Proof by Seduction (Carhart #1)(28)

His palm was warm against her side. Jenny smiled, and his fingers cinched around her.

“I didn’t need to. But where would be the fun in a note?”

“Fun?” He raised one eyebrow. His tone disparaged the preposterous. Magic? Killer unicorns? Fun?!

“Fun,” Jenny repeated adamantly. “Very fun. Just think, Lord Blakely. How often does anyone tie you up and force you to do anything?”

“What would you know? Look behind you.”

She turned around and took in the paper scattered over the surface of his desk.

Rough ink sketches—astonishingly lifelike—detailed wings, claws. Birds, the likes of which she’d never seen before. Vines. Seeds. Further notations in his careful hand filled the pages. A title page off to one side labeled this A Study of Brazilian Macaws.

“Underneath that thin layer of drawings,” he said, “is a stack of economic accounts. I hate them. But three counties over, a harvest failed. I am all that stands between my dependents and the various famines that have swept this country over the last years. So, yes. I do know something of being tied up. Though it’s usually with sums rather than stockings.”

Reluctantly, Jenny turned back to face him.

There was no anger in his eyes now. Instead they seemed clear. Young, in a way that tugged at her heart.

“I grant myself these morning hours, so that I have the fortitude to face the finances in the afternoon. This is the only time I have to spend as I desire.”

Jenny swallowed an uncomfortable lump in her throat. “And here I am, interrupting you and tying you up. No wonder you’re always angry.” She’d meant to tease him out of his solemnity.

But he raised his free hand to her cheek. “You’ll make up the difference.”

He turned her face down toward his.

Her palms rested against his chest. One shove—one good push—and she’d be free. But she couldn’t untangle herself from that look in his eyes, or the smell of bay rum on his collar.

She swallowed.

And he kissed her. His lips were light on hers, but he seared her nonetheless. Her hands drifted up to cup his face, still morning-smooth beneath her fingers. His body pressed against hers, hard planes of muscle and sinew. His tongue darted out like a lick of flame. He was going to burn her up.

She’d been burnt before. She scrambled off his lap while she still could and beat a hasty retreat across the room. He watched her go and then stood, somewhat awkwardly, shuffling round the chair until he could reach the knot she’d made of her stocking.

Jenny backed to the door, preparing to run.

He looked up. There was a lightness about his expression. “Tell me, which did you enjoy more? Outwitting me, or allowing me to run my hands over you?”

“Both, I should think.” She put her hands on the door handle. “Which did you enjoy more? Kissing me, or tricking me into running away so you could untie yourself?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he jerked his hand free and straightened. “You were right about one thing.”

“Pardon?”

“Lord Blakely—his responsibilities do not extend to seducing you. I reserve that pleasure for myself.”

And on that incomprehensible note, Jenny fled.

GARETH HELD HIS BREATH until the door shut behind Madame Esmerelda. He should have followed her out and made sure his servants did not harass her. But he was too confounded by what had just transpired to move from his seat.

She’d seduced him. She’d seduced Gareth. Oh, not all the way, unfortunately. But those clear eyes of hers had seen right past Lord Blakely. Past the title that bound him. One word—his Christian name—and he’d let her tie him in knots, of both the literal and figurative varieties.

Where would be the fun in that? she’d asked. Lord Blakely had no room in his life for fun. Even when he made time for the sexual act, he kept the transactions as cold and business-like as possible. Impersonal exchanges, money for temporary physical satisfaction. It had never been about fun; it had been about relief from his body’s demands.

Gareth clenched his hand. The specter of his title had robbed everything good and convivial from his life. His mother. His sister. His own chance at a family. But Gareth would allow himself this one thing: this woman, in his bed. Until he no longer risked forgetting that there was a man beneath the mask of Lord Blakely.

And if, in addition to the physical longing that racked him, she awoke some deeper wistfulness…He looked down at his fist. He was still clutching her stocking in his hand. Fun. Wistfulness. Loneliness.

Physical pleasure would purge these longings from his system. It had to. And if it didn’t work the first time, he’d do it over and over, until finally her hold over him dissipated like smoke.

In the meanwhile, he’d send back the dress.

But this time, he’d send along a maid.

CHAPTER SEVEN

NED WAS VERY FIRM in his notion of what constituted an enjoyable time. It started with a few good friends and a tankard of ale. Add in a horse race or some kind of boxing match, and a girl who wouldn’t mind showing her ankles. There followed jokes and laughter. More liquor. More ankles. In the two years since Madame Esmerelda had helped him banish his black despair, he’d learned to enjoy the finer things in life.

And so this musicale, attended in his dour cousin’s company, was hardly his idea of fun.