The Naked Viscount (15 page)

“Now see here, sir—”

Mr. Bollingbrook was already walking away. “Close the door behind you,” he said over his shoulder. “And you can let yourselves out when you're done.”

Jane made the mistake of looking up at Lord Motton. His expression was an interesting mix of anger and stupefaction. She slapped her hand over her mouth, but couldn't muffle her giggle completely.

He looked down at her and joined her laughter. “That man is very odd.”

Jane shrugged. “He's an artist.”

Lord Motton pulled the door firmly shut and took her arm. “Your mother is not odd.”

“She can be when she's deep in the midst of creating.” Jane let Lord Motton direct her into the first room, which was painted a muted yellow. This gallery had originally been a town house, so, unlike the Royal Academy, the paintings here were hung in a series of regular-sized rooms. She glanced around. No Pan. Damn.

“Life at the Priory is very interesting when Mama has a new painting and Da is in the middle of writing a sonnet,” she said. “Poor John. He often had to act as father and mother for the younger ones, because Mama and Da were off communing with their muses.”

They strolled past a painting of a bored-looking child with a large, ugly dog.

“John has always struck me as very serious,” Motton said. “Perhaps it's his nature to take charge.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps he had to become serious to deal with the chaos around him.” Jane glanced up at Lord Motton. “Were you a serious child, my lord?”

“Yes, I suppose I was.” There had been nothing to be lighthearted about in his youth.

“You don't have any brothers or sisters, do you?”

“No, nor any parents any longer.” He forced himself to smile. “But plenty of aunts.”

Jane smiled back at him. “Definitely plenty of aunts—but they don't live with you normally, do they?”

“No, thank God.” He inspected a rather pedestrian depiction of a fruit bowl. “I would probably strangle them in short order if I had to spend more than a few weeks with them.”

“But you love them.”

It wasn't a question. And Jane was right—he did love his aunts, no matter how maddening they were. They—especially Winifred—had provided the occasional bright spots in his mostly grim upbringing.

They wandered into the next room, this one a light green. He did a quick survey. No Pan. Jane stopped to study a misty painting of the Thames.

What would it have been like to have been part of a large family like the Parker-Roths? To have numerous sisters and brothers and parents who liked their children and one another?

His parents had been completely disinterested in his existence. No, that wasn't strictly accurate. They definitely wanted him to keep existing, else they'd be put to the great inconvenience of getting another heir. But as long as he kept breathing, neither his father nor his mother had much cared what happened to him. His father was too busy whoring in London; his mother, too enamored of her pills and potions and other quackery.

He'd always wanted a brother, or even a sister, but he'd learned early on—it was probably one of the first lessons he'd learned—that there was no point in hoping for the impossible. No one got to choose his family.

He looked down at Jane, who was now frowning at a painting of a fat cherub and an emaciated hermit. He couldn't choose his birth family, but he could choose a wife and make a new family with her. With Jane?

The thought was seductive.

“I suppose we should hurry along, shouldn't we?” she said. “We aren't really here to admire the artwork.”

“Shh.” He glanced around. Fortunately there was no one else in sight. Still, the hard floors and walls would carry the sound. It was possible, though unlikely, someone else was in the gallery. “We don't want to raise anyone's suspicions,” he murmured by her ear. Mmm. She smelled of lemon.

She raised her eyebrows and looked around the deserted room.

“Remember, it pays to be cautious.” If he leaned just a little closer, he could brush her cheek with…

Cautious. He was supposed to be cautious—and alert. He took Jane's arm again and urged her into the next chamber.

She stopped on the threshold. “This is the blue room.” Her voice sounded odd—almost shocked.

He looked at the walls. Yes, they were painted blue, but it was a pleasant enough shade. “What's the matter?”

“Mama told me to avoid the blue room. She was quite adamant about it.”

“Oh?” He looked around again. It was just another room with paintings. No sculpture—no Pan.

“Yes.” Jane walked into the room—she was apparently not the most obedient daughter. “Something about this room—oh, no!”

“Jane!” What the hell was the matter? Jane was staring—gaping, really—at a large painting. She turned bright red, then deathly white. Then she made a strangled sound and ran for the nearest exit. There were two closed doors—she jerked one open and disappeared through it.

“Jane!” He looked at the painting that had so disturbed her. Yes, it was of a naked man, but half the paintings in the gallery depicted the human figure in partial or total undress. Jane was not a prude—she'd certainly not reacted with such consternation when she'd encountered the Pan statues, and they were far more salacious than this.

He stepped closer and examined the work more carefully. This man looked to be older than most of the gallery subjects—in his late fifties, perhaps. He was reclining on a sofa, facing the viewer, one hand supporting his head, the other resting on his left knee. His legs were flopped open—and the artist did not believe in fig leaves.

Hmm. Motton focused on the face, since obviously he'd not be acquainted with any of the fellow's other body parts. The man did look oddly familiar. He'd swear they'd never met, but something about him…Was it the eyes? The shape of the face? The painting reminded him of—

Good God!

He looked—yes, the work was signed: C. Parker-Roth.

This must be Jane's father.

Oh, damn. He'd best see how she was—if she wasn't already halfway home. He frowned. Surely she wouldn't have left without him? He strode toward the door, threw it open—and almost collided with Jane.

“It's a closet,” she said.

“I see that. Are you all right?”

She nodded. “It was just a shock seeing Da that way. I mean, I've been in Mama's studio at home—though I usually do avoid it—so I probably saw that painting while she was working on it.” Jane turned bright red. “Well, not
while
she was working on it, obviously—while Da was actually, er, posing. They lock the door then, thank God.” She took a deep, shuddery breath. “I just wasn't expecting to see it in public, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, and your mother must have known, too, since she told you to stay out of this room. I do think she should have told you explicitly what the problem was though, so you weren't taken unawares.”

“I suppose she should have, but Mama is oddly reticent about some things. She probably didn't want me to know the painting wasn't still tucked away in her studio.” Jane shook her head. “I wonder if Da knows? Though perhaps he doesn't mind. Men are different from women, are they not?”

“Er, yes.” He'd not care to have his cock on display for anyone and everyone to gawk at, but—he looked over Jane's shoulder. What was that in the shadows? Something white…

Jane straightened her bonnet and sighed. “I think I am ready to return home, if you don't mind. I must have misinterpreted Clarence's drawing, though I was so certain—”

“Jane.”

“What? Are you going to let me out of this closet or not?” She felt very…she wasn't certain how she felt. Embarrassed. Annoyed. Confused. Would it have been better if she hadn't been with Lord Motton?

What was she going to say when she saw Mama—or Da?

“Look behind you, over by that ripped canvas.”

She sighed. “Oh, very well.” She turned and scanned the shadows. There was a stool, a ladder, a broom, a broken frame…ah, and there was the canvas and beside it, barely visible, something white, something that looked like a hard round knob, just like the head of—“Pan's penis!”

She lunged and grabbed the knob, pushing the old canvas out of the way. Pan grinned up at her. “I was right—he
is
here.” She grasped his member with both hands and turned. This penis came off more easily than the one in Lord Palmerson's garden, probably because it hadn't stood out in the rain and the wind and the dirt for who knows how long. She reached down inside, slid out a folded paper, and held it up triumphantly. “Lo—”

Lord Motton clapped his hand over her mouth. “Shh. Listen.”

She listened. Footsteps, coming toward them.

The viscount pulled the closet door shut. “Give me the paper.”

She didn't want to give up her prize, but it was suddenly so dark, she was afraid she'd drop it. It was probably safer in his pocket. She felt for his hand—it truly was pitch black in the closet—and gave him the sketch. She heard rustling—he must be putting it in his pocket—and then his hand found hers again. He pulled her to the very back of the closet.

“Ow.” She stubbed her toe on something hard. “How can you see where you're going?”

“
Will
you be quiet?” Lord Motton hissed in her ear. The words tickled; she had to swallow a giggle—and how she could even consider giggling in such a situation was a mystery. They might be discovered at any moment—and she did not care for enclosed, dark spaces in the slightest.

Apparently being enclosed with a large, warm man made the situation more bearable.

“I have excellent night vision.” He was still whispering in her ear. She'd like his lips to move to her cheek and her lips and—“We'll hide as best we can behind the canvas and other debris. Hurry.” He pulled her down with him.

“Ohh.” She lost her balance, knocking something crashing to the floor and landing on top of Lord Motton.

“Oof.”
He flinched. His hand pushed her knee away; it had landed between his legs…high between his legs…maybe on a very sensitive spot.

“I'm so sorry.” She tried to scramble off, but his arm came around her to clamp her against him.

“Be still.” He shifted a little so his body now shielded hers from the door—she thought. She really couldn't see her hand in front of her face. “It's all right. You didn't hurt me.”

He must be telling the truth or else he had superhuman control. She'd never forget the time she'd accidentally hit Stephen in the crotch with a cricket ball. He'd fallen to the ground writhing in agony, unable to utter a word—but the look in his eye told her she'd best not be within sight when he recovered.

“Oh, er, I'm glad. I really am so sorry.”

“Don't give it another thought.”

“Are you certain you aren't hurt?”

“I'm fine.”

She nodded and tried to quiet her breathing. “Do you think they heard the thing I knocked over?”

He actually chuckled! “Unless they're deaf, they did.”

“Ohh, damn.”

“Shh.” He cupped her head and pressed it against his chest. How could he be so calm? His heart was beating slowly and steadily, as if he were sitting in the drawing room, while hers was trying to leap out of her body. It was a wonder the people in the gallery couldn't hear it, too.

Oh, God. What was going to happen when they opened the door and found her? How was she going to explain being sprawled on a closet floor, tangled up with Lord Motton like this? She'd—

The doorknob rattled. Oh, damn, oh, damn, oh, damn. She bit her lip to keep from making a sound. She must be still, like a statue. So still—

The door opened.

“I swear I heard something, Albert.”

Her head jerked up. “That's—”

Lord Motton's mouth came down on hers, cutting off her words—and any desire to speak or think or worry about the fact that her mother was standing just a few feet away.

“It was probably a rat.” That was Bollingbrook's voice. Motton kept one ear cocked as he explored Jane's mouth. Kissing appeared to be the most efficient way to keep her quiet—as long as she didn't start moaning. He must guard against that. He truly would prefer Mrs. Parker-Roth not find them in this particular position.

“A rat! You have rats here?”

“This is London, Cecilia. Of course we have rats.”

There was a scraping noise and some cursing. “Damn ladder.”

“Well, you've something in the way.” It sounded as if Jane's mother bent over. “What in the world is this?”

“Looks like a mammoth prick, don't it?” Mr. Bollingbrook sniggered. “I know you've seen one before—that's why you're here, ain't it? To cover up John's—”

“Yes, yes, but one doesn't usually have a disembodied penis rolling around the closet floor.”

“It probably fell off Pan—maybe that was the noise we heard.”

“Pan?”

“One of Clarence's randy gods. You remember when he made all those statues?”

“Of course. Cleopatra was sure he'd run mad.”

“He stuck me with one—and I stuck it in this closet the moment the front door hit his arse. Here, give me that.”

Bollingbrook must have flung the penis to the back of the closet; something hit Motton on the shoulder. He flinched. The damn thing was hard; he'd have quite a bruise. Thank God it hadn't hit him in the head.

There was more scraping and grunting.

“Do you want me to help you with that, Albert?”

“I can manage the blasted ladder. You have the sheet?”

“Yes, of course. And some wire. It will be a simple matter to hook the wire over the frame and cover the painting. I do it all the time at home.”

“I'll bet you do.”

More scraping and cursing. Motton broke the kiss. There was now enough light to see Jane's face clearly. “Shh,” he breathed. “They've left the door open.”

Jane nodded, and he turned slightly so he could look over his shoulder. Good. They were completely hidden.

“I tried to get here as quickly as I could once I discovered Jane was coming,” Mrs. Parker-Roth was saying, “but I had the devil of a time getting a hackney. I was hoping I'd run into them in one of the other rooms. You're sure Jane and Lord Motton have not seen the painting already?”

“I have no bloody idea. I didn't follow them around like some damn stray dog. Here, steady the ladder, will you?”

“But where are they?”

“I don't know. Maybe they've already come and gone.” Bollingbrook's voice sounded like it was coming from higher up; he must have climbed the ladder.

“I made a point of instructing Jane to tell you to close this room.”

“Well, she didn't tell me. Here, hand me the sheet.” Motton heard the swish of cloth and a little fumbling sound. “All right. Now I have to move the ladder. I'm not going to risk breaking my head. Why the bloody hell did you have to make the painting life-sized?”

Mrs. Parker-Roth let that comment pass. “I
do
hope Jane didn't stray in here.”

Bollingbrook grunted. “How long do you expect me to leave this drape up?”

“It would be safest if it stayed in place until we return to the Priory.”

“You want me to cover a painting for the rest of the Season? Why even bother to leave the bloody thing hanging? Art was meant to be seen, Cecilia.”

“Yes, but—”

“I know—I'll use it to raise money. Charge people a penny a peek, shall I? John would find that highly amusing.”

“Oh, I know the situation is absurd, but how was I to guess Jane would suddenly take an interest in art?”

Bollingbrook chuckled. “More likely she's taken an interest in that buck who came here with her. She was gazing up at him like he was a bloody god.”

Jane moaned; Motton pressed her face gently against his chest, muffling the sound. Had Jane really looked at him that way?

“It would be an excellent match,” Mrs. Parker-Roth said. “I was beginning to lose hope Jane would find a suitable man. She can be rather critical, you know.”

“Well, the specter of spinsterhood causes many a maiden to lower her sights.”

“Lord Motton is a viscount, Albert. There's no lowering involved.”

Bollingbrook snorted. “It wasn't the man's title your girl was making eyes at, Cecilia. The fellow has an excellent set of shoulders and no need for false calves.” He chuckled. “No, I suspect she's as lusty a lass as you are.”

“Albert! You have no way of knowing if I'm lusty or not.”

“Heh. I've seen John's expression in this painting, haven't I?”

“Oh!”

Jane moaned again. Motton rubbed her back, but truthfully he was having a hard time not laughing. “If you ever get lonely when you're in London, Cecilia, you may call on me.”

“Albert Bollingbrook, you know I am completely faithful to John!”

“Yes, I know, more's the pity. He's a lucky man. Now, can I put this bloody ladder away and get back to my own painting?”

The voices came closer. Motton ducked in case they looked in his and Jane's direction.

“Yes, of course, Albert. I'm sorry to have disturbed you. Thank you very much for your help. You're sure you haven't seen Jane and Lord Motton in this part of the gallery?”

There was a scraping sound again as Bollingbrook put the ladder back. “I told you—I let them in and then I went back to work. I imagine they wandered through and went off to their next destination.”

The door closed, cutting off further eavesdropping and plunging them back into darkness.

“We'd better wait here for a while until your mother has departed,” Lord Motton murmured.

“Oh, yes.” That would be truly horrid—to escape detection only to stroll out of hiding straight into her mother's arms. She closed her eyes—not that she could see anything with them open—and rested her head against Lord Motton's convenient chest. “Thank God they finally shut the door. When I heard Mama's voice, I thought I would die. My heart literally stood still.”

She felt a chuckle rumble under her cheek. “That
was
a bit of a surprise.”

“A surprise? It was more than a surprise—it was…it was…” She couldn't think of a word strong enough to convey what a complete and utter disaster it would have been—would be—to have Mama discover her hiding in a closet with Lord Motton. “How did you remain so calm?”

She felt him shrug. “What good would panicking have done?” He chuckled again. “Cursing or crying or bounding about in this enclosed space would have led to our certain discovery—besides not being very manly.”

She chuckled, too. “True, but you seemed completely unconcerned.”

“Oh, I wasn't that. Before I knew it was your mother, I was very concerned indeed.”

“Why
before
you knew it was Mama? I would have thought Mama was the last person you'd want discovering us.” Jane opened her eyes, lifting her head to look at him. Damn. She still couldn't see a thing. He was just a disembodied voice.

Well, obviously not disembodied. She rested her head back on his chest. But it was disconcerting not to be able to see his face—his eyes and his mouth.

Mmm, his mouth. Would he kiss her again? Could she encourage him to do so without being completely brazen?

She shifted slightly. Perhaps she shouldn't try to engage him in any more amorous activities. Her hip was starting to ache from lying on the hard floor, and she was getting a cramp in her neck. She shivered. It was cold, too.

“I was more concerned we'd be trapped here by Satan or one of his minions. Compared to that, your mother is not a threat at all.” He rubbed the back of her neck right where the cramp was and pulled her closer. Mmm. He was so large and warm. “I might fear your father a bit, though. I don't suppose he'd care to find me with my arms around you.”

Perhaps she could bear this position a little longer. His fingers felt so good—firm, but not too firm. “I can't imagine Da leaving the Priory for London.”

“Surely he would if he thought some blackguard had injured his daughter?” Lord Motton sounded rather stern and disapproving. “He loves you, doesn't he?”

“Oh, yes.” She had no doubt about Mama's or Da's love. Their attention, yes—she often doubted she had their attention—but their love? Never.

“Then I'm certain he'd ride ventre à terre to bring me to justice. He'd probably beat me to within an inch of my life before forcing me up the church aisle into parson's mousetrap.”

Lord Motton sounded amused rather than appalled by that scenario.

“Er, perhaps.” Da would be more likely to write a scathing sonnet, but perhaps she was wrong. Lord Motton
was
male; he should be more intimately familiar with the male mind.

“I think we've probably waited long enough,” he said. “I'll wager your mother is gone and Bollingbrook is deep in the arms of his muse. Unless you think your mama might linger to look for you?”

“No, I imagine she's left.”

“Then let's go. Jem should be back with the curricle.” Lord Motton stood and helped her up. She clutched his hand.

“I can't see anything, it's so dark.”

“Hold on to me. I won't let you stumble.” He started to walk away, but she pulled him back.

“I mean I can't see
anything.
It's like I'm blind.” She heard the panic in her voice and tried for a lighter tone. “I don't want to slip on Pan's—er.”

“Don't worry. Bollingbrook flung that to the back of the closet.”

“How do you know?”

“It hit me.”

“Oh. Well, I still might trip on something else. There's a lot of…rummage in here.”

“There is, isn't there? Here, give me your other hand.” He took it and wrapped them both around his waist. “Just hold tight and follow me—step where I step. I won't let you fall.”

“All right.” She clutched him, his belly hard and flat under her fingers. She rested her cheek against his back as he picked their way safely to the door.

“Wait,” he whispered, loosening her hold. He stepped out of the closet, partially closing the door.

She had to bite her cheeks to keep from panicking. At least he hadn't closed the door entirely. There was some light in the little room. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

In a moment, he opened the door wide. “Come on out. There's no one here.”

“Thank God.” She scooted out of the closet. “I must look like I've been dragged backward through a bramble bush.”

Edmund grinned at her. “Oh, I wouldn't say that; however, you do look as though you've been cleaning out a very dusty cupboard.”

“Oh, dear.” She put her hand to her hair; it felt as if half her pins had come out. “I must be a complete mess.”

“You could never be a mess, complete or otherwise.” The right corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile, and his eyes had an odd, smoky look. “But you
are
a bit dusty.”

“I'm certain I am.” Her skirts were covered with lint and cobwebs. She brushed off everything she could reach. “Can you see to my back, my lord?”

“My pleasure.” He ran his hands over her shoulders, waist, and skirts, tracing her outline—especially her derrière—rather more closely than necessary.

“Ah, thank you.”

“I'm not certain I got everything.” He grinned wolfishly down at her.

“I'm sure it will do.” She looked at him repressively. He was still grinning.

“Very well.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we depart, or did you wish to examine more of the paintings?”

“No, thank you. I have seen more than enough.”

“You don't wish to peek under that drape?” Mrs. Parker-Roth and Bollingbrook had done an excellent job of covering up Jane's naked father.

She glared at him. “
No.
Thank you.” She strode out of the blue room without benefit of his guidance.

He caught up to her. “Your mother is to be commended for her dedication to your father.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “Not every woman would decline Bollingbrook's offer.”

Jane stopped and wrinkled her nose.
“Bollingbrook?”

“Ah, so you think your mother's answer might have been different if a different gentleman had been asking?” The thought disappointed him, though why it should was a mystery. Mrs. Parker-Roth was beyond the age where she could present her husband with a cuckoo. If she wished to amuse herself when she was away from home, that was her business. She came to London every year for the Season while her husband stayed home. They probably had an arrangement. At least they spent the rest of the year together, which was more than his parents had done.

“No, of course not. Mama would never—” Jane twisted up her face as if she'd bit into a lemon. “She'd never do that with anyone but Da. Don't be ridiculous.”

“There's nothing ridiculous about it. You've been in Town long enough to know such things are quite common.”

“Not with Mama. Not with Da.” She frowned at him. “Er, I don't mean to pry, but…well, your aunts said something, but I didn't completely understand…ah, that is, I take it your parents did not have a happy marriage?”

He snorted. Not have a happy marriage? Hell, they hadn't really had a marriage at all. “My father had a string of London mistresses. My mother stayed in the country and spent her days in bed, but with medicines, not men.”

“Is that why you don't have any brothers or sisters? Because your mother was ill?” Jane touched his arm gently, her eyes full of compassion.

Blast it! How stupid could she be? He shook off her hand and turned to stare at a pack of hounds tearing a fox to pieces. The painting suited his sudden mood perfectly.