. Believe me when I tell you you do not want to view that room.”

“Yes, I—” She was talking to air. Mama had already left.

What the hell was in the blue room?

 

Motton tried to concentrate on his horses—there seemed to be an inordinate number of careless drivers on the roads today—but his attention kept wandering to the woman by his side. He couldn't decide what to say to her.

“Are you comfortable?” Not very scintillating, but Jane
was
squirming around in her seat.

“You asked me that before,” she said.

He had, but she didn't need to point it out.

He pulled the horses up a little to avoid hitting a damn high-perch phaeton. The idiot driver had taken the turn from Brook Street with nary a glance in his direction.

“Eek!” Jane grabbed the side of the curricle and his arm. “Will you be careful?”

Bloody hell, that was just too much. “
I
wasn't the one being careless.”

She threw him a quick look and then stared straight ahead again.

He felt his teeth set and his jaw tighten. Why did the woman have to be so damned prickly? He only wanted to keep her safe.

And he could start with keeping her safe from himself.

Damn. He forced himself to take a deep breath and relax his jaw. He knew he owed her an apology—had known it from the moment he'd dragged her onto Easthaven's terrace. He'd tossed and turned half the night composing the damn thing.

And the other half of the night he'd lain stiff as a board—and hard as a rock—harder than Pan's plaster penis, wondering if he could concoct some excuse to use the bloody connecting door.

“Miss Parker—”

“My lord—”

“Damn.” What was the matter with Londoners today? Now a flower cart had toppled over. If his team wasn't so well trained—and if he wasn't such an excellent driver—they might have toppled over themselves.

“Well done, my lord,” Jem said from his tiger's perch.

“Thank you, Jem.” Was the woman next to him going to congratulate him on his handling of the ribbons? Of course not. “Are you all right, Miss Parker-Roth?”

“Barely. I almost ended up on the pavement that time.”

He would not snap at her. She'd had a bit of a fright—as had he. Silence was the best policy. If he didn't say anything, he would have nothing to regret.

How was he going to impress upon her the need for caution? If she was right, they would find another part of the sketch at the Harley Street gallery and be that much closer to solving the puzzle—and perhaps discovering Satan's identity. Things could only get more dangerous.

He heard a sigh and glanced over at her.

She met his eyes and smiled briefly. “I'm sorry for being so snappish, my lord. I didn't sleep well last night.”

Wonder of wonders—an apology of sorts! And now it was his turn. “I hope I wasn't the cause of your insomnia.”

Bloody hell—she flushed. He
had
been keeping her awake. It was only fair, as she'd definitely been disturbing his slumber. He directed his gaze back over his horses' ears. “And I need to ask your forgiveness for my behavior last night on Lord Easthaven's terrace. It was unconscionable. I heartily regret it.”

“You do?”

Damn, did she sound hurt? No, it must be his imagination. “Of course I do.”

They traveled along in silence for a few moments. They were almost at Harley Street.

“Do you regret all of it?” she asked in a small voice.

“What?” He swiveled his gaze to stare at her. She was plucking at her skirt. She glanced up at him, and then went back to examining her dress.

“Do you regret all of your behavior last night, or is there some of it that you”—she cleared her throat—“don't regret?”

“Er…” What the hell was her point? He had a very bad feeling he was going to be in trouble no matter what he said. “I sincerely regret causing you discomfort.”

“Oh. Well, that's all right, then. I didn't feel any discomfort”—she shrugged—“except after we got home and I couldn't get to sleep.”

“Ah.” He would have overshot Harley Street if Jem hadn't spoken up. He took the turn less skillfully than he liked. “You did slap me, you know. That gave me the distinct impression—both literally and figuratively—that you were unhappy with me.”

“Oh. Yes. Well.” She glanced at him again, a bright flush covering her cheeks. “I do apologize about that. I should not have resorted to violence, but you can be extremely infuriating. I do not like being taught a lesson in such a fashion.”

“Taught a lesson?” He'd been teaching her a lesson? No. The lesson he'd most like to teach her required a locked door and a nice soft bed.

“You know—about being cautious.”

“Ah, yes. Cautious.” She should be far more cautious with him, but he wasn't about to say that. In fact, an insistent part of him would like to urge her to throw caution to the wind.

He shook his head in a largely vain attempt to dislodge his lust. He needed to focus on the subject at hand. This was the perfect opening to stress the danger of their situation—the danger that had nothing to do with soft beds. “You
do
need to be cautious, Jane. Things could get even more dangerous if we find”—he didn't want to mention their goal, even though he trusted Jem—“what you think we will.”

“I'm sure we'll find it.” She smiled and then looked off to the right. “Oh, see. There's the gallery.”

Lord Motton pulled up and gave Jem the reins. Then he swung down and went to help Jane. As soon as her feet touched the pavement, she strode up to the gallery door and rapped soundly with the knocker. Nothing happened.

The viscount took the knocker from her and pounded harder on the door. They waited. “Your mother said the gallery was open today, but only a deaf man could not have heard my knock.”

“Mama also said Mr. Bollingbrook might be in the studio painting. I'm sure he'll be here shortly.”

Lord Motton huffed impatiently and clasped his hands behind his back. “I don't care for this exposed position.”

“What?”

“We are standing here on the street for anyone to observe. It is not safe.” He looked at his watch. “We'll give this Bollingbrook fellow a few more minutes and then we are leaving.”

“Oh, for God's sake, will you—”

The door swung open. A hunchbacked bald man in a smock glared up at them. He had a long green streak across his forehead and a blue splotch on the side of his nose.

“What do you want?” he snarled. “Speak up. Paint's drying. I've got no time to waste.”

“Mr. Bollingbrook?” Jane spoke quickly before Lord Motton could vent his obvious spleen.

“Aye. And who are you?”

“Sir—” The viscount looked as if steam were going to emerge from his ears. Jane stepped in front of him and raised her voice.

“Jane Parker-Roth, Cecilia Parker-Roth's daughter, and—”

“Oh.” Mr. Bollingbrook nodded and stepped aside so they could enter. “Why the hell didn't you say so in the first place?”