How exquisite! It was almost worth Jordan’s misbehavior to see this.
From there, they circled the room to admire first the headless sculpture of two women whose draped gowns left nothing to the imagination, and then the caryatid, a full sculpture of a woman that had served as a column in the Parthenon.
That’s when Lord St. Clair finally spoke. “She looks a bit like Sophie.”
“Yes, she does, doesn’t she? It’s the eyes. They’re so innocent.”
He touched the marble briefly, then dropped his hand. “How is she?”
“She’s doing better. You needn’t worry about her.”
“She’s been ill for weeks. When I visit, she doesn’t even send down any messages.” His brow was furrowed. “Did she know you were to be with me today?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And she gave you no message for me, no word of anything.”
Emily debated making something up. But the greater the supposed silence on Sophie’s part, the more anxious he would become and thus the more likely to confess something. “No.” She couldn’t resist adding, “But she was sleeping when I left.”
He raked his fingers through his hair in distraction. “When I visited yesterday—while you and Lady Dundee were out—the servants wouldn’t even let me see her. What kind of illness could be so awful that visitors aren’t allowed?”
His obviously genuine concern was touching. What if he had been the one? And what if he truly were in love with Sophie? Would it be so terrible to let them be together? Lord St. Clair didn’t seem a bad sort, no matter what Lord Nesfield thought.
“It’s not the nature of her illness that keeps visitors from her, but simple female vanity, I assure you,” Emily lied. “What young woman wishes her friends to see her when she looks pale and sickly and cannot dress in her best gowns?”
His mouth tightened into a thin line. “That doesn’t sound like Lady Sophie. She never struck me as vain. Indeed, I’ve never met a more straightforward, simple girl. That’s why I chose to offer her my attentions.”
Chose to offer her my attentions? That was more the language of a man picking out a prize cow than the language of love. Perhaps she’d been too hasty in her assessment of Lord St. Clair’s feelings.
“Besides,” he went on, “I don’t trust the lady’s father. I think he might keep her closeted away from visitors to prevent her from making an unwise match.”
Emily’s heart pounded. His words were too near the truth to be accidental. What should she tell him? How could she get him to say more? She must be certain of him before Lord Nesfield could risk accusing him.
She tried a more direct approach. “Are you saying that matters had progressed so far between you and my cousin that her father would need to use such tactics?”
He clenched his jaw, his eyes still fixed on the statue. Goodness gracious, how could she tell anything when she couldn’t see his eyes? She held her breath, waiting for his answer.
Suddenly, he sighed wearily. “I don’t know what I’m saying. The last time I saw her, she and I came very near to discussing marriage. Then her father interrupted the discussion, and I haven’t seen her since. I don’t know what to make of it.”
Dear heavens, he had to be the one! Relief coursed through her. She would no longer need to fear exposure; she could put an end to the dreadful lies.
But maybe she was being too hasty. She needed more evidence.
“Have you approached Uncle Randolph with an offer?”
“I don’t wish to do so until I’m sure of her feelings. This silence from her makes me wonder if I was wrong about the way she felt. If she hasn’t even told you, her own cousin, about me—”
“Oh, but she has!” He mustn’t become too discouraged or she’d never find out for certain if he was the one. “We talked about you at length after my first ball.”
“What did she say?”
“Um…well, I can’t tell you that.” Thinking fast, she shot him a coy smile. “Sophie would never forgive me if I told all her secrets.”
His gaze swung to her, and in the depths of his black eyes, she saw suspicion. “Are you playing games with me, Lady Emma?”
A shiver passed over her. This was the side of him she’d suspected lay dormant. The dangerous side. “Not at all. But if you’re not even willing to approach my uncle with an offer, I don’t see why I should tell you everything about my cousin. It wouldn’t be fair, especially when he doesn’t approve of you.”
He stared at her as if debating something. “I have a confession to make.” When he paused, she held her breath. “You see—”
“So there you are,” boomed a loud, feminine voice as Lady Dundee swept into the room, followed closely by Jordan. “We thought we had lost you.”
Emily cast the countess a withering glance. She’d been so close, curse it all! He’d been on the verge of telling her about the elopement—she was sure of it! And now, thanks to Lady Dundee’s over-protective instincts, Emily would have to try again. It was enough to make her cry, for goodness sakes!
Lady Dundee seemed oblivious to Emily’s distress, or to Lord St. Clair’s, for that matter. She strode up to them, waving her arm as if to indicate the entire building. “It’s all so fabulous, don’t you think? I’m quite pleased you invited us, St. Clair.” She flashed a smile at Emily. “Isn’t it lovely, my dear?”
“Yes, Mama, it is.”
Lady Dundee sighed. “But all this walking has tired me enormously.”
“Perhaps you should rest a moment before we go on,” Lord St. Clair said quickly, once more his amiable, courteous self. He offered the countess his arm. “I believe there are benches in the next room.”
Hooking her hand in his bent elbow, Lady Dundee paused to look around, then made a face. “Good Lord, I must have left my shawl in one of those other rooms. I have no idea where. Would you mind looking for it, Emma?”
“Not at all, Mama.”
“And take Lord Blackmore with you. He knows his way around here.”
With a smug smile, Jordan offered her his arm. Emily couldn’t even protest, not when her “mama” had sanctioned the encounter. Lady Dundee was certainly in great form today, managing to allow not one, but two private meetings so that Emily could do her work.
Oh, if only Lady Dundee knew what she’d done.
With a sense of impending doom, Emily allowed Jordan to lead her into the other room. What was she to do now? How was she to fool him?
As soon as the others were out of sight, she tried to take her hand from his arm, but he wouldn’t let her, clamping his other hand over it forcefully. “I do believe I’m growing fond of your mother,” he bent to whisper in her ear. “Clearly, she knows what’s best for you. Or should I say, she knows who’s best for you?”
Curse the wretch! Tossing her head back, she fixed him with a cool smile. “Don’t flatter yourself, Lord Blackmore. Mama might have set her sights on you, but I have not.”
“Haven’t you? You didn’t have to come on this outing. I almost thought you weren’t going to—that nonsense with the headache and all.”
“Oh, it wasn’t nonsense, I assure you,” she said sweetly. “The sight of you always gives me a headache.”
As they passed quickly through the room, Emily looked for the shawl. He clearly did not.
“We both know why I give you headaches,” he murmured.
“Because you’re a nuisance and an arrogant, insufferable bore?”
He laughed at the outrageous lie, then stroked her hand, beginning with the edge of her short glove before trailing his fingers down to the tips in a caress that made her catch her breath. “I give you headaches for the same reason I made you shiver in the carriage earlier.” He paused. “Because it makes you remember.”
“Remember what?” She jerked her hand from his arm as she faced him. “The way you pawed me at the ball two nights ago?”
Their gazes met, and he held the look, his eyes darkening. “No. Not then.”
Curse him for all his suspicions and hidden meanings! She should never have allowed this! Whirling away, she stalked off toward the entrance to another of the rooms. “I shan’t stand here and listen to your nonsense. I’m going to look for Mama’s shawl!”
He caught her arm, then steered her in another direction, that infernal smile on his face again. “Then you’re headed the wrong way. Lady Dundee and I didn’t go in that room. Try this one over here.”
The doorway he steered her toward was smaller than the others, and the door to it was closed. Perhaps if she hadn’t been so furious, she would have noticed the guard and the fact that he bowed deferentially to Jordan. She might even have paused to wonder why he had to unlock the door as they approached.
But as soon as she stepped inside the cavernous room and the door was shut behind them, she knew she’d made an enormous error. There was no one else inside.
They were completely alone.
Chapter 10
Who would not rather trust and be deceived?
Eliza Cook, English poet, “Love On”
Excellent, Jordan thought as the door clicked shut. As usual, his plan had worked perfectly. Thanks to Lady Dundee and her inexplicable help, it had worked more than perfectly, saving him the trouble of using an elaborate story to get Emily in here. She’d followed him without a protest.
Her acquiescence wouldn’t last, however. Already, she’d whirled toward the door. When she heard the guard lock it, her lovely eyes went big as saucers, and she rounded on him in a fury. “What do you think you’re doing! Are you insane? Tell him to unlock the door! Tell him at once!”
“Calm down. It’s not what you think. This room isn’t open to the regular museum visitors, so the door must remain locked as long as we’re in here. He’ll open it when we’re ready to leave. All we have to do is knock on it.”
“I’m ready to leave now!”
She darted for the door, but he caught her before she reached it. “You can’t go before you see this.” He gestured behind her, and with a scowl, she pivoted in that direction.
Then she froze, her mouth dropping open. “Goodness gracious.” Awe filled her face as she fixed her wide eyes on the great stone sitting atop the scarred wooden worktable before her and propped against the wall. “Why, it’s…it’s—”
“A centaur,” he finished for her. “It’s carved in what is called a metope.”
She stepped forward, and he let her go, watching as she approached the sculpture. The single panel of marble was about four feet by four feet. Its left half was covered with a dusty length of muslin, but the headless centaur on the right half was carved in such high relief that he appeared to be attempting his escape from the marble.
“It was taken from the Parthenon’s south side,” he said softly. “Incredible, isn’t it? I thought you would like it.”
“Oh, I do! It’s the best I’ve seen so far.”
Her obvious delight made him smile. Although this had merely been a ruse to lower her defenses against him, he was pleased that she appreciated the artistry that had so captivated him the first time he’d seen this piece.
“It’s from a depiction of a battle between the centaurs and the Lapith men,” he said.
“May I touch it?”
“Of course.”
She stretched her hand out over the table to press it against the centaur’s marble flanks. “So real. You can see the ribs beneath the skin, as if he were an actual creature.”
“Yes, the craftsmanship on this piece is very fine.” He went to stand beside her. “That’s why I wanted you to see it.”
While she examined the metope, he drank in the sight of her. Talk about fine craftsmanship—she was about as fine a piece of work as a man could want. Her skin rivaled the marble for smooth creaminess, and the curves apparent beneath her gown made his mouth water and his fingers itch to touch her.
Why did women always dress in those gauzy, thin materials that made one think of delicate fruit pastries with light, feathery crusts? Didn’t they know how it made a man want to tear the damned layers away to taste the silky, hot center?
And all that lace, like powdery sugar. There was white lace everywhere…dripping from the ends of her sleeves and on the scarf that draped her bodice. For God’s sake, her entire pelisse was made of the stuff. And yards of it covered the bonnet that he detested because it hid her luscious hair.
She glanced up at him, her expression still full of wonder. “Why is it locked away? It should be on display with the others.”
It took him a second to remember what she was talking about. “The metope? They’re cleaning it. After years in Elgin’s back garden, it was filthy. I imagine it’ll be some weeks before it’s put on display.”
“So why are we allowed to see it?”
“As I said before, I’m on the board of directors.”
“Oh, of course. That’s why the guard knew you.” A pleased smile touched her lips. “I can’t thank you enough for using your influence to let me have a look at such a piece of work.” She stroked the sculpture again with a gentle touch, and he felt a jolt of lust so intense he nearly groaned aloud. He wanted those fingers to touch him, to caress him. He wanted it as badly as he’d ever wanted anything.
“Here,” he said softly, taking her hand. Slowly, he unbuttoned her glove and drew it off to expose her slender fingers. “You can feel it better this way.” He pressed her hand against the marble, fervently wishing he were pressing it against something now equally as hard.
She stilled as he molded her hand to the marble. For him, the sculpture had ceased to exist. He was aware only of the delicacy of her bones, the shape of her fingers beneath his, the way her breath had quickened.
They stood there a moment, linked together, each so aware of the other that the silence in the room was deafening.
Then she slid her hand back, forcing him to drop his. She kept her gaze fixed on the sculpture as she murmured, “It’s a crime to think of this lying in the dirt. It’s so beautiful.”
He gazed down at her upturned cheeks and wistful smile, both as fragile and smooth as the marbles themselves. “Yes, beautiful,” he choked out, fighting back the urge to seize her and kiss her senseless.
God, how he wanted her. But he mustn’t scare her off before he could attend to his first priority. He cleared his throat. “Would you like to see the rest of it—the part under the cleaning cloth?”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh, certainly. I…I mean, if it’s allowed.”
The eager anticipation in her face sparked a brief moment of guilt. He was planning to play a very dirty trick on her. Still, he wanted to know the truth, didn’t he?
Ignoring his conscience, he yanked off the swath of muslin and fixed his gaze on her face. He didn’t have to look at the sculpture to know what she was seeing. He’d purposely chosen this metope because of the veiled figure.
Under the cover was a headless sculpture of a Lapith man. He was apparently grasping the centaur by the mane, possibly preparing to cut off the head that nature had already worn away from the stone. The man’s body was brilliantly carved to show each muscle and rib, and draped over his arm was a splendid cloak, with every ripple and fold lovingly depicted.
Except for the cloak, however, the figure was naked from head to foot.
There was no way on earth she could ignore that. And if, as he thought, she was Emily Fairchild, her reaction would have to be dramatic.
Dramatic indeed. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes widened. She blushed from the roots of her hair to the edge of her bodice, filling him with a quick burst of satisfaction. She was Emily—she had to be.
After a moment of stunned silence, she said in a hushed whisper, “My word, he’s magnificent.”
Magnificent? He nearly choked. “You’re not shocked?”
She shrugged. “Why should I be? I’m from Scotland, where the men wear nothing under their kilts.”
Amazement followed upon amazement. How could Emily be spouting off a
bout kilts with such nonchalance?
When she peered closer at the carving, he actually found himself jealous. “This half of the carving seems even more to your liking than the other.”
“Of course. The man is quite well rendered.”
Well-rendered? Did she mean well-hung? “So his nakedness doesn’t bother you,” he said inanely, unable to leave that subject.
“Certainly not. The human body is nothing to be ashamed of. The Greeks knew that, even if we aren’t so wise.”
She couldn’t be so calm about this. It was unthinkable! Then his eyes narrowed when he saw her rest her hand on the table as if to support herself. Ha—she was merely pretending not to be shocked. That was it. He’d try his other trick on her. “What you’re saying is, ‘Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked I shall return there.’ And that makes it all right.” He held his breath, waiting for her to respond to the bit of scripture.
“I suppose. What poet are you quoting? This Lord Byron everyone seems so interested in?”
Byron! She thought it was Byron? Emily Fairchild would have been familiar with such a well-known biblical passage—even if he’d had to spend hours looking for it in the Bible he never touched. But Lady Emma…
Her gaze traveled casually up the sculpture to fix directly on the man’s flaccid member, and he choked back a groan. His own member supplied the arousal the stone figure’s lacked.
Deuce take her! He could believe her lack of shock had been a pretense, and he might even believe she didn’t know the scripture he’d quoted—but there was no way Emily Fairchild would peruse a man’s privates with such curiosity.
Ian must be right. The girl was precisely who she claimed to be: Lady Emma. She was probably a distant relation of the rector’s daughter, nothing more.
He didn’t know whether to be disappointed or ecstatic. If she weren’t Emily, then he’d been right about the rector’s daughter and her purity. The young woman hadn’t been deceiving him; she was probably still tucked up in her rectory reading Bible verses. And Emily was the woman he wanted.
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