Proof by Seduction (Carhart #1)

Jenny pulled against his grip. He didn’t loosen his hold.

Instead, he trailed his fingers along her palm. Years of doing her own cleaning had left her hands rough. She had no doubt that frightening brain of his was calculating the precise amount of laundering she had performed.

“I doubt there was much money in your family—perhaps it was charity that paid for the education?”

Jenny swallowed, and her fingers curled into a ball.

He straightened them out between the palms of his hands. “Or a bequest. A patron. You should have been a governess. I suppose that was the point of all that education?”

Jenny had felt less naked that afternoon, wearing nothing but a chemise.

“Either you chose not to, or you were ruined beyond any hope of governessing.”

Don’t, oh, don’t let him see the truth. It would give him far too much power over her. If he knew she were ruined—if he knew that she’d once tried to be a mistress—he would no doubt think she was open to the possibility again.

He looked up from her hand and stared at the wall behind her. “Both, I should think. I have difficulty imagining your acceding to anyone’s demands. If you had wanted to be a governess, you’d have found a way to be one. But you kiss like a temptress.”

Heat flooded her. She’d kissed like a fool. Coldhearted demon that he was, he knew it.

“In any event, I wager you were not a favorite among the other girls at school.”

Her breath hissed in, and she jerked away from him. Once again, he refused to relinquish her wrist, his grasp as tight as an iron manacle.

“If you had been,” he said reasonably, as if his fingers weren’t pressing against her hammering pulse, “you’d have options far more appealing than fraud. And more fundamentally, to even think of this profession, you must have discovered at a very young age that everyone lies. It’s hard to learn that when you’re a well-loved child. How old were you?”

“I was nine.” The words escaped her lips, unbidden. It was the first time she’d verified his suspicions aloud. And now he knew. He knew everything. Jenny shut her eyes, unwilling to see the triumph of his response.

His fingers tightened about her wrist. His other hand trailed against her jawbone. Reluctantly, she let her lids flutter open. His eyes had focused on her lips again. He ought to have been crowing with delight. But there was no victory in his gaze.

“Precocious,” he finally said, looking away. “I was twenty-one. Ned’s age.”

She could identify no hint of self-pity in his voice. He sounded as scientific as ever, reciting evidence to a lecture hall. And yet the tightness around his mouth suggested the memory was more substantial than mere data. Jenny had a sudden urge to kiss the fingers that encircled her wrist.

“I suppose I should read your future, as well as your past.” He ducked his head, examining her palm again. “You will tell me your real name. It’s not Esmerelda, that’s for certain.”

“It’s not? Why not?”

He shrugged. “An impoverished English family would never name their daughter anything so fanciful. And then there’s all that sandalwood and the ridiculous costume. ‘Esmerelda’ is too convenient. It is just another trapping in your particular subterfuge. Tell me your name.”

Jenny pressed her lips together and shook her head.

“Margaret,” he guessed. “Meg for short.”

“Esmerelda,” Jenny insisted.

That sardonic quirk of his lips again. “It won’t do, Meg. You’ll tell me your name eventually.”

“If Esmerelda were not my name, why would I admit it to you?”

His thumb caressed hers. “Because I can’t let you call me Gareth until you do.”

He spoke so casually. “Why—” Jenny stopped, and squared her shoulders. “My lord, why would I want to call you by your Christian name?”

“I can see that future here—” he traced a line down her palm “—and here—” he touched her cheek near her eyes “—and here.”

His thumb brushed her lips, and her mouth parted in anticipation. And still his expression lost not one whit of its scientific cast.

“I’m not going to marry whatever poor girl you pick out,” he said softly. “I pit your prediction against mine. I predict you’ll call me Gareth. When I bed you, Meg, I’ll be damned if you scream anything else.”

“If you’re trying to prove you’re not an automaton,” Jenny said, “you really ought to consider varying your tone. You might as well be talking about the price of potatoes, for all the—”

He cut her off with a swift kiss. Heaven help her trembling body, she let him do it. And when he pulled back, it was her lips that clung to his.

“You see?” he murmured. “You’ll scream.”

“But we’ve already established that I am not dispassionate. I want to know—what will you do?”