Proof by Seduction (Carhart #1)

“And I surely don’t want to accept payments. If you feel—”

“It is a scientific experiment.”

Jenny sat heavily on the edge of the new bed. It didn’t so much as creak under her weight. “Pardon?”

“It occurred to me there were two possibilities. Perhaps I enjoyed last night because of your presence. Or perhaps it was the lumpy mattress. Scientifically speaking, if I am to distinguish between these two hypotheses, I must experience one without the other.”

That dismissive toss of his chin dared Jenny to disagree. Dared her to suggest an alternate explanation for his behavior.

“Oh,” said Jenny. “Now I understand. You took my old bedframe to your own home, and you’ll sleep on that mattress alone tonight.”

He was visibly taken aback.

“Scientifically speaking,” Jenny said, “it would help you distinguish between the two.” She gave him her most saccharine smile.

Wonder of wonders, he returned the expression. That ridiculously stuffed posture left him. No more Lord Blakely, freezing lesser mortals with his rationality. Instead, he was just Gareth.

“Five,” said Jenny automatically.

He shook his head. “You’ve earned at least nine or ten points by now. I’ve been smiling all day. At odd intervals. My staff finds it exceedingly disruptive. I shall have to explain that I am engaged in a…a scientific exercise.”

He walked toward her, his feet as sure as a leopard’s stalking its prey.

Jenny raised an eyebrow. “I should have thought that science and questions of the bedchamber were far removed from each other.”

“That,” said Gareth, holding out a hand to her, “is where you’re wrong. Very, very wrong. Shall I show you?”

“That depends,” Jenny said. “Will you need pen and paper? I had always imagined a man’s skill had more to do with practiced technique and less to do with theory.”

He took her hand. Instead of pulling her toward him, though, he knelt before her where she sat on the bed. “Never underestimate the power of theory. A certain amount of practice is, of course required. But a woman is not a boat race on a millpond, where repeated application of the proper techniques in the proper order assures victory. She is a science, and thus victory depends upon observation and induction.”

Jenny swung her legs back and forth. “Induction?”

“Repeated testing. Scientific evidence is nothing more than proof by induction—by inductive reasoning, rather.”

He captured her foot midswing. “Like this.” He cupped the ball of her foot in one warm hand. The other he ran up her calf, his blunt nail tracing a sinuous line.

Jenny sucked in air as her skin prickled in response. “That’s proof?”

“That’s theory.” His voice was as husky as her own. “I theorize that this part of your foot—” he caressed her arch near the ball of her foot “—is quite sensitive. And so I repeat the experiment.”

He did. Jenny exhaled.

“Ah, see? I also theorize you’ll enjoy being touched right here—right on the ankle bone.” His forefinger seared against her skin.

Jenny shut her eyes. “How can you tell if you’re right?”

“Little things. Your nostrils flare. Your hands contract. And your breathing becomes ragged.” His hand walked up her calf, fingers tapping. “You see? Just like that.”

His hands were warm and close; his words cold and distant. But when she let her lids flutter open, she could see the truth. For all that he’d spoken of observation and induction, what she saw in the intense press of his lips was simple.

Need.

And he was obscuring it behind scientific jargon—implying, somehow, that the desire and want were all hers, that her response was drawn from her as mechanically as a compass pointing north. All her lonely childhood, she’d poured her heart into companions who never returned her affection. Jenny’s hands contracted—this time, not in lust. “You may not be aware of this,” Jenny said quietly, “but you are allowed to take an interest in me outside of science.”

His hand contracted around the muscle of her calf. He swallowed hard. “Proof…” The word came out on a choking sigh.

Jenny stood up. “Proof can go hang. As can logic.” They were all pallid excuses, and Jenny had enough of those to paper a drawing room. “If you want something from me, you’d better start admitting it. Stop hiding.”

He stared at her from his stooped position on the floor, his mouth open.

Jenny reached behind her and undid the simple laces of her dress. They’d knotted hard in the rain, but a few good tugs loosened the strings. She let the material fall to the floor in a quiet rustle.

Gareth had not moved. His eyes were transfixed on the column of her throat—no. Lower. Her br**sts peaked under his gaze.

“Let us not misunderstand one another,” she said. Her stays followed her dress, and then she shrugged out of her chemise. The air was cool against her bare skin.