Sally MacKenzie Bundle (195 page)

“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…

Beautiful. Entrancing. Attracted to him.

And not available for dalliance. He could only have her if he married her—and he was not prepared to make that decision here in Palmerson’s garden. Especially as he had Clarence’s sketch, something far more important—or at least more pressing—to consider.

The girl was staring at him as though he were speaking Hindi. “Miss Parker-Roth, Lady Lenden and Lady Tarkington have returned to the ballroom. They are no longer looking for us.”

“Oh.” She still appeared to be seriously bemused. He felt an odd mix of annoyance and pride. They did not have all night to search for Clarence’s statue. Anyone might come along and interrupt them—and with so many people interested in the sketch, he could not rule out the possibility that someone else might find the next piece of this puzzle before they did. There was no time to waste. They had the advantage—at least, he thought they had the advantage—but nothing was certain. They needed all the pieces to fully understand what they were dealing with. He needed Miss Parker-Roth to focus on the problem immediately.

Still, it was more than a little flattering to think he’d caused the prickly woman to be so distracted, and by doing something as simple as attending to her small scratch.

Of course, he’d been rather distracted by his actions as well. She had such perfect skin, such lovely breas—

Focus.
“This would be a perfect time to locate that tree, Miss Parker-Roth. Do you have any idea where it is?”

The woman looked at him as if he were a complete cod’s-head and then laughed. “It’s a good thing you aren’t trying to do this by yourself, my lord.”

He frowned. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you obviously don’t know a magnolia from a mulberry. We walked right past it when we left the path.”

“What?” He looked back through the bushes at the tree Jane indicated. There was nothing especially remarkable about it—and there was certainly no obscene artwork lurking under its foliage. “Where’s Pan?”

“Not there. I can’t think Lord Palmerson would put that god in such a public location, can you? Imagine how the debutantes and their chaperones would react. There’s not enough hartshorn in England to revive the swooning masses.”

Blast it all, she had a point. “But I could have sworn…I mean, the sketch was very clear…” Damn. He’d been so certain Clarence had drawn the flower as a clue. What the hell was he going to do now?

Miss Parker-Roth extended her hand. “Let me see it. Perhaps I’ll notice something you missed.”

“I can’t let you see Clarence’s sketch.”

She scowled at him. “Why not? You need help, don’t you?”

“No.”

Miss Parker-Roth snorted.

He couldn’t argue with her. Of course he needed help—just not hers. “I can’t show you Clarence’s drawing.”

“Why not? I may not be an expert in botany, but I’m obviously more versed in the subject than you are.”

“It’s not botany, but biology that’s the issue.”

“Biology? What do you mean?”

Surely she knew the answer to that question? She had gotten a glimpse of the paper in Clarence’s study. “Miss Parker-Roth, the sketch is extremely pornographic. It is not fit to be seen by a young, unmarried woman such as yourself.”

The woman actually rolled her eyes. “My lord, I appreciate your chivalry, but if you believe the drawing can tell us where the next statue may be, I think we need to sacrifice my tender sensibilities. I assure you I’ll be able to withstand the shock. My mother is an artist, after all.”

“And I assure you your mother does not draw pictures like these.”

“Perhaps not, but they
are
only pictures. It is hard to imagine how they could do me any permanent harm.”

“No?” The word was sharp in the quiet garden. Light glanced off Lord Motton’s tightly clenched jaw. “Not all harm is physical.”

“I know that.” Did the man think she was a child? Anyone—especially anyone who’d survived seven London Seasons—knew gossip and innuendo could fell a person as surely as a bullet.

“Innocence is precious,” Lord Motton said. “Once lost, it cannot be recovered.”

The man
did
think she was a child! How patronizing. She should—

She bit her lip hard and listened to the words again as they echoed through her memory. He hadn’t said them easily. He hadn’t sounded condescending; he’d sounded pained, as if he spoke from bitter experience.

What innocence had he lost, and when?

“I understand that, too, my lord.” She spoke more gently than she would have. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you need my help. Finding the next statue is important, isn’t it? We can’t just give up.”

Lord Motton’s lips tightened further into a hard, thin line, turned down sharply at the ends. He clearly wanted to argue with her, but just as clearly realized he had no reasonable argument—and no alternative. Finally he emitted a short, resigned sigh.

“Very well. Please do try not to look at the rest of the sketch.” He pulled the scrap of paper out of his pocket and handed it to her, pointing to one corner. “There’s the flower. If you look closely behind it, you’ll see the statue.”

“Yes.” The light was very dim. She moved closer to one of the lanterns Lord Palmerson had hung throughout the garden for his guests. There was Lord Ardley and Lady Farthingale. What were they—oh, my! She was…he was…

Was that possible?

Jane felt her face burn so, she feared it was brighter than the lanterns. At least Lord Ardley and Lady Farthingale appeared very jolly about whatever they were doing.

Lord Motton had thrust his hands in his pockets. He looked very gloomy. “The drawing must be of some other garden.” He shook his head. “When Stephen said Palmerson had one of these trees, I thought—But it would be too dam—demmed easy if the statue were here, of course. Do you know any other gardens I might search?”

“You are not searching gardens by yourself; I thought we had already established that.” She turned from the graphic biology to examine the botany more closely. There was nothing to indicate Clarence was trying to illustrate an actual view from one of Lord Palmerson’s windows, so the placement of objects to one another was probably irrelevant. Still, if the statue was here, it would make sense it was near the magnolia.

“We should go back to the ballroom. Your mother will notice your absence.”

She put her hand on Lord Motton’s arm to stop him. “No, not yet.” The statue would have to be hidden from the path; if it wasn’t, the gabble-grinders—and thus all the
ton
—would know about it.

Where could one hide an obscene statue? The
Magnolia grandiflora
must be a hint.

He plucked the sketch out of her fingers. “Miss Parker-Roth, it’s time—”

This spot, behind this line of evergreen bushes, would be adequate, but the lantern’s presence indicated it was not remote enough. Where were the bushes even bushier, the foliage denser, the—“There!”

“What?” What the hell was the woman up to? She ignored his proffered arm, gathered her skirts, and strode through the darkened greenery toward an unsightly mass of dense vegetation. Blast it! If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up tripping over some damn root and sprawling face-first in the dirt.

He took off after her—and had to grab a low-hanging branch to save himself from measuring his length in a patch of Palmerson’s weeds.

“Bloody hell—” He untangled some ivy from around his ankles. He wasn’t much interested in greenery, but if
his
head gardener ever let any of his plantings run wild like this, the man would be explaining himself or finding a new position.

He straightened and looked back at the path. With all the noise he was making, it was a wonder the entire ballroom wasn’t lined up watching him, but no, he was still alone. Very alone. Where had Miss Parker-Roth got to? Ah! He saw the corner of her dress just before it was swallowed up by the shrubs.

He hurried after her, minding his feet this time, and shoved his way through the bushes into a very small clearing by the back garden wall. The moonlight illuminated Miss Parker-Roth, both hands on Pan’s prodigious penis. She glanced over her shoulder and grinned.

“Look—it twists off.” She gave the penis another couple turns, and the plaster organ came off in her hands. She reached into the open end, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and held it up. “Aha!”

“Splendid. Now give it to me.” He reached for the paper, but Jane snatched it behind her back.

“I found it. I—”

“My lord?”

Jane’s heart stopped. Her eyes flew to the spot where Lord Motton had pushed through the bushes. There was no discernible gap, no sign of anyone, but she could hear someone clearly. The man could not be very far from their hiding place.

Edmund leaned close and whispered by her ear. “Quiet. With luck he only saw me. I’ll get rid of him.”

She nodded to show she understood. Then he moved, sliding out of the clearing much more quietly than he’d entered and from a different section of the shrubbery.

“My lord?” The whisper came again, a little closer now. Jane looked around. There was no place to hide. She jammed the paper down her bodice, sliding it all the way under her breasts, and grasped the penis securely in case she had need of a weapon.

“Lord Motton?” Dear God, the man must be just on the other side of the bushes.

“Yes?” That was Edmund’s voice. He sounded farther from the clearing than the whisperer. How had he managed that? “Thomas, is that you? What is it? What are you doing here? I thought you were watching Widmore’s house.”