Proof by Seduction (Carhart #1)(64)

“So he—he—”

“So he shagged the woman I intended to marry, yes.”

“And he called that a lesson? It sounds more like a travesty. How did he dare tell you what he’d done?”

“There was no need. He made sure I overheard them. She called his name, you see.”

Long silence. “At the time,” she finally said, “he would have been Lord Blakely, yes?”

Thank God for intelligent women, who understood the import of his little speech without him having to bare himself any more than he’d already done. Gareth traced his hand down the curve of her spine.

“So since you inherited—” she started.

“It’s been years. And no. Since I became Blakely myself, I haven’t been able to hear that name on a woman’s lips. Not like that.”

At twenty-one, he’d had as much perspective on life as an ant had of the horizon. He felt rather like that ant now—as if he were utterly trivial. A pimple on the face of an enormous mountain situated in a massive range.

She’d had nothing. By all rights, Jenny should have followed the path of doomed women everywhere. Increasing desperation. Sexual immorality. It should have culminated in her dramatic death in some snow-filled alley, as if she were some desperate female in one of those gothic serializations. But Jenny had not made a serial of herself.

Instead, it was her arm that fell comfortingly over his chest, her head that rested against his shoulder. She gave succor to him, and he, selfish creature that he was, sucked in all her heat, hoarding it as selfishly as he’d taken her body.

Years ago, he’d traded the uncertain comfort of companionship for the surety of superiority. It had been his grandfather’s last gift—or perhaps his curse. If this was what he’d given up all those years ago, could he justify those years of loneliness?

Gareth shook his head and sent the dark thoughts back from whence they came.

Twilight had passed, and now he could make out nothing of her features in the thick darkness. He pulled her against him. She was limp and no doubt weary. She hadn’t slept much the previous evening. Neither, for that matter, had he.

The last of the light faded as he held her close.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

WHEN JENNY AWOKE the next morning, the side of the bed next to her felt cold. He must have left sometime in the night. She opened her eyes. Pale light touched the walls. Outside, she could hear the sounds of early morning in London. A cart rumbled by, and the market a few streets down was coming to life. A butter-maid’s shout punctuated the dawn. “Freshly churned, freshly churned!”

Jenny sat up and looked around the room, stricken. Every scrap of clothing he’d set on the chair the previous night had vanished. After the conversation the previous evening, she had begun to believe she meant something more to him than a mere sexual relationship. She had thought that they had formed a deeper attachment.

The secrets they’d shared on the previous night had left her feeling vulnerable. Apparently, it had passed him by completely. It would be foolish for Jenny to harbor illusions about Lord Blakely. He wouldn’t care for her. For him, this was a temporary circumstance. It was physical pleasure. And no matter how close he held her, he would one day leave. When he did, she would not let her life be as empty as this room.

She swung her feet to the side of the bed and stood up. She’d slept in nothing but his arms. She reached for her clothing, heaped in an uncertain pile on the floor. Drawers first, and then her shift. The working woman’s stays that provided support rather than shaping.

As she dressed herself, she realized one last thing: Her desire to be loved hadn’t lessened during the decade since she’d embarked on that first disastrous affair.

Her feelings for Gareth had passed the point of danger. She was desperate to take everything he said as an indication that he cared for her. But aside from a few comments made in the heat of the moment, he treated Jenny as if she were nothing more than a mistress. And that she’d vowed never to become. Not again.

There was no good way to take his departure in the morning without so much as an explanation. No doubt he’d come back some other evening—and no doubt, he’d try to buy her participation in the sexual act with another piece of furniture. Perhaps he’d give her a silver bracelet when he was done with her.

Perhaps by that time she would be desperate enough to take it, to accept the bare monetary value he placed on her heart.

Jenny vowed not to let him fool her again. She’d let her own desperate loneliness overwhelm her. She had more important things to think about. Such as how she was to rescue her four hundred pounds from Mr. Sevin’s clutches. And what she was to do with the funds once she had them in hand.

She hugged her knees.

Had she not foolishly told Gareth about her childhood last night, she could have withstood this. But she had felt naked and exposed—and afterward he’d held her so gently. She’d felt as if she’d come home. She’d never had a home before.

Damn him. The facts were simple. He was a lord. She was a ruined woman he had taken on as a mistress. She accepted as payment the casual kindnesses he offered.

It had been many years since Jenny had allowed herself to cry.

She did, now. She cried hot tears for her own stupidity. For that raging desire that still burned inside her, her determination to be strong and respected. She buried her face in her blanket and sobbed. It felt strangely exhilarating to let her tears loose.