Proof by Seduction (Carhart #1)(35)

The ways he could think to continue this conversation totaled zero.

He tried anyway. “What think you of the weather?”

He could hear the cold formality in his own voice. It clanged, unpleasant even to his own ears. He sounded as if he were embarking on his own personal branch of the Spanish Inquisition—perhaps the heretical meteorology division.

“My lord?” Unsurprisingly, White looked uneasy. “Are you feeling well?”

Gareth flung the ledger on his desk open. Numbers—cold, yet comforting—sprang to life in front of him. The sums detailed debits and credits, purchases and sales. Feed for livestock; investments in a new pottery-works on one of his properties that had been recently connected to a rail line. Money flew forth and trickled back, adding up after months and months into substantial sums. Every last penny was accounted for between these pages.

All those books in his damned library. Every shilling in his accounts.

And after thirty-four years, Gareth still had no idea how to make friends.

“Never mind,” he muttered, and stared furiously at the page.

After a pause, White’s pen started up again. Scritch, scratch. Rustle, rustle. It was only in Gareth’s imagination that the sound magnified to a roar.

THAT EVENING, Lord Blakely slammed open the unlocked door to Jenny’s rooms with a bang. Jenny jumped, her heart racing.

He strode inside without so much as a by-your-leave. He was accompanied by a breeze pregnant with all the youthful possibilities of spring rain. None of those possibilities entered the room with him. Instead, he seemed to suck them from the air, until Jenny’s world constricted to the glower on his face.

He didn’t say anything. Instead, he advanced on her, like a general accosting his lowliest foot-soldier. But the heat in his eyes was hardly military. And even the cruelest officer bent on discipline wouldn’t have trapped his subordinate against the wall, his arms forming a cage around her. Lord Blakely’s lips pressed together into one thin, white line.

Jenny felt a touch of irritation. She drew herself up straight and glared at him. “Lord Blakely, you can’t just stroll into my home as if you had permission.”

He snorted. “And who will stop me, do you suppose? Do think the matter through. I am a marquess. And you…” His hands bracketed her face. “You,” he scoffed again, disdainfully.

“Me?” The word squeaked out.

“If I see the worst in people,” he said, each word snapping out in carefully controlled fury, “it is because they won’t see it in themselves. Take you, for instance. There is no excuse for what you are doing to my cousin. You can couch it in whatever pretty terms you like, but ultimately, you are lying to him. You are deceiving him. And you are taking his money.”

Jenny put her hands against his chest. “That doesn’t justify your behavior here.” She pushed, hard.

He didn’t budge. “So you don’t deny it.”

“It’s not like that,” she said. “You don’t understand Ned. You’ve never bothered to understand him. He’s never had one scrap of encouragement in his life. You weren’t around when he was sent down from Cambridge, and you don’t understand—”

“You play on his worst fears. You cannot deceive me. I doubt you can even deceive yourself. You aren’t helping him. The world is not an encouraging or an understanding place. When Ned one day stands in my shoes as marquess, do you think anyone will care if he’s had friends? He doesn’t need to be happy. He needs to be ready. Look at him once through my eyes, Madame Esmerelda.”

Jenny pressed back into the cold wall. “If you had any notion of friendship, you’d never ask me to abandon him.”

“If you can’t think of Ned, then think of yourself. I admit, you present a very pretty package when you haven’t gaudied yourself up to play the part of fortune-teller. And I cannot help but admire your intelligence. But look at yourself once through my eyes. What do you think I see?”

Jenny screwed her eyes shut. She couldn’t stop up her ears, though, couldn’t shut off the prickle of nerves up and down her arms as he leaned closer.

He trailed one finger down her cheek, searing an unforgiving line into her skin. “You’re a fraud and a liar and a cheat. What notion of friendship do you entertain? You’ve bilked Ned of how much money? And you can’t even tell him your name.”

The truth burned the breath from her lungs. He tipped her chin up. When she opened her eyes, her vision swam. She willed the tear not to drop.

It didn’t.

But he did not miss the liquid sheen in her eyes. His thumb touched the corner of her eye and traced a damp track down her cheek. “You can’t tell Ned your name.” His voice dropped. It was so low, she could feel the vibration through his hand on her jaw. “But you can tell me.”

“If you think so little of me, then why are you touching me?”

His hand froze on her jaw. His nostrils flared.

“Because,” he said roughly.

“You see more than you’ve said.” She wanted to believe it. Had to. “When you look at me, you see—”

“I see nothing,” he said in clipped tones, “except a bloody good shag.”

And then he bent his head and kissed her. There was nothing tender or gentle about the embrace. His lips came down on hers with a controlled fury. And heaven help her, Jenny wanted to melt into his arms, wanted to sigh up into his kiss. She wanted him to put his hands on her and ferret out all her womanly secrets. She wanted, Jenny thought bitterly, to pretend that he cared for her.