Sally MacKenzie Bundle (188 page)

“I’ll tell your aunts what happened here tonight.”

That got him to pause. “You wouldn’t. You’d ruin yourself.”

“Not if I tell your aunt Winifred—
she’s
not such a high stickler. I saw her arrive today with Theo and Edmund. Oh!” Jane covered her mouth with her hand, but her snicker still escaped. “She named the monkey after you, didn’t she?”

Lord Motton sighed. Surely Miss Parker-Roth would not be so bold as to tell Winifred about this evening? If she did…well, Aunt Winifred was awake on every suit. She would immediately see a golden opportunity to push him into parson’s mousetrap. And she would be right—he would be bound to marry Miss Parker-Roth if word of this encounter ever did get out. He couldn’t be alone with a young, unmarried woman in her nightdress without offering for her. And they hadn’t just been standing around discussing the weather.

He waited for anger to surge through him. He’d spent years avoiding marriage traps…but, to be fair, Miss Parker-Roth hadn’t set out to trap him. He’d brought this on himself, not that he’d foreseen the risk when he’d agreed to search Widmore’s study.

And kissing her
had
been extremely pleasant.

He didn’t feel angry, he felt…he didn’t know how he felt. Miss Parker-Roth was uncommonly attractive in that virginal nightdress with her hair in a long braid down her back. He’d like to spread her hair out over her shoulders and run his hands through it. It was a warm brown with hints of red.

Why had he never noticed her before? She must have been at all those dreadful society events over the years.

The answer was simple. He’d not been in the market for a wife, and John and Stephen’s sister was not a suitable candidate for dalliance.

“I’m waiting, Lord Motton.”

And she was getting chilly. He could see her nipples peaking against her nightgown.

He’d like to make them harden for him…

“Come inside and I’ll tell you as much as I know, which isn’t much.” He took her arm and turned her back to the study.

“I would advise you not to try pulling the wool over my eyes.” She jutted out her lower jaw. She looked quite pugnacious.

He smiled briefly as he seated her in a wing chair and turned away to light the candles. He could easily bamboozle her if he wished—he’d had far more experience with deception than she, no matter how many brothers or sisters she had.

For some reason the thought of lying to Miss Parker-Roth sat like a rock in his belly.

He glanced back at her. She looked so pure, so beautiful sitting there staring at…her eyes were…

Good God! Miss Parker-Roth was studying his arse.

He turned to light some more candles. He could almost feel her gaze on his breeches.

She was going to have something else to study when he turned to face her if he didn’t pull his wandering thoughts back to the subject at hand—which was…what?

Ah, right. Widmore’s supposed sketch.

He lit the last candle and sat down quickly, leaning forward to shield his lap and any suspicious protuberance that might be apparent there. “I’m not trying to pull the wool over your eyes—I really do know next to nothing. The Earl of Ardley cornered me at White’s this afternoon and told me Widmore had been a French spy—”

“Clarence?”
Miss Parker-Roth gawped at him. “A spy?”

“I grant you, it does seem unlikely.” He’d had almost the same reaction when Ardley had told him. Widmore had been fat and loud and…colorful. He’d wager the man was constitutionally incapable of moving unobtrusively. If Widmore
had
been a spy, he’d been a master of concealment. “But sometimes the best spies are those who seem the least likely.”

“Oh.” Miss Parker-Roth narrowed her eyes. “Are
you
a spy?”

“No, of course not.” It was true. He’d never considered himself a spy, but if he’d ever been one, he wasn’t one any longer.

Her expression did not change.

“Well, I may have done a little skulking about on occasion and a spot of listening here and there.”

“Hmm. I don’t suppose you’d tell me if you are a spy.”

“I don’t suppose I would, but I’m not.”

“You’re here.”

“Merely on an errand for a”—no, he couldn’t call Ardley a friend—“an acquaintance.”

“Why isn’t Lord Ardley doing his own skulking?”

He snorted. “Ardley?” The earl was fatter than Widmore had been.

Miss Parker-Roth laughed. “True, I can no more see Lord Ardley as a spy than I can Clarence Widmore.” She shook her head and echoed his own thoughts. “If Clarence was a spy, why would Lord Ardley care about his activities now? The war is long over and Clarence is dead.”

“Yes, but according to Ardley, Clarence sketched some of his fellow spies. That’s what he wants me to look for. Such a drawing, if it exists, could be very useful in rooting out any traitors still lingering in positions of power.” That was what had finally convinced him to take on this ridiculous mission. He wished to see all traitors brought to justice.

Yet something about Ardley, something in his manner or his voice had made him suspicious. Ardley wanted something, yes, but Motton would wager it wasn’t a drawing of French spies.

Surely the man couldn’t be stupid enough to think he wouldn’t examine anything he found?

He leaned closer to Miss Parker-Roth. “Did you know Widmore well?”

“No. Mama knows his sister, Cleopatra. They are both painters, though Cleopatra paints flowers and fruit, while Mama paints”—Miss Parker-Roth suddenly turned red and cleared her throat—“other things.”

“Ah.” If the painting Stephen had hanging in his rooms was an indication of the bulk of Mrs. Parker-Roth’s work, he understood Jane’s embarrassment. Mrs. Parker-Roth appeared to have a fascination with nudes. “I see.”

His eyes dropped to her nightgown. It was primly buttoned to her chin, but if he loosened that line of buttons…

He would like to see Jane nude, sprawled across his bed—

Damn it, he could not be entertaining salacious thoughts about this particular young woman. Such fantasies were totally inappropriate—and he had a job to accomplish before the servants or Mrs. Parker-Roth discovered him here. Mrs. Parker-Roth might be an artist, but she was also a mother. She would not look favorably on a man having a tête-à-tête with her nightgown-clad daughter.

“Are you familiar with the house, then? Do you have any idea where Widmore would have hidden a drawing?”

Miss Parker-Roth shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. We usually stay at the Pulteney Hotel when we come up for the Season. We’re only here this year because Cleopatra is on her honeymoon and offered us the use of her house.”

“I see.” It had been too much to hope she would hold the answer to this puzzle. He looked at the crowded bookshelves. Zeus, he did not relish going through each one of those tomes. And Widmore could easily have hidden the paper elsewhere. Almost anything—the desk, a chair, a bed—

No. No thinking of beds with Miss Parker-Roth in the room. It would be…entertaining to search her bedchamber—

No bedchambers.

The truth was, anything could conceal something as slim as a sheet of paper.

“Didn’t Lord Ardley have some suggestions as to where Clarence might have hidden the sketch?” Jane asked.

“Unfortunately, no.”

She stood, which put his eyes on level with…gave him an excellent view of…

He shot to his feet.

“It sounds to me as if you are forced to look for the proverbial needle in a haystack,” she was saying. “So I shall help you.”

Help him? He caught a whiff of lemon and woman—which went directly to his groin. Blast. The only way she could help him was to lie down on the carpet and spread her legs.

He needed to haul his mind out of the gutter.

He’d have her lie on his bed instead—

Bloody hell! His imagination had never been this unruly before. He took what the women of easy virtue offered and left the other females—women like Miss Jane Parker-Roth—alone.

Miss Parker-Roth had pulled a book off the shelf. She opened it, turned it upside down, and shook it.

“What are you doing?”

She looked over her shoulder at him as she pulled out another book. “Helping you. You’ll be here all night if I don’t.” Nothing fell out of this book either. “You’ll probably be here all night even if I do.”

She was standing in front of the fire again. He could clearly see the curve of her breasts, the shadow of her nipples. If he looked lower, he knew he would see—

No, he would not look lower. He wrenched his gaze up to study the mantel. “You are
not
helping me.”

“Of course I am—don’t be so pigheaded. And why are you looking up there? Do you see something—
ack!
”

He’d grabbed her arm. He couldn’t stand it any longer. “I said you are not helping me. You are going back upstairs to bed—”

Blast! She whirled to give him a piece of her mind, no doubt, and he stepped forward at the same time. Their bodies collided. Her soft, sweet body—her breasts and hips and belly against his hard…his rock hard, painfully hard—

Her tart, sweet scent enveloped him. She had tasted so good before. Her lips were just inches from his now. What harm could one small kiss do?

He bent his head. Just a small kiss. Just a brushing of lips. No tongues.

Just a small, good-night kiss…

Jane held her breath. He was going to kiss her again. She could tell. He had that intent, almost hot look in his eyes. He was staring at her mouth; her lips felt swollen, sensitive.

She tilted her chin, closed her eyes. Every part of her—even some shockingly embarrassing parts—tingled with anticipation. Waiting…

Would it be as wonderful as the first time?

Would it be better?

Would it—

She felt him move away. Her eyes flew open. His eyes were still hot, but with anger instead of seduction.

“You are going to bed.”

“Huh?” She felt like a four-year-old being sent to her room with no supper for doing…what?

“You are going upstairs.” He tugged on her arm. “Now.”

“No.” She dug in her heels, but she was no match for his strength. He dragged her toward the door. “You’re hurting me.”

He paused. “Am I really hurting you or are you playing one of your tricks on me?”

Lord Motton was a fast learner, especially considering he had no siblings. Best not to answer that question.

“My lord, you know you need help.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

He didn’t bother answering; he just moved closer to the door. She had to do something.

They’d reached the Pan statue. It was in pieces—obviously the work had been a plaster cast and not the solid stone she’d initially supposed. Her foot sent Pan’s mammoth member skittering across the carpet to slip between the legs of a small loveseat.

Had she seen something sticking out of the broken end, right before it had disappeared under the furniture? A piece of paper perhaps?

Excitement shivered up her spine. She had to get her hands on that penis.

Chapter 2

Jane threw herself toward the loveseat. Motton must have been startled by her sudden movement, because he loosened his grip.

That was all she needed. She’d learned early, playing with John and Stephen, to take any opening she was given. In a flash, she’d twisted her wrist and broken free. She fell to her hands and knees to peer under the loveseat, looking for the errant organ.

The Widmores’ regular servants apparently were not much better than the temporary ones—the dust under the loveseat was easily an inch thick. Jane sneezed.

“What are you doing?” Lord Motton sounded extremely annoyed.

Jane spared him a glance. He looked extremely annoyed, too. “I’m searching for something.”

“What?”

She grinned at him. “Pan’s penis, if you must know.”

“What?”

“Wait a minute.” Her fingers brushed over something long and hard. “I think I’ve got it.”

Motton stared at Miss Parker-Roth’s delectable derrière. Had she just said she was searching for a…penis? His personal penis jumped at the thought.

What
was
the matter with him? He wasn’t usually plagued by such inappropriate thoughts about young ladies. Of course, he wasn’t usually treated to such a singular view of a young lady’s nightgown-clad bottom. It would be so easy to catch the hem of her gown and pull it up to reveal—

No. This was Stephen and John’s little sister who had the delightfully round, entrancing…

He pulled on his hair. “
Will
you come out of there?”

She grunted and started to back out. Her knee caught the fabric of her nightgown, stretching it tight across her lovely—

He clasped his hands behind his back and looked up to admire the ceiling molding.

“Look what I have.”

He examined the object she was waving under his nose. It indeed looked to be Pan’s once prominent penis.

“Er, yes, I see.” He could not think of anything else to say. Surely she would not try to engage him in a discussion of…anything. “It appears poor Pan is somewhat the worse for wear.”

Miss Parker-Roth shrugged. “I hit the statue with the candlestick when you surprised me. I should have realized then it was plaster and not stone, but I was thinking of other things.”

“Yes, well.” He could not afford to think about what a seductive armful a thrashing Miss Parker-Roth had proved to be. He considered picking the Holland cloth up from the floor and dropping it over her hand and the object she held. “I noticed you’d covered the sculpture.”

She laughed. “Oh, no. Mama’s an artist, remember? I’m inured to such things, but Mrs. Brindle, our temporary housekeeper, is not. I’m afraid she does not appreciate Clarence’s work. The house is dotted with Holland cloth.”

“Ah.” There didn’t seem to be anything else to say to that.

“But look here.” She held the penis out again, her delicate fingers wrapped tightly around the hard length. It was a rather realistically rendered representation—if poor Pan were still connected to it, he’d be a very happy god.

His own organ let him know how delighted it would be to receive similar attentions.