Proof by Seduction (Carhart #1)

“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.

She’d been burnt before. She scrambled off his lap while she still could and beat a hasty retreat across the room. He watched her go and then stood, somewhat awkwardly, shuffling round the chair until he could reach the knot she’d made of her stocking.

Jenny backed to the door, preparing to run.

He looked up. There was a lightness about his expression. “Tell me, which did you enjoy more? Outwitting me, or allowing me to run my hands over you?”

“Both, I should think.” She put her hands on the door handle. “Which did you enjoy more? Kissing me, or tricking me into running away so you could untie yourself?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he jerked his hand free and straightened. “You were right about one thing.”

“Pardon?”

“Lord Blakely—his responsibilities do not extend to seducing you. I reserve that pleasure for myself.”

And on that incomprehensible note, Jenny fled.

GARETH HELD HIS BREATH until the door shut behind Madame Esmerelda. He should have followed her out and made sure his servants did not harass her. But he was too confounded by what had just transpired to move from his seat.

She’d seduced him. She’d seduced Gareth. Oh, not all the way, unfortunately. But those clear eyes of hers had seen right past Lord Blakely. Past the title that bound him. One word—his Christian name—and he’d let her tie him in knots, of both the literal and figurative varieties.