“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.