Page 26 of The Forbidden Lord (Lord Trilogy #2)

Chapter Ten

Though we may dread the lips we once believed,

And know their falsehood shadows all our days;

Who would not rather trust and be deceived,

Than own the mean, cold spirit that betrays?

— ELIZA COOK, ENGLISH POET, “LOVE ON”

Excellent, Jordan thought as the door clicked shut. 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 work table 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 strip the damned layers off 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, her expression still full of wonder. “Why is it locked away? It should be displayed with the others.”

It took him a second to remember what she was talking about. “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 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 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, 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 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 about kilts with such nonchalance?

When she peered closer at the carving, he actually found himself jealous. “This half 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, 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.

Or was she? He watched as Lady Emma stepped back from the sculpture to take a better look at the overall effect, and a surge of lust hit him as strongly as before. Good God, he was still attracted to the chit! Why was that, if she wasn’t his Emily?

Because she was exquisite, with a mind like a man’s and a body decidedly female. The women he met in society paled next to her. She inflamed his senses and tempted his wicked loins. And she was accessible. He needn’t be careful of her the way he’d been careful of Emily. Lady Emma was no innocent.

She sighed, a darling utterance that sent hot urges careening through his unruly body. “I suppose we’d best return to Mama before she sends the museum guard after us.” When she pivoted toward the door, he caught her arm to halt her.