The Naked Viscount (7 page)

“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.

Motton glanced around the terrace. There were only a handful of couples in evidence, and all appeared much too engrossed in their own conversations to pay any attention to him and his companion. Good.

Especially good as Miss Parker-Roth apparently had no awareness of the need for artifice. She strode directly toward the stairs to the garden, tugging him along as a leashed hunting hound might pull his master to his quarry.

He pulled back, put his hand over hers, and murmured by her ear, “Slowly. We don't wish to encourage an observer to wonder what we might be rushing into the foliage to see…or do, you know.”

“Oh.” She stopped and shot a slightly panicked look at everyone on the terrace.

She would make a terrible spy. He urged her toward the balustrade. They could pause a moment there and observe the garden from above before descending and following one of the paths. As far as he could tell, the other couples were still uninterested in their activities, but a few minutes spent chatting would cause most people to lose any trace of curiosity they might have.

Unfortunately, it would do nothing for the curiosity he was certain was raging in the ballroom. The aunties and the
ton
's gabble-grinders were probably speculating wildly at this excursion with Miss Parker-Roth. Not that there was anything scandalous in escaping the heat and crowd of the ballroom for a few moments' respite on the terrace, or even in strolling along the garden paths, enjoying the evening air. Many men engaged in such activities; he'd just never been one of them.

After tonight he would have to keep his distance from Miss Parker-Roth until the gossip dissipated.

His stomach—and another organ—sank at that thought.

He scowled at the stone railing. Damn it all, what was the matter with him? He had never reacted this way to a female, or at least never since his salad days. The only organ that should be stimulated at all was his brain—his poor, muddled brain. There was a puzzle that needed to be solved and, given the number of people expressing an interest in Clarence's artwork, the solution must be important. He could not afford to waste any time lusting after the woman at his side.

“The
Magnolia grandiflora
is over there,” Jane said, gesturing to the left. “You can't see it from here, but if you follow that path, you'll come upon it.”

There was something about Miss Parker-Roth's voice that went straight to his—damn. He rested his hands on the balustrade, a better location for them than the one he'd prefer—Miss Parker-Roth's breasts. “I'm impressed with your detailed knowledge of Palmerson's garden.”

She glanced up at him and shrugged. “This
is
my eighth Season. I've been dragged into Palmerson's garden many times.” She snorted. “I know every society garden in excruciating detail.”

“Oh?” Her words stabbed at his gut. Good God, was he jealous? This situation just got worse and worse.

She scowled. “Yes, but not in the way your tone suggests. My older brothers are known to be very keen on plants.”

“Ah.” He bit back a grin. Calling John and Stephen “very keen on plants” was rather like saying the Archbishop of Canterbury was very keen on religion. “I take it you don't share your brothers' enthusiasm?”

Jane's nose wrinkled. “No, though unfortunately everyone assumes I do. I've been dragged into more bushes by more mad botanists than I care to count.” Her delectable lips turned down. “I might as well have been in the foliage with my brother John. The men were certainly as staid and boring as he is.”

What did that odd note in her voice mean? Did she wish to do something…interesting in a garden's greenery? A jolt of pure lust shot through his body to lodge in the obvious location.

Focus, Motton, focus.
Think about the puzzle. Clarence's sketch.

“I'm quite sure Stephen doesn't discuss botany when he takes a female into the foliage,” she said. “He's the King of Hearts, after all.”

He was quite sure Jane was correct. He made the mistake of glancing down at her. She was looking somewhat wistful.

No, he must be mistaken. Miss Parker-Roth was a well-bred,
virginal
young woman. She could not wish to frolic in the foliage. He, however—

No, no frolicking. Just serious searching. All work; no play. Finding the next sketch piece—that was all he should be thinking about.

“Miss Parker-Roth, you shock me.”

She muttered something that sounded like “Too bad.”

Bloody hell. This trip to the terrace had been a major error in judgment. He should return to the ballroom immediately. He was far too aware of the woman at his side.

Aware? Ha! That was like saying a burning man was aware of the fire's heat.

He
was
burning. All last night, he'd dreamt of her—her fearlessness when he'd first grabbed her, her yielding softness when he'd kissed her. The taste of her mouth, the feel of her body, the scent of her arousal. The bold way she'd stared at his arse when she'd thought he wasn't looking. Her obvious intelligence and humor…

He wanted to take her into the bushes and do far more than discuss the plants or look for a statue. He wanted to kiss her and touch her and have her dress up around her waist, her back to a sturdy tree, and his—

No, no. Was he completely mad? As, er, stimulating as that thought was, the girl was a virgin. He'd never had relations with a virgin, and his married friends were far too discreet to discuss the subject, but other men were not discreet at all. If even half of what they said was true, he'd want a soft bed and a locked door for his first time with—

He
was
insane. The only way he'd get Miss Parker-Roth between his sheets would be to marry her.

He waited for panic to hit; the choking, suffocating feeling one must get when sinking in quicksand.

Nothing. He felt nothing…Well, not nothing. He still felt lust. Apparently at least one of his organs was willing to pay any price to bury itself deep in Miss Parker-Roth's lovely body. It swelled even further at the thought.

What
was
the matter with him? Just the word “marriage” had always turned his entrails to ice, but tonight the notion made him feel anything but cold. Hell, if he'd had any ice inside him, it wouldn't just melt, it would turn to steam.

He was over thirty. He needed to marry sometime. Why not now? Why not Miss Parker-Roth? His marriage would make the aunts happy…

He wasn't seriously thinking of marriage, was he?

He gripped the balustrade. He should bang his head against the nice, hard stone to see if he could knock some sense into it. He should flee back to the ballroom—

He couldn't go back to the ballroom. He needed to see if one of Clarence's obscene statues was lurking in Palmerson's garden and, if it was, get the pornographic piece of paper from its penis. Good God.

The situation was absurd—and getting more so. Unless he missed his guess, he heard Lady Lenden's obnoxious voice behind him, which meant there was no time to waste. He grasped Jane's arm and urged her toward the stairs.

“If everyone thinks you are plant mad,” he said, “no one will be the least bit surprised at you dragging me into Palmerson's garden.” And if they detoured into the bushes…No. He would only be going into the bushes if they found Clarence's statue. He did not have the luxury of dallying in the greenery with Miss Parker-Roth.

“I suppose you are correct,” Jane said. “I—”

“Have you seen Lord Motton, Miss Peddingly?”

Jane paused. That was definitely Lady Lenden's voice.

“Will you hurry up?” Lord Motton took another step. He was almost bristling with impatience. “You don't want those two harpies to trap us here, do you?”

She glanced over her shoulder. Lady Lenden and Lady Tarkington were indeed talking to Miss Peddingly and Mr. Bodrin, a pair of besotted bird-wits. The two had met at the first event of the Season and had spent every moment since their introduction gazing into each other's eyes. Prinny could have pranced naked over the terrace and those two would not have noticed. She and Lord Motton were safe for the moment, but the man was correct. There was no time to lose.

“Right.” Jane picked up her skirts and hurried down the last few stairs, turning to almost run down the path. The
Magnolia grandiflora
wasn't far.

“Oh, look.” Lady Tarkington's voice carried in the night air. “I think I see Miss Parker-Roth.”

“Damn!” Lord Motton muttered the curse rather vehemently behind her. “Ah, your pardon, Miss Parker-Roth. I shouldn't have—”

She waved her hand to cut him off. “I have three brothers, my lord. I have heard worse.” The tree should be just around this bend…ah, yes, there it was. It was a fine specimen, but it wouldn't provide enough leafage to hide them from the pursuing ladies. However, there were some splendid bushes just beyond the tree.

“Come on.” She grabbed Lord Motton's hand and darted off the path. “I think we can hide back here.”

Fortunately there was a narrow break in the line of shrubs so they could get through without tearing their clothes or collecting too many stray leaves and twigs. One branch did catch her bodice and scrape along her skin. It left a long scratch just above the neck of her dress. A thin line of blood welled up.

“Oh, bother. I don't have a handkerchief. May I borrow yours?”

“Ah.”

Lord Motton sounded very odd, as if he had something stuck in his throat. She glanced up at him. He was staring at her chest. Had he never seen blood before?

Perhaps she could blot it with her glove. It wasn't very much blood, though she would rather not stain—

Lord Motton caught her hand before she could deal with the scratch. “Allow me,” he said. His voice still sounded odd—husky. Perhaps he needed a glass of water. Unfortunately she had none to offer him here in the bushes.

His handkerchief looked startlingly white in the darkness. Surely it wasn't terribly visible? “On second thought, perhaps you should put your—”

He put his arm around her shoulders and turned her so his body shielded hers.

The tiny part of her brain that remained rational applauded his instincts. The women would have a much harder time spotting them now—his black-clad figure must blend perfectly with the night. Most of her brain, however…Hmm…Did she have a brain? Thought, rational or irrational, appeared to be impossible. Feelings overwhelmed her; she was surrounded by Edmund's heat and scent. Her heart started to thud so, she half expected to see her chest move.

He was so close. His coat sleeve was slightly rough against the tender skin of her neck and shoulders. Her nipples peaked; the place between her legs began to throb in union with her heart.

Oh! He touched his handkerchief gently to the scratch. He'd removed his gloves. She stared at his fingers; they were strong and dark against the white of the cloth, the white of her skin. They moved slowly, gently, from her collarbone down to the swell of her left breast.

She stopped breathing. A shocking, wonderful, wicked thought slipped into her frozen brain. What if his fingers moved lower? What if he pulled down her bodice and his soft lawn handkerchief touched her there?

God should strike her dead right here in Lord Palmerson's garden for thinking such scandalous thoughts.

What if his lips replaced his handkerchief?

Her nipples tightened into almost unbearably hard little points.

“Does it hurt?” His whispered words slid over her cheek.

“Yes.” Yes, it hurt—they hurt. How did he know? She hadn't known nipples could ache like this.

Idiot! Think!
Edmund wasn't talking about her nipples; he was talking about her small cut. She must gather her wits before she did or said something completely mortifying. She could hear Lady Lenden and Lady Tarkington muttering to each other—the women were still looking for them on the path. If they found her with Lord Motton, the scandal would be horrendous. She'd be forced to marry the viscount immediately.

Perfect!

No, not perfect. Forced marriages were never good; becoming the latest course in the
ton
's gossip feast would be disastrous. Lord Motton, in particular, would hate all the giggling and whispering. Well, and she would hate it, too.

She should be alarmed. She was in immediate danger. She needed to act sensibly, to detach herself from the man so they would not be found in the leafage together—and certainly not as together as they were at the moment.

Why couldn't she feel alarm?

Apparently there was no room in her aching, throbbing body for alarm, or thought, or anything but this hot, drenching need.

His fingers were now hovering right above her gown's neck. What if she arched a little? Would that encourage him to move lower? Perhaps a moan…

“I think the ladies have moved on.”

“What?”

“I think the ladies have moved on.” Motton forced himself to straighten and step back. Thank God the ladies had left. He'd been about to do something very foolish with Miss Parker-Roth. He wadded up his handkerchief and stuffed it in a pocket. Something very foolish indeed.

She would have let him, too. He could tell. She'd been standing so still. Hell, she'd been almost panting.

Why shouldn't he touch her? She was not a young girl. She must have stolen a kiss or two in a garden sometime over her seven Seasons. What harm could one more kiss do?

But he would not have stopped at one kiss. He knew that. He might not even have stopped at two kisses. He might not have stopped at all.

She was not
that
experienced. He'd wager she was not very experienced at all, even given her seven Seasons. She had not acted experienced in Clarence's study. Enthusiastic—yes; experienced—no.

She was a gently bred young woman. She was the sister of two of his friends. She was…