Proof by Seduction (Carhart 1)

“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 fr

ee. 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.