Hidden Paradise

by Janet Mullany

  “A model?”

  “Yes. A nude study.”

  “What! Why me?”

  “Drawing was an accomplishment of a well-bred woman. It’s quite historically correct.”

  “Yeah, but…” He unbuttoned his parka, which was dripping wet from the bike ride to the house. “I mean, didn’t they draw flowers and things?”

  “The beauty of the male body has long been accepted as an aesthetic ideal,” Chris said. “Get one of the other footmen to do it if it makes you uncomfortable. I’m sure they’ll have no trouble accepting. I imagine the tips will be fantastic. No big deal, but make your mind up. The guests are waiting.”

  Rob thought of Ivan the permanently erect—absolutely not—and before he could even do a mental inventory of the lads’ shortcomings (pimpled bottoms, farting) realized that he’d never live it down if he delegated. After all, didn’t they all claim that the female guests were looking for an excuse, any excuse, to rip off the footmen’s livery? It would ensure Rob’s authority in the house. Decades later, another generation of pimpled, farting footmen with joyfully uncontrolled erections would mention the name of Rob Temple with awe and wonder.

  Hell, he had to do it. The leader sacrificed himself for the good of the pack.

  “Okay,” he said. “Where?”

  “The drawing room in ten minutes.” Chris gave a thin smile. “Well, don’t stand there, dripping. You’re on duty as of fifteen minutes ago.”

  If you hadn’t called me into the office for this dumb stunt while I was putting the bike away I’d be there now. “Yes, sir.” Rob gave his best insolent sloppy bow, which felt weird in jeans and a sweatshirt. He squelched across the office, but paused in the doorway. It was here that Peter had propositioned him and he was pretty sure Chris knew all about it. “So do I take my kit off in the drawing room, sir?”

  Chris sighed and rolled his eyes. “You will present yourself in livery. A screen will be provided behind which you will undress and Viv will provide you with drapery for decency’s sake.”

  “Right, then,” Rob said. Well, at least he wouldn’t be totally naked. He hoped the drapery wouldn’t be inspired to move around too much and that Viv wouldn’t get too hands-on about the whole thing. She was okay on her own, all business, but if there were other people around, she was as bad as Chris—when he was in a good mood.

  “Good morning, Rob.” Peter, carrying a handful of papers, approached from inside the house.

  Rob bowed and flattened himself against the wall to let him by, aware that Chris watched them like a hawk.

  “We have an applicant for the groundsman position,” Peter said. “Mike Temple. A relative of yours, is he, Rob?”

  Well, at least the stupid sod had got off his arse and done something. “My dad.”

  “What an amazing coincidence,” Chris said as Rob retreated down the passage, breaking into a run and unbuttoning his shirt as he left.

  He changed into his livery, leaving his clothes in a sodden heap on the floor, stopped in at the Servants’ Hall to check the bulletin board, and ran upstairs. Viv met him in the hall outside the drawing room.

  “You’re late,” she said.

  “Yeah, sorry, ma’am.”

  “Well, come on in. They’re waiting for you.”

  Oh, shit. Sarah looked rapacious, Cathy giggled and Lou gave him a cool nod. A small dais had been erected (bad word choice) in the center of the room where apparently he was to recline on a heap of pillows, wearing— He looked at it with distaste as Viv handed a piece of drapery to him. Something the size of a small towel.

  “Everything off?” he asked in a whisper. “Could I get a pair of boxers or—”

  “What do you think?” She raised her eyebrows.

  “Okay.” Now he was worried that he might have some sort of repulsive flaw he didn’t know about.

  “And by the way, as I’ve told you before, and you’d better remind the rest of your gang, boxers are inappropriate. They’re not historically correct and they spoil the line of the breeches.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at another bad-tempered overlord. Was it the weather or something? He wasn’t exactly all sweetness and light himself, not after that exchange with his father. He could see the old man’s point, though. If Rob was the only one with a job in the family, he should hang on to it. Graham would need a new school uniform and other stuff, shoes and so on. Kids always did. He remembered his mum exclaiming over Graham’s ability to outgrow shoes in a month, and then sweeping him up into a hug the way she used to do with Rob and Syl.

  He didn’t want to think about his mum—he didn’t feel like bursting into tears.

  But if his dad didn’t get the groundsman job, or got it and screwed it up or refused to take it as being below him—not that being the owner of a bankrupt chain of tanning salons was particularly high-class—what then? Gerry, who had no great fondness for his father-in-law, would probably demand they all leave before the baby came. Rob just hoped they’d let Graham stay.

  He was jolted out of his reverie by Viv tweaking on his sleeve. “I’ll let the shoulders out on your coat. Does it pull when you’re carrying heavy stuff?”

  “A little, yes, ma’am. Thanks.”

  “You’ve got some muscle, kid.” Her hand lingered.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Stop playing with the help, Viv,” Sarah said. “Not unless you’re willing to share.”

  Stupid cow. Yeah, now you want to share me. Rob fixed his polite footman smile on his face and escaped behind the screen in the corner of the room, checking first that he wasn’t providing a peepshow with the mirrors hung around the wall. Gritting his teeth, he draped the scrap of cloth around his waist.

  It either covered his butt or his dick, but not both. He removed the thing and shook it, in the hope of it magically expanding.

  “Rob?” Viv’s voice came from the other side of the screen. “Here you go.”

  A tumble of black silk fell into his hands—a robe that might make him look like a Chippendale dancer but at least he wouldn’t treat the women to a display of wobbling dick as he crossed the room. He wrapped himself in the robe and grasped his protective cloth in the other, with a sudden burst of sympathy for Graham and his binky, and strode out from behind the screen. Head up, shoulders straight, as he’d been taught in what the lads referred to as footman boot camp. Now the three women were arranged around the room with their easels and he’d have to make a choice—which one to face when he assumed the full monty.

  Sarah, her mouth half-open with greed: no. Cathy, pink and giggling: no. And Lou, cool and critical, the lesser of three evils apparently, other than Viv who was busy ripping out the seams of his footman’s coat. Lou it was.

  He stepped onto the dais and looked her in the eye. He was damned if he was going to look shy, even if he was, and he knew he had nothing to be ashamed of—unless he had some really horrific physical flaw on his back but that wasn’t his fault or his problem. He dropped the dressing gown, feeling only slightly like a stripper, and lowered himself to a kneeling position and then onto one elbow, which seemed the most graceful way of getting horizontal. As an afterthought he tossed the minimal piece of fabric over his crotch.

  Done.

  Lou gave him a small nod and half smile the way she might have done if he’d retrieved her fallen napkin at dinner.

  Whew.

  “We’ll give you a break after twenty minutes, but shout if you
need to stretch before then.” Viv rearranged him as though he were a piece of furniture, wedging a pillow beneath his arm, straightening out one leg, and he was grateful for her impartiality. He listened as she gave a brief lecture on how they should concentrate on light and shadow and shouldn’t be afraid of the pastels and pencils at their disposal or of using color in an imaginative way. Above all, she instructed them, have fun.

  They dithered around for a while, Sarah claiming she had to move. Rob was pretty sure she wanted to see if she could get a sighting of his arse. Then they got started and other than a slight giggle or whisper, it was pretty much silent in the room.

  Lou’s pencil scratched. She shook her head, erased something and stared at his torso. A gentle ripping sound came from behind him—Viv at work on his coat, and then the soft pop of a needle penetrating silk.

  “What are the guys doing this morning?” Cathy asked.

  “Billiards,” Lou said. “Probably getting an early start on the day’s drinking. I wish we could have ridden today.”

  “Can’t take the girl out of the cowgirl?” Sarah said in a slightly malicious tone.

  “Something like that.”

  The dining-room door opened.

  “Everything okay?” It was Peter, and Rob only just stopped himself grabbing for his dressing gown. “Are your charges behaving, Viv? Good. Let’s see. Oh, very nice, Cathy. Lovely line. Did you study art?”

  “I liked it at school.” Giggle. “We didn’t have this, though.” She gestured toward Rob.

  “And Sarah,” Peter went on. “Very unusual. I didn’t realize you could see, er, quite so much from where you are.”

  “I’m using my imagination.”

  The floor creaked as Peter moved around to Lou and rested a hand on her shoulder. They exchanged a brief, affectionate smile.

  “I know. Don’t lose my day job,” Lou said.

  “It’s not that bad. So long as you’re enjoying yourself.”

  Rob kept his eyes fixed on the wall above Lou’s head. Something had changed—he knew three (possibly four, but Viv was used to people being undressed in her line of work) women were staring at him, but ever since Peter had come into the room, the air had fairly prickled with something more personal, more vivid.

  He tried to focus on something else, and sent his mind off for a change of topic.

  Lou. Lou in the dark, her breast exposed, rubbing up against him in the dark, her face close to his. His imagination had returned him to the scene again and again, editing out Mac, so it was him alone with Lou in the dark. She didn’t shrink from him in alarm, and this time he wasn’t embarrassed by the meeting or his obvious erection—had she noticed then? But she’d notice this time and reach down to touch him as he caressed her breast with its lovely hard nipple—

  Oh shit, oh shit, there was definite movement beneath the cloth as his cock shifted against his thigh.

  She’d see. Peter would see. That bloody silly bit of cloth lay between him and total humiliation, and if he reached down to make sure it covered him he’d draw attention to his state, like a pervert hanging around a kids’ playground.

  Get down.

  That wouldn’t work. He forced himself to think of something really awful. He thought about his dad, slumped on the sofa and wallowing in self-pity. No, he absolutely didn’t want to think of him. Of Graham running through the mud in the park, kicking his football and shouting, “Look at me, Rob! Watch me!” Poor little fucker. He tried something good but asexual, Cambridge, the incredible antiquity of those ancient buildings, the place he’d be very soon.

  Who’d play footer with Graham then?

  Graham would be back at school with his mates. He’d be okay. Unless he was moved to a different school because they were kicked out of Sylvia’s tiny house. Where would he end up?

  He risked a glance at Lou, who’d bent over to pick up something from a small table of drawing equipment and was revealing a lot of cleavage for a skinny woman.

  Shit.

  All his good negative thoughts undone.

  In a panic, he turned his mind to getting a flat tire in the rain—yes, grabbing the bicycle pump, his chilled hands sliding on the metal, and then that up-down motion—no good. Think about Graham again. That should shrink things.

  Lou raised her head and smiled at him—quite friendly and matter-of-fact, as if she knew he had a hard-on and it was no big deal. He shifted his attention to the wall again, looked away quickly from a portrait of a bosomy Restoration beauty, and found a safe blank spot on which to concentrate until they let him take a break.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Lou

  After the drawing lesson—which to her surprise she’d quite enjoyed, and not just from seeing Rob’s erection, poor kid, he’d looked so embarrassed—there was lunch and then dance practice. The men had divided the morning under cover in the riding arena, shooting period guns or playing billiards inside, with a head start on the alcohol consumption for the day. Mac was at dance practice for once, saying little.

  Lou was tempted to quote to him from Pride and Prejudice (“It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy”) but the time for good-natured teasing had passed.

  “Eye contact, Mrs. Connolly!” Becky the dancing mistress bellowed, and Lou locked eyes with Mac as they joined hands and circled, shoulders close together. His gaze didn’t falter, but she could read nothing in those dark eyes. Fine. She didn’t want to. She hoped her gaze was equally impenetrable.

  “And back to your original partner!” Becky gave Lou a friendly shove in the right direction.

  Lou returned to Alan, who belched beer fumes in her direction and apologized, red-faced. It was an authentic touch, she told him, and he smiled in relief. She wished now she hadn’t seen him and Cathy make love—she felt guilty that she had such intimate knowledge of them. Mac’s fault.

  The next move put her next to Sarah. “What’s his dick like?” she hissed at Lou.

  “Whose?”

  “Rob’s.”

  “I really didn’t notice,” she lied. “Sorry.”

  “Ben wants a threesome with him.”

  “He does?” She couldn’t help glancing at Ben, who was holding Mac’s hand and looking almost animated.

  “He’d be great. He’s used to being told what to do—” Becky advanced on them and they scurried to find the correct place in the dance.

  Rob was on duty, in charge of refreshments for the dancers, glasses of lemonade and cakes, standing still at the side of the room. He had a gift for stillness, Lou thought, or maybe it was his training as a footman. Students of his age she’d taught were all restless energy, unable to keep knees or hands still. He’d proved a good model, too, and she was glad she was the only one of the women who’d noticed his errant erection. Peter had noticed it, too, his hands clenching, before he abruptly left the room almost in midsentence. Poor Peter.

  She knew how he felt. A sudden gust of desire had swept through her, too, leaving her breathless. His blend of innocence and sweetness was suddenly erotic, straightforward and uncomplicated. Maybe this was what she wanted, what she needed.

  The violinist ended his variations on the dance tune with a flourish of his bow, and the dancers bowed and curtsied before crowding around the refreshments table.

  Lou took a glass of lemonade and moved over to the window. Outside, rosebushes and trees sparkled with moisture, but the rain had stopped. She drained her glass, and as she did so a footman a
pproached with a silver tray with a note on it.

  If it was from Mac, she would decline it, but the handwriting was Viv’s, summoning her to a fitting for her ball gown that afternoon. She thanked and tipped the footman with one of the coins in her reticule. He looked down her cleavage as he bowed and she noticed how Rob glared at him.

  “Do you need an umbrella, ma’am?” Rob asked.

  “How did you know I was going outside?”

  “The way you looked out the window. And after you read the note you looked out again.”

  What a combination, good looks and empathy, and according to Peter, loyalty to his family. Some girl would be lucky to have him. She smiled at him and left to change into her half boots for the walk to the lodge.

  She left the house by the front door, taking a moment to gaze at the scenery—the varied and vivid greens of trees and the heavy nod of roses soaked with moisture and spangled with raindrops. She descended the steps and walked along the driveway. Although there was a pleasant, winding footpath that would take her through the trees, she knew how wet she’d get on that route.

  From the opened windows of the lodge came a hum of conversation against a backdrop of opera, Viv’s music choice of the day. She recognized Mac’s voice and was surprised by a sudden homicidal urge at the thought of walking in on him in some sort of sexual situation. But there was no need for bloodshed, to her relief. He sat in his shirtsleeves at a small desk, working on a laptop, while Viv prowled around a dress form, pins in her mouth. Di Brooks, the lady’s maid, sat nearby, hemming a garment.

  “Welcome back to the twenty-first century,” Viv said. “Mac, go upstairs. I need Lou to try on this gown.”

  “Sure.” Mac gathered up his laptop and a small reporter’s notebook and headed upstairs.

  “It’s nice to see him get down to some work,” Viv commented, “although our boy seems rather subdued today.” She gave Lou a curious glance.