Proof by Seduction (11 page)

They weren’t debating whether to let her upstairs to face Lord Blakely’s wrath. They were wondering whether to throw her out now, or let her clean up and warm by the fire first.

Jenny set her muddy boots in the corner. Thankfully, it hadn’t been so wet that her stockings were damp. They were still clean and serviceable. She had nothing to be ashamed of. She drew herself up, channeling Madame Esmerelda’s outward poise. There was no reason to be intimidated by this household, caught as it was in the contagious grip of a bad case of Lord Blakely’s grims.

Well, no reason other than the crisp starch of the scullery maids’ uniforms. And the gleam of scrubbed copper pots. And the wide, warm kitchen, larger than her rooms put together and trebled, smelling of the sort of savory things Jenny had only read about in books.

The poor footboy had been pulled into the argument. He did not hunch; that would have been poor posture. But he did bend enough to look unhappy.

Jenny glanced across the room and spotted a narrow servants’ staircase. Somewhere above her, Lord Blakely prowled. Her skin pricked at the thought of him pacing in some room above her head, unaware how near she was. How would he react? Badly, she supposed. How far away was he? If she knew him at all, she’d wager he had a study tucked at the back of the house, away from all the noise and bother of the street. Undoubtedly, he’d also receive men of business there. The first floor would be most convenient for that.

Jenny sauntered carefully across the room, hugging the bulky package to her chest. If anyone asked, she would say she planned to set it on one of those wide counters. She stopped, pretending to ogle her distorted reflection in the side of one of the copper pots. Nobody paid her any mind. She was as invisible now as she’d been on the streets of Mayfair.

Good.

She very carefully didn’t look at the stairs until she stood at the bottom. Then, before anyone could stop her, she pounded up them and out the scullery door.

Shouts erupted behind her.

She threw open another door across the way before anyone could follow her.

The hallway she entered was part of the family quarters. Landscapes hung in polished, pristine wood frames, showing idyllic scenes of a countryside Jenny had never known. Her stockinged feet sank into a rich, thick carpet. To the right lay the entry, where two additional liveried footmen turned to face her. Jenny turned left and dashed to the back of the house. She opened one door. There was a large rectangular dining table, the sort that could seat an entire legion of soldiers. She swiveled and faced one last door. Her heart pounded from exertion, and her breath burned in her lungs. It was this, or nothing.

The handle turned smoothly.

Jenny’s vision swam. In front of her were books. Books. Books. Books—and Blakely. Light from the fire glinted off his tawny hair. Here in his study he seemed relaxed, almost boyish. He looked very different from the cold man who’d last confronted her. The lines of his face were freed from some subtle tension and his lips were parted. Something inside her chest froze painfully at the sight. She had a sudden vision of the marquess hiding behind a solid facade of arrogance every time he went in society.

She could not shake the feeling that this man, stripped of the cold shell that surrounded him, was the true Lord Blakely.

He was seated at a heavy desk, paper piled in front of him. Paper on the table; on the chairs. Even stacked neatly on the floor. He scratched intently away with a dip pen. He didn’t look up at her entrance. Instead his hand moved protectively over the documents before him as they rustled in the draft of the door’s opening. She slipped inside and shut the door.

“Well,” came that precise drawl, “did she send a reply? And what had she to say for herself?” Still he did not look up.

Jenny stepped forward, clutching the paper package.

“She says, I
can’t
wear this dress.”

That brought his head up, his eyes widening in shock. For one instant, his mouth opened in a near welcome. Then that protective armor slammed into place. His spine stiffened.

If she had any sense, she would have been intimidated. But he wasn’t looking through her. He didn’t see a delivery girl, no matter how faded the color of Jenny’s blouse. His lips parted, almost in welcome; his gaze took her in from muddied skirts on up. He focused on her with almost savage intensity. Intensity, Jenny could handle. It was indifference that would have sunk her. She tossed the parcel on his desk. Papers scattered.

He grabbed for them. “You! You can’t come in here.”

“Why not? After all,
you
invaded my rooms without invitation the other night.”

“That was different. I—”

“Oh, yes. It was different. It was different because you are six inches taller than me, three stone heavier and twice as strong. And
I
was all alone, whereas you are surrounded by staff who will no doubt pour through that door in a matter of seconds, ready to send me away.”

He set his pen down.

Jenny took off her shawl and looped it over a stack of books. His eyes dropped to her damp blouse. The garment clung to her breasts. His gaze rested there, an almost palpable touch against her hardening nipples.

“No, my lord, when you say it is different, you mean that
you
are Lord Blakely and I am nobody.”

“Quite.” Ice and steel in his tone, belied by that gaze, still fixed on her bosom. There was a hint of his former vulnerability in that look, a youthfulness that he had not managed to dispel.

She wanted to crack the solid casing that surrounded him. And now, he’d shown her how to do it.

Jenny lifted one foot and set her toes on the edge of a chair. The motion pulled her skirt just above her ankle, and his gaze traveled to her foot and arrested on that hint of stocking-clad limb. His mouth opened and he leaned forward.

“And yet,” Jenny said softly, “it was not Lord Blakely who offered to seduce me, was it? It was
Gareth
.”

On this cue, the door burst open and the butler burst into the room. He grabbed Jenny’s arm in a bruising grip and jerked her. Jenny’s ankle twisted against the chair’s upholstery, and she barely managed to keep her balance.

“My lord,” the man panted, “my apologies. We’ll take her out directly.”

Lord Blakely tore his eyes from Jenny’s stockinged ankle. What flickered in those golden-brown depths was no emotion she could identify.

“Ah,” Lord Blakely said softly. “Will you?”

The butler wrenched her shoulder in its socket, but Jenny pulled back, holding her ground.

“Let go of her.”

The man’s eyes widened. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, and he slowly released his tourniquet clasp on Jenny’s arm.

“Leave us.”

Another bow, and the butler left before he could be admonished again. Lord Blakely turned to face Jenny—and her damp clothing and her disarrayed skirt. He leaned back in his chair, his expression still. He put her in mind of some great beast, crouching. Whether to pounce on her or dash away, Jenny could not say. But she had started this game. Now it was time to continue it.

“Well? I should like to know what you’ll try next. Scientific interest, of course.”

She slowly brought her skirt up to her knee, exposing the rest of her limb. He did not move. All was stillness—his gaze, and the room itself, which was oddly bereft of the London street noises that Jenny could not escape anywhere in her own rooms. Back here, in Lord Blakely’s private haven, the silence grew to an almost overwhelming roar.

She leaned over and untied her garter. She made sure he caught a glimpse of the swell of her breasts as she did so.

One of the reasons it was so quiet was that she could not hear him breathe, so intent was he. She had not, technically, shown him an inch of skin—only so much knit stocking.

She remedied that now. She eased the fabric down her leg, her skin prickling with the awareness of his gaze. He watched, heat simmering in his eyes. When she pulled the garment over her toes, he exhaled. The sound split the silence.

“You have my complete attention. More of this, and less fortune-telling, and I…”

Jenny straightened and let her skirt fall. She set the stocking on her shoulder and rounded the desk toward him. As she came closer, he leaned back in his chair. He was in his shirtsleeves. Good; that would make her task all the easier. She walked forward slowly, until she stood within inches of him. His head tilted up so he could look into her eyes. He sprawled in the chair, his legs out to either side.

Jenny set her bare foot on his chair between his legs. “Are you going to stop me?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. You’re a damnable siren, you know.”

“Not so tedious now, am I?”

His eyes met hers, a current of amusement running through them. No smile, unfortunately. She touched her finger to his chin. His lips tilted up toward hers. Asking. Promising. A current of heat swept through her and she shivered at the thought of kissing him. But Jenny didn’t take his mouth. Instead, she picked up his hand and placed it on her bare calf. His eyes shivered shut, and his fingers floated down her leg. They brushed the bones of her ankle and then up the backside until he tickled her knee. Excitement sparked where he touched.

She pulled away from him. He opened his eyes, his hand left outstretched in bare air. He looked as dazed as she felt.

“Give me your hand, Lord Blakely.”

When he didn’t move, she reached out and touched his linen shirt at the elbow. Her finger traced down his arm to where his wrist bloomed from the cuff. Then she clasped his hot palm against hers and flattened his hand against the smooth surface of her neck. His hand convulsed around her skin, and he exhaled again, looking in her eyes. She dragged his hand down, slowly. Past collarbone. Up the top of her breast, to the sensitive summit and then down the other side. Heat trailed down her body, rib by rib. Down she pulled his hand, to her waist.

She was dizzy with lust when she stepped away from his grasp again.

And he was rampant, his erection a thick bulge in his trousers. He didn’t chase after her, though; he was enjoying the sensual exercise as much as she. She circled him and knelt behind his chair. One tap on his elbow. “Give me your hand,” she breathed.

This time, he complied, letting his arm swing behind the chair.

She kissed it, taking his thumb into her mouth. He groaned, his hand tensing in her grip. Her other hand grasped the discarded stocking she’d set over her shoulder and worked stealthily. When she was ready, she looped the noose over his wrist.

Like that, his hand was secured to the back of the chair.

Before he realized what she’d done, she scrambled to her feet and came round the chair. She sat on his lap, so he couldn’t stand.

He tugged on his bound arm. The lust in his eyes gave way to puzzlement before settling on anger.

“Untie me,” he hissed.

He was still hard underneath her, despite the ire in his voice. His member, hot and rigid, twitched against her bottom. Jenny leaned against his chest and looked soulfully into his eyes. “Untie yourself,” she sang sweetly.

“As well you know, in this position it’s—”

“Impossible?” Jenny purred. “Now you know what I meant when I said I
can’t
wear that gown. It’s not tediousness or fractious foot-dragging. It’s a physical impossibility. I can’t reach behind my back, either.”

He closed his mouth and stared at her in stunned silence.

“I can’t lace the corset I need to wear this gown,” Jenny said. “I can’t untangle all those ribbons and tapes to do them up properly. I don’t have a servant to help me dress, Lord Blakely.”

“Christ.” Lord Blakely’s free hand slipped around her waist. He looked up, the tawny gold of his eyes flickering. “And it would have been too difficult to send a note explaining yourself like a
rational
person? Pah. You didn’t need to come here and tie me up.”

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.