Proof by Seduction (Carhart #1)(26)

Jenny glanced across the room and spotted a narrow servants’ staircase. Somewhere above her, Lord Blakely prowled. Her skin pricked at the thought of him pacing in some room above her head, unaware how near she was. How would he react? Badly, she supposed. How far away was he? If she knew him at all, she’d wager he had a study tucked at the back of the house, away from all the noise and bother of the street. Undoubtedly, he’d also receive men of business there. The first floor would be most convenient for that.

Jenny sauntered carefully across the room, hugging the bulky package to her chest. If anyone asked, she would say she planned to set it on one of those wide counters. She stopped, pretending to ogle her distorted reflection in the side of one of the copper pots. Nobody paid her any mind. She was as invisible now as she’d been on the streets of Mayfair.

Good.

She very carefully didn’t look at the stairs until she stood at the bottom. Then, before anyone could stop her, she pounded up them and out the scullery door.

Shouts erupted behind her.

She threw open another door across the way before anyone could follow her.

The hallway she entered was part of the family quarters. Landscapes hung in polished, pristine wood frames, showing idyllic scenes of a countryside Jenny had never known. Her stockinged feet sank into a rich, thick carpet. To the right lay the entry, where two additional liveried footmen turned to face her. Jenny turned left and dashed to the back of the house. She opened one door. There was a large rectangular dining table, the sort that could seat an entire legion of soldiers. She swiveled and faced one last door. Her heart pounded from exertion, and her breath burned in her lungs. It was this, or nothing.

The handle turned smoothly.

Jenny’s vision swam. In front of her were books. Books. Books. Books—and Blakely. Light from the fire glinted off his tawny hair. Here in his study he seemed relaxed, almost boyish. He looked very different from the cold man who’d last confronted her. The lines of his face were freed from some subtle tension and his lips were parted. Something inside her chest froze painfully at the sight. She had a sudden vision of the marquess hiding behind a solid facade of arrogance every time he went in society.

She could not shake the feeling that this man, stripped of the cold shell that surrounded him, was the true Lord Blakely.

He was seated at a heavy desk, paper piled in front of him. Paper on the table; on the chairs. Even stacked neatly on the floor. He scratched intently away with a dip pen. He didn’t look up at her entrance. Instead his hand moved protectively over the documents before him as they rustled in the draft of the door’s opening. She slipped inside and shut the door.

“Well,” came that precise drawl, “did she send a reply? And what had she to say for herself?” Still he did not look up.

Jenny stepped forward, clutching the paper package.

“She says, I can’t wear this dress.”

That brought his head up, his eyes widening in shock. For one instant, his mouth opened in a near welcome. Then that protective armor slammed into place. His spine stiffened.

If she had any sense, she would have been intimidated. But he wasn’t looking through her. He didn’t see a delivery girl, no matter how faded the color of Jenny’s blouse. His lips parted, almost in welcome; his gaze took her in from muddied skirts on up. He focused on her with almost savage intensity. Intensity, Jenny could handle. It was indifference that would have sunk her. She tossed the parcel on his desk. Papers scattered.

He grabbed for them. “You! You can’t come in here.”

“Why not? After all, you invaded my rooms without invitation the other night.”

“That was different. I—”

“Oh, yes. It was different. It was different because you are six inches taller than me, three stone heavier and twice as strong. And I was all alone, whereas you are surrounded by staff who will no doubt pour through that door in a matter of seconds, ready to send me away.”

He set his pen down.

Jenny took off her shawl and looped it over a stack of books. His eyes dropped to her damp blouse. The garment clung to her br**sts. His gaze rested there, an almost palpable touch against her hardening ni**les.

“No, my lord, when you say it is different, you mean that you are Lord Blakely and I am nobody.”

“Quite.” Ice and steel in his tone, belied by that gaze, still fixed on her bosom. There was a hint of his former vulnerability in that look, a youthfulness that he had not managed to dispel.

She wanted to crack the solid casing that surrounded him. And now, he’d shown her how to do it.

Jenny lifted one foot and set her toes on the edge of a chair. The motion pulled her skirt just above her ankle, and his gaze traveled to her foot and arrested on that hint of stocking-clad limb. His mouth opened and he leaned forward.

“And yet,” Jenny said softly, “it was not Lord Blakely who offered to seduce me, was it? It was Gareth.”

On this cue, the door burst open and the butler burst into the room. He grabbed Jenny’s arm in a bruising grip and jerked her. Jenny’s ankle twisted against the chair’s upholstery, and she barely managed to keep her balance.

“My lord,” the man panted, “my apologies. We’ll take her out directly.”

Lord Blakely tore his eyes from Jenny’s stockinged ankle. What flickered in those golden-brown depths was no emotion she could identify.