The Naked Viscount. Sally MacKenzieЧитать онлайн книгу.
didn’t think so. That’s why I asked if you were feeling quite the thing.”
“Of course I am. I’m fine.” Jane bit her lip. She would not pull caps with Mama. “Excitement is not a sign of illness.”
“No, but since you are never excited about balls, I decided your agitation must be due to some other cause.”
Silence was surely the best reply. Jane shrugged and looked back out the window.
Thankfully, Mama let the subject drop. Jane felt Mama’s eyes on her and had to struggle not to add a few more protests and explanations. She had a tendency to natter on when she was nervous or challenged, and she definitely did not want to reopen this subject. She would only get herself into further trouble if she did.
She gritted her teeth and kept her face turned firmly to the window. In a few moments—though it felt like an eternity—she heard Mama sigh and shift position. She shot her a quick glance. Mama was now directing her attention out the other window, thank God.
Jane went back to watching the people and carriages passing on the street—and to wishing the coachman would hurry along.
Perhaps she had been looking forward to this evening’s gathering rather more than usual. It was no surprise. For once she had something to anticipate beyond standing among the potted palms listening to the pompous—and the portly and the priggish and the pedantic—old peers prate on about completely boring topics. Tonight she would converse, at least for a short time, with Viscount Motton.
She had lust—She had admired him from afar from the moment she’d first seen him at her come-out. She’d been so silly back then—she’d been only seventeen and in London for the first time. Her head had been stuffed full of fairy tales, even though she had three brothers and knew very well that men rarely, if ever, bore any resemblance to the storybook heroes who slew dragons and rescued maidens. Real males were far more likely to tell the maiden to rescue herself, they had a cricket match to play.
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.