Proof by Seduction (Carhart #1)(51)

Jenny. Jenny.

In these dark hours after midnight, the streets lapsed into a silvery silence. The coppery light of gas trickled through London’s dense fog. As he approached her door for the third time that evening, the swirling mist roiled down the steps that led to basement rooms. The dense vapor stifled the sound of his shoes into muffled clops as he descended the stairs.

He knocked.

The mist swallowed the sullen squeak of hinges. Flat orange illumination from the streetlamps dribbled through the crack of the door as it opened. The edges of the light gilded her features into an unforgiving mask. She appeared to be a goddess cast from bronze, a statue draped in white muslin and black shadow. Gareth sucked in a lungful of cold fog.

She swallowed and looked up into his eyes. “You’re here.”

Gareth’s tongue seemed dry in his mouth. “Well, Jenny.” His voice creaked out, thick and husky. It was the first time he’d spoken her real name aloud.

For moments neither moved. Then she curled her fingers about his elbow and drew him into the dark cavern of her room. Her fingertips rested on his arm as the door swung shut behind him. Slowly, he brought his hand up to her face. He could feel the tension in the solid set of her jawbone. He traced the line of her chin, found her mouth with his thumb.

He’d wanted once to conquer her. Now he had. He’d won everything. Her admission of fraud; Ned’s surrender. She’d even given him her respect. This should have been his moment. Rationality had triumphed over illogic.

But his fingers found the secret, sad downward curve of her lips in the darkness. No wet tracks down her cheeks. Just a stubborn, sorrowful desperation as she yielded to his touch.

Gareth hadn’t wanted vindication after all. He’d wanted her.

“Don’t stop.” Her hand covered his. She pressed his palm into the warmth of her face. Her fingers trembled.

Gareth would shake his head over this inconvenient decision the next morning, but—“You’re not under any obligation because I won our little wager.” He couldn’t resist tracing her lips again.

She stilled under his caress. “You won?” His palm swayed gently side to side as she shook her head. “No. You lost. Ned lost. You were correct, but that isn’t winning.”

Her other hand came between them to rest against his coat. But instead of pushing him away, she leaned into him.

Unbidden, his hand found the dark silk of her hair. “Why, then, if not obligation?”

“I lost, too.”

The truth seared into him. In the darkness of the night, they could pretend they had not stolen victory from each other. Her lips trembled against his touch.

“And so what is this?”

“Comfort,” she replied. Her breath heated the tips of his fingers. “That, and farewell.”

Farewell. Gareth froze. He hadn’t wanted to admit it, but there was no other possibility. Not between a fraudulent fortune-teller who didn’t want to become a mistress and the Marquess of Blakely. For tonight, Lord Blakely would be set to one side. Tonight was just for Gareth and Jenny…and farewell.

Jenny took his hand in the moonlight. She led him in the dark, into the back room, her steps sure. Just this evening, he’d taken tea at the tiny table he felt brush by his legs. Just this evening, he’d seen that bed, and had thought of her lying naked upon it.

That contact—the feel of her warm fingers closing around his, the illusion of the whorls of her fingerprints burning into his hand and branding him—was all the greeting his body needed to leap up in recognition. You. It was not so much a word that her touch sparked, but a resonance. Like a glass goblet shivering under a soprano’s song, his soul thrilled at her touch. Yes. You.

In Gareth’s time with this woman, he’d developed quite a vocabulary for her. Fraud. Charlatan. Madame Esmerelda. Liar.

The quiet night swallowed all those words before he could voice them. They didn’t resonate inside him.

Confidante. Friend. Lover. He didn’t speak these, either, but they settled into his flesh nonetheless. A mere touch on her cheek could not suffice. He pulled her into his arms, felt her br**sts press and flatten against his chest. Her breath warmed his jaw. Those unspoken syllables surrounded them both.

After all these weeks, he had expected this kiss—the one that preceded intimacy—to shake him with lust. It would burn high and hot, like kindling. After that bright flare had burnt itself out, there would be nothing left but ash.

Ash, and victory.

But from the first moment his lips touched hers, he realized how wrong he had been. Her soft lips did not feel like the temporary slaking of lust, nor did they taste like a stopgap cure for the loneliness that lodged deep in his breast. Her mouth met his, sweet and trusting, even after all these weeks, after everything they’d said to each other. Her hands touched his elbows, slid up his shoulders. Her body molded against his, settling around him as close and welcome as hot bathwater.

Their mouths melded into one. He lost himself in her taste, in the sweet scent of the breath sighing from her. The kiss was apology for deception and every harsh word. It was acceptance and understanding. It said what words could not. You. You. I want you.

In the silent darkness, he let his body spell the truth. He wanted her. He wanted the courage of the woman who had told Ned about her deception. He wanted the intelligence that had thrown him off balance for the last few weeks.