Sally MacKenzie Bundle (192 page)

But Lord Motton had looked very much like a hero when she’d seen him standing by the windows at her uncle’s town house—and she’d felt a bit like a damsel in distress. Uncle Rawley had never accepted Mama’s marriage to Da—he’d thought his sister should not have thrown herself away on an untitled poet. His wife looked down her elegant nose at her poor little niece. And it didn’t help that her cousin Hortense, who was also making her come-out, was tall and blond and beautiful—everything Jane was not. She’d felt like a small brown mouse creeping into the ballroom in Hortense’s shadow, afraid someone might notice her and chase her out with a broom.

Mama had forced John and Stephen to come to the ball and dance with her—or, better, persuade their friends to do so. Stephen had complained bitterly and had spent most of the evening in the card room, but John had morosely done his duty. She’d just joined a set with one of his horticulturalist friends, who was droning on about some obscure weed, when she’d seen Lord Motton. He’d been alone, aloof, and so damn handsome her heart had literally lurched. She’d
wanted
him—dear God, how she’d wanted him. She’d ached with it—and he hadn’t even acknowledged her existence. He’d danced once with Hortense and once with some other girl and then he’d left.

She rested her head against the carriage window and sighed.

“Are you
sure
you’re all right?”

“Yes, Mama, I’m fine.”

All that Season and every Season since, she’d watched for him. It was no longer something she could control. She knew whenever he walked into a room—she felt it in her heart. Her eyes were drawn to him like iron filings to a magnet.

And every single Season he ignored her.

Until last night. He hadn’t ignored her last night, had he? No, he’d taken shocking liberties with her person—and she’d like him to take more liberties at his earliest convenience.

She was twenty-four. She’d allowed a few gentlemen to kiss her over the years, more out of curiosity than anything else. The experiences had not been gratifying. Ha! At best they’d been boring; at worst, disgusting. She still shuddered when she thought of Lord Bennington. She must have had one too many glasses of champagne the evening she’d allowed him to escort her into Lord Easthaven’s shrubbery. Ugh! That kiss had been so slobbery, she’d had to mop her face with her handkerchief afterward.

But Lord Motton’s kisses…mmm. Just the brush of his mouth had sent unsettling sensations coursing through her, but when he’d slipped his tongue between her lips, she had felt so, well,
full
—though another part of her had suddenly felt very, very empty.

Dear God! She felt empty—and damp—just thinking about it. A little shiver of…something ran through her at the memory.

“Are you cold, Jane?”

“What?” Stupid! She had to control her emotions more. She did not want to have Mama watching her all evening.

“Are you cold?” Mama’s voice held a note of worry. “I’m certain I just saw you shiver.”

“No, I’m not cold.”

“I didn’t see how you could be. I am perfectly comfortable.” Mama scowled at her. “You
must
be ailing. Here I thought you wanted to stay home last night to read, but you were indeed feeling poorly. You looked fine, but I know looks can be deceiving. You should have told me you really felt unwell. I will have John the coachman turn the carriage around immediately.”

“No!”

“Jane! Why are you shouting?”

Jane took a breath to get her voice under control. If she wasn’t careful, Mama would have her back in bed in a pig’s whisker with the covers pulled up to her chin, a hot brick at her feet, and a bowl of steaming gruel waiting to be forced down her throat.

“I’m sorry, Mama. I truly am perfectly healthy—and I am quite content to attend the Palmerson ball.” Content? She was dying to go. She
had
to see Lord Motton tonight. And she needed to speak with him about that sketch, of course.

“Well…” Mama looked her over carefully. “I don’t know, Jane. I think you are a trifle flushed.”

“I am
fine,
Mama.”

“I don’t want to take any risks with your health. There will be plenty of other balls—the Season is just beginning. I think it would be prudent to turn back—”

“Mama, please.” Another deep breath. She could scream with vexation, but that would upset Mama even more. What she couldn’t do was tell her about her burning desire to see the viscount…How could she explain this sudden fascination without revealing their scandalous activities in Clarence’s study? Not that her interest was sudden. A seven year infatuation could not be called sudden, but she suddenly had the opportunity—the promise!—of seeing and conversing with him. She could not—would not—let this chance slip through her fingers.

Perhaps he’d even wish to take a stroll in the garden. He might well. He certainly wouldn’t wish to discuss that sketch in the ballroom where anyone could overhear. And when they found themselves in the darkened shrubbery…Well, one never knew what might happen.

“You’re flushing again.” Mama reached to give the coachman the signal to turn around.

Jane lurched across the space separating them to grab Mama’s arm.

“Jane! You’re behaving most peculiarly.” Mama tugged her arm free.

“We are almost at Lord Palmerson’s, Mama.” Thankfully that was true. “It would be silly to turn back now.”

“But if you’re ill…”

“I am
not
ill.” Mama looked unconvinced—not surprising, as even Jane had to admit she was behaving like a Bedlamite. “But if I feel ill, I promise I will alert you immediately.”

Mama glanced from Jane’s face to the window and back again. “Very well, since we are almost there.” The carriage stopped just as Mama spoke. They had joined the long line of coaches waiting to disgorge their passengers at the Palmerson town house. “But you do promise you’ll let me know the moment you feel at all unwell?”

“Yes, yes, I promise.” Jane looked out the window herself. How many carriages were in front of them? Too many. She wanted to get out of the coach immediately to avoid further conversation with Mama—and to get into the ballroom more quickly. Could she suggest the footman let down the steps here?

No, of course not. That wasn’t done—scrambling out of the conveyance in such a helter-skelter fashion. Mama would haul her back inside and instruct John the coachman to drive directly to Bedlam. She must strive for some patience.

She took a deep breath and sat back. She tried to appear calm—and ignore Mama’s concerned gaze. The damn coach moved at a snail’s pace when it moved at all.

Finally they reached the front door and joined the long line of elegantly attired men and women making their way slowly up the marble stairs to the ballroom. The sound of all the conversation was deafening. Was Lord Motton somewhere in the crush? She looked around as casually as she could. There was no sign of him. He must be in the ballroom already, waiting for her. Her stomach fluttered. If only the people ahead of her would hurry up.

It took forever, but finally they were announced. She stepped into the ballroom and surveyed the crowd. Surely Lord Motton was watching for her. He wouldn’t come up to her immediately, of course—that would be too obvious. They didn’t want to focus the
ton
’s attention on them. But she would glance around, so she could see where he was and drift in his direction. Then it would look as if they met by accident.

She frowned. Where was he? She looked again, scanning each corner of the room.

“Come, Jane, we need to move on,” Mama said. “We are blocking the entry.” She gave Jane a surreptitious push.

“Yes, Mama. Of course.”

Damn it all, unless the viscount had suddenly turned invisible, the blasted man was not in the ballroom.

Chapter 4

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.”