Proof by Seduction (Carhart #1)(83)

The fire passed gradually. And there was nothing around him but the dark of the night and the velvet warmth of her body.

He shivered inside her, pushing her against the wall. Not letting her go. His muscles trembled with the effort of holding her legs high on his hips, but he would be damned if he’d give up this closeness. Instead, he pressed into her. She sighed warm air against his neck.

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t have to.

She was still planning to leave him, and the very thought choked all returning coherence from his mind.

The rage of lust had burnt from him. And now on this charred battleground, he realized that the war inside him had ended. Peace had broken out. But the surrender that had been negotiated was not a strict win for either party.

Gareth would not let Jenny wrap him up like a convenient package, brought to his knees. He’d make her need him as much as he needed her. More. She’d thought to let him go with no more than a sigh and a kiss goodbye? He would show her, once and for all, that she was wrong. She should have cared for him enough to not say goodbye.

His thoughts distilled until nothing was left but a single chant, repeated over and over.

“You’re not leaving,” he growled in her ear. “I’m going to keep you.”

Her chest expanded against his in a shivering breath. She turned her head away in rebuttal.

He kissed her ear. “Are you planning to go any time before tomorrow at two?”

She shook her head. Her hair pressed against his lips.

“Good. I’ll come ’round then and take you for a drive.”

He couldn’t let her go. He wouldn’t.

NED HAD READ in travel diaries about northern climes where, when winter reigned, the sun disappeared for months. In summer, the sun would never set. That’s how he’d classified his life. It fell into two parts: years of near-frenetic bliss, followed by months of darkness. Until last night, the two had never met.

But last night he’d won a portion of hope at five-card loo.

The Duke of Ware lived in a stone edifice in Mayfair. Solid blocks of stone, once white, now streaked with generations of London soot, stretched up four stories. The dark walls terminated in a slate roof, the steep line of which was interrupted by blackened chimneys and rectangular attic windows. The house was every bit as imposing as Ned had imagined it.

Ned took a deep breath and walked up the steps to the door. If Ned had asked, Blakely would have come with him.

But Ned hadn’t wanted to delegate his life to another. Not again. Madame Esmerelda had lied to him; Blakely had shoved him around. In the end, none of it had made any difference. The darkness he’d feared had enveloped him anyway.

Still he stood, waiting to take one tiny step forward.

Last night, as he stared at the cards on the table, he’d realized one fundamental truth. Fate had not saved him from suicidal folly all those years ago. Madame Esmerelda had not intervened with the spirits on his behalf. There was only one conclusion: He must have unwittingly saved himself. What he had accomplished once by accident, he could do again by choice.

And so here he stood. Some rebellious part of him yearned to go lie down, to give in to the cloying despondency of the last few days. But he’d beaten it before with resolve, albeit a resolve bolstered by lies. He could win a second time with truth.

He knocked on the door. When the stiff butler answered, Ned handed over his card. “I’m here to see Lady Kathleen,” he said.

The man glanced at the card. Ned hadn’t thought the fellow could starch up any more, but the sudden rigidity in his joints made his previous posture seem downright malleable by comparison. The butler swiftly closed the door in Ned’s face.

Resolve, Ned repeated to himself. Resolve and strength would unravel this tangle. Ned waited. And waited. And waited.

Fifteen minutes later, the door opened again. The butler nodded. “His Grace will see you now.”

“But I don’t wish to speak to His Grace,” Ned said. His Grace had probably cleaned his pistols in preparation for this moment. “I wish to speak to His Grace’s daughter.”

The butler raised an eyebrow. “His Grace will see you now.”

Ned sighed and followed the man. His Grace waited in the front parlor. He was in shirtsleeves, as if he couldn’t bother to dress for Ned. A book was open on his lap. He didn’t look up when Ned entered. Instead, he continued to pretend to read. And a pretense it obviously was. Aside from the carefully timed turning of the pages, the Duke of Ware stared at the pages blankly, his eyes unmoving, his hands strangling the spine of the book. It was precisely the sort of thing Blakely would do—ignore a man to put him in his place.

Ned balanced from foot to foot in indecision. He didn’t want to antagonize the man. But then again, it wasn’t as if the duke could hate him more. And he couldn’t bear waiting for his life to happen to him. No; from this point onward, he would direct the course of his life.

He stepped forward and grabbed the book from His Grace’s hands. “I apologize for the precipitate behavior,” he said. “You see, you’re either going to have to kill me or allow me to talk with your daughter. I’m very difficult to ignore.”

Ware’s face slowly mottled an unflattering orange as he looked up. “Blazing pitch and sulfur! You’ve ignored me. Twice, now, we’ve been scheduled to meet. Twice, now, Blakely convinced me not to hunt you down. I demand satisfaction.”