Sally MacKenzie Bundle (187 page)

Of course, he didn’t attend many social events. He came—briefly—to the first few each Season and then vanished. And she’d wager she wasn’t the only woman who’d made note of his habits in that regard.

She glared at a plaster cherub discreet enough to have avoided Mrs. Brindle’s Holland cloths. Lord Motton didn’t get dragged to every ball and breakfast, oh no. He was a man. He had the freedom to choose the path his life would take. He could stay on his estate like John, or go off to foreign lands like Stephen. When he finally decided it was time to start his nursery, he would just pick one of the many aristocratic girls displayed for his inspection on the Marriage Mart.

Faugh! A man’s life was so much better than a woman’s. Men could have adventures, while women must sit home, darning socks and tending children. It was not fair.

She reached the bottom of the stairs and looked around. There was still not a servant in sight. She’d just slip down the hall and into the study. With luck, she’d find the books in some discernible order, but given the general state of the house, she’d more likely encounter a complete hodgepodge. Oh, well. She had plenty of time to browse through the shelves.

She came to the study door, put her hand on the knob—and paused. Odd. She sniffed. Did she smell smoke? Only a trace, as if someone had just blown out a candle.

Ridiculous. She was allowing the gothic thrill of
Frankenstein
to cloud her thinking. This was present-day London. Nothing exciting ever happened to her.

She shook the silly, fanciful thoughts from her head and opened the door.

Her candle went out. Damn. She stepped toward the fire to relight it and felt a breeze. The French window was open. Why—

A strong arm snaked around her waist and a broad, naked hand clamped over her mouth. She was hauled up against a hard male chest.

Dear God! She swung her candlestick, but only managed to knock over the hideous statue of Pan on the desk. She couldn’t turn and pummel the man behind her—he was too strong. But he
was
taller than she…She flung her weapon up and back this time and collided with something.

“Bloody—” The man took his hand off her mouth to grab for the candlestick. She drew in a deep breath. This was her opportunity. No one would hear her scream, of course—the servants were too far away and likely too drunk to come to her aid—but this miscreant didn’t know that.

She yelled as loud as she could.

“Hell, woman, you just broke my eardrum.”

“I’ll break more than that, sirrah, if you don’t release me immediately!” Odd, the man’s voice had sounded educated and very faintly familiar.

He chuckled. “Who would have thought you were such a hellion?”

Hellion, hah! She hadn’t grown up with two older brothers for nothing—and a younger brother as well. If he gave her just an inch, he’d be sorry. She screamed again and thrashed more vigorously.

“
Will
you stop that?”

“Not until you let me go, you—
oof!
”

He’d managed to twist her to face him. His left arm was now around her back, his right hand on the candlestick, and his mouth—heavens above!—his mouth was descending…

She gasped. The moonlight revealed his identity just before his lips touched hers.

She was being held and…hmm, well, kissed…by Viscount Motton.

Her fingers loosened and the candlestick crashed to the floor. Neither of them bothered with it. The candle was out. It wasn’t going to set anything aflame.

The viscount was setting
her
aflame. She was surrounded by his scent—eau de cologne and leather and…him. His mouth covered hers, but she’d lost all desire to scream. No, her desire was headed in an entirely different direction. She felt boneless, like her knees would give out at any moment.

His lips moved, brushed hers, nibbled at the corner of her mouth, and then meandered over her cheek to a very sensitive spot on her neck just under her ear.

She’d never been kissed before…well, never like this. This was an entirely new experience—a
wonderful
experience. Mmm.

What was the man doing here? He lived next door—and yes, she’d occasionally tried to time her daily walks to catch a glimpse of him. Had he mistaken the house? Gone astray?

His mouth moved farther down her neck, his hands wandering lower to skim her bottom. Ohh. He was going
very
much astray.

Should she be alarmed? No, he must not mean her any harm. He knew her brothers, and he had an unblemished reputation.

Ohh. He was stroking her bottom now. Her nightdress was so old and worn, it was almost as if his hand were on her bare skin.

She’d dreamed of someday getting a dance with the man, of feeling his gloved hand on hers—and now…

They were quite alone. No one would know if she took advantage of this odd situation.

He’d come back to her mouth. Was that his tongue touching her lips? What would happen if she…?

Ohh.

His tongue slid between her teeth. How disgusting! Hmm, well, it should be disgusting, but it was…not. Actually, once one got over the shock, it was rather wonderful. He tasted of brandy, and he filled her with wet heat.

Her mouth was not the only part of her that was very hot and wet. Her stomach…well, lower than her stomach…was embarrassingly damp—if she was still capable of feeling embarrassment, which she apparently wasn’t—and throbbing. An odd hollowness opened there, wanting something…

She had three brothers. Her mother was an artist with more than one nude painting in her studio—she had never been shy about explaining things. Mama might not want her daughters reading novels, but she did want them to know certain facts of life. And Jane had been eleven when Lucy was born—she’d asked quite a few questions. She had a good idea what her body was aching for—and what part of Lord Motton’s physique could provide what she needed. It had formed a hard ridge against her belly.

His hands were moving again, one still tracing the contours of her derrière, the other sliding up to…

Oh. Oh, heavens.

All rational thought fled as his fingers cradled her breast.

Motton was lost in a flood of sensation—the feel of this woman, so soft in his arms, her lovely curves unshielded by stays or layers of clothing; the taste of her sweet mouth under his; the smell of her skin, of lemon—a hint of purity, of innocence—and the musk of heat and need; the sound of her small gasps.

She had been so feisty—so fiery—at first, but now she was yielding and feminine and thoroughly seductive. Fiery, but in an entirely different way. He certainly felt as if he were on fire—his cock was just about ready to burn a hole in his breeches.

He pulled her bottom closer, bringing her more tightly against his poor, straining member, but the pressure only served to stoke the flames higher. His other hand cupped one of her lovely breasts. It was firm, soft, perfect. It fit his palm as if it had been made for it. He ran his lips over her jaw as he rubbed his thumb over her nipple. The lovely woman in his arms gasped.

He chuckled and kissed her just below her ear as he flicked the hard little nub once more. She gasped again.

He
almost gasped. Standing was becoming a bit of a challenge. Unfortunately the loveseat was far too small, but there was the desk. She’d thoughtfully cleared it of that obscene statue. At the moment he’d wager his cock was far larger than Pan’s in any event.

She was running her hands down his back, spreading them over his buttocks, pressing him against her.

He cradled her jaw and returned to her mouth. Before he could plunge inside, she slipped
her
tongue tentatively past his lips and teeth. Ah. Who would have thought this girl would be so delicious, so responsive, so—

So virginal. So respectable. So closely related to two of his friends.

He froze. He’d actually been thinking of lifting Miss Parker-Roth onto the bare desktop, raising her nightdress, and—

Sanity came crashing back like a migraine. He straightened and jerked his hips back.

“What…what are you doing?” The soft little words were hardly more than a whisper. She sounded completely confused.

She looked completely seductive, but it was past time he started thinking with his brain and not his…

Long past.

He tried to push her gently away from him, but she wasn’t moving. She wrapped her arms around his back and held on.

“Miss Parker-Roth—”

“Jane.”

“What?”

“Jane. My name is Jane.”

Had he known her Christian name? No. He’d never paid much attention to her, frankly. She’d been just another attractive item decorating the
ton
’s ballrooms—like a potted palm or a ficus tree.

Little had he known.

“What’s your name?”

The question hit him in the gut. Surely she knew whom she’d been kissing? And rather more than kissing, actually.

He found he didn’t at all care for the notion that he was just an anonymous male. “Motton.”

She shook her head. “I
know
that. I want to know your
name.
”

Ah, his Christian name. No one called him by that except the aunts. It felt rather…intimate to share it with her. “Edmund.”

“Edmund.”

She murmured it as if she were exploring how it felt on her tongue. Damn! He could not think of Jane—of Miss Parker-Roth—and tongues. Her tongue had been so sweet, so shy. He would dearly love to feel it on—

Think with your brain, Motton!
He firmly detached the woman and stepped back out of her reach. “Miss Parker-Roth, it cannot have escaped your attention that we are in a dark room without a chaperone and you are in your nightclothes.”

She grinned, the minx! “Yes, I know.”

“I shudder to think what society would say were it to learn of this…” What? Scandal? Disaster? Monumental lapse in judgment? All of the above? “This situation.”

And why wasn’t Miss Parker-Roth having the vapors? Surely a gently bred miss should be in hysterics at the treatment she had just received. Not that she’d been struggling. Oh, no. She’d been a very active, a very willing participant.

She dimpled up at him. She did have a most attractive smile. “Oh, don’t go all poker-faced.”

It wasn’t his face that was pokerish. If he didn’t start thinking about something besides Ja—Miss Parker-Roth’s—tongue and soft bottom and lovely breasts, he was not going to be able to light a candle and reveal his very impolite proportions.

Blast! His proportions just got even more shocking. Miss Parker-Roth had moved so her back was to the hearth. There was sufficient illumination from the fire’s embers to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of her waist and legs and—

He turned away to step closer to the open window. It was suddenly infernally hot in the damn study.

“Society won’t say anything because no one will find out,” she was saying. “As you point out, there are no witnesses, and I’m not going to go blabbing about…” She paused, and he glanced back at her. He’d wager if there were enough light, he’d see her face had turned bright red. His eyes dropped. There was definitely enough light to see…

“I’m not going to blab about…about what we were doing,” she said. “Are you?”

“No, of course not.” He had to stop staring at her br—chest. He jerked his attention back to her face. “I am not a complete idiot.”

“Well, then, there you are.” Jane frowned. She was suddenly feeling very out of sorts. Here she’d just had the most wonderful experience of her life with the man she’d dreamed of for years, and the fellow acted as if he could hardly bear to look at her. He’d turned as prim and proper as…as her stiff-rumped brother John.

John, thankfully, was not in London with them this Season. He’d gone off to Baron Tynweith’s estate. Odd, since the baron’s parties were often disreputable, but John had said something about topiary when he’d left the Priory. Plants were John’s passion—unlike Stephen, his
only
passion.

What was Lord Motton’s passion?

Mmm. She’d like to taste a little more of his passion. Her dreams had not come close to the reality of it. Unfortunately, the man did not look at all willing to repeat his thrilling performance.

And now that she looked at him—really looked at him—she saw he was dressed most peculiarly. Every article of clothing he wore was black—black shirt, black cravat, black breeches, black stockings—and he had dispensed with a coat and waistcoat. Well, she’d vaguely noted
those
omissions when she’d been plastered up against him.

It was almost as if he wished to blend into the shadows. Why? More to the point, why was he here at all and how had he gotten in? Mr. Hunt, the butler, was at Mrs. Brindle’s party.

He kept looking down at her chest. Had she spilled chocolate there, too, when she’d had her accident with her wrapper this morning? She looked down.

Oh.

She darted behind one of the wing chairs. Thank God its back was high and she was not terribly tall. Damnation, if Lord Motton was truly a gentleman, he’d offer her his coat…he didn’t have a coat…oh, bother.

He bowed briefly and cleared his throat. “Ahem, well, I must be going. Do pardon my intrusion. And, of course, my apologies for the…” He waved his hand vaguely. “For my behavior.” He looked ready to go out the window.

Well, that answered the question of how he’d gotten in, but he certainly wasn’t leaving before she got some answers.

She leapt back out from behind the chair and grabbed his arm. “Wait! You must tell me why you’re here.”

He frowned at her. “Miss Parker-Roth, please control yourself.”

He sounded
far
too much like John. She considered uttering one of the very improper words she’d learned from Stephen, but she restrained herself. “I’ll make you tell me.”

He snorted, shook off her grasp, and turned. She latched onto the back of his shirt.

“Will you stop—”

“I have two older brothers, a younger brother, and two younger sisters. I know all about blackmail and coercion.”

He didn’t even bother to reply; he just pulled her hand off his shirt and kept going. She hurried after him, out through the French window onto the terrace.