Proof by Seduction (Carhart 1)

She smiled at him now. And wonder of wonder, he responded, his eyes glowing with satisfaction, an answering smile on his lips.

“Better,” he said. “When you do that, I feel almost human.”

He spread her legs with his own. She had one moment to feel the blunt head of his member against her before he slid inside her. Sore places stretched. Jenny exhaled. Their bodies fit together. He twitched, hard and thick inside her.

“Even better.” His voice was hoarse.

And then he rocked into her wetness, sending shivers of ecstasy shooting up her body. Jenny gasped. She pushed against him, and together they found a rhythm. His hips met hers relentlessly.

A bubble of light formed around them. In a frenzy, she moved under him, reaching for something—she wasn’t sure what. Until the bubble burst, and illumination cascaded around her. Above her, Gareth grasped her hips and pulled her against him, again and again. He, too, shuddered, and made a sound something like a groan.

He pulsed inside her one final time. Jenny opened her eyes. His were shut. His hair was plastered to his forehead, stringy and damp with the sweat of hard exertion. He breathed hard. And then he opened his eyes and looked down at her.

The experience had been amazing.

That glow slowly faded from his eyes. No doubt he was remembering all the reasons this could not be. Call it sex, call it a shag. Call it lovemaking. But he’d never suggested anything other than this act, and she didn’t want him to see how deep her hunger for more burned.

“Well.” She looked away from him. “And that’s that.”

He pulled away from her and said nothing. Jenny sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Behind her, she could hear the even rhythm of his breath and the soft scrunch of fabric. The bed shifted underneath them as he moved. He carefully lifted himself to his feet. As he shook out his trousers and stepped into them, he didn’t look at her. Then he donned the wrinkled shirt that even Jenny could tell was too formal for morning wear.

Jenny clenched the ragged edge of her coverlet in her hands.

He straightened his cuffs and looked up. “Your bed. It’s lumpy.”

Jenny gasped in stung outrage. Lies or excuses would have been better than invective.

Lord Blakely—and he was now every inch Lord Blakely again, even though the waistcoat he was shrugging into was in dire need of pressing—did not seem to notice. “And your coverlet is far too thin.”

“Is that all you can see? At a time like this? All you can do is criticize me?”

He paused, snapping his black cravat out, and cocked his head. “Was that a criticism of you? I don’t believe I mentioned you at all.” His voice was even, punishing.

“You—you—”

“Last I observed—and my observation was very thorough indeed—you were neither a mattress nor a blanket. If you wish to take every aspersion I cast on your furniture as a personal slur, I can hardly stop you.”

“Lord Blakely—”

That imperturbable manner slipped and his eyes narrowed. “It’s Gareth,” he emphasized. “Damn well call me Gareth.”

“You’re leaving.”

He reached for his jacket. “Indeed. I have a great deal to do today.”

“So this is farewell.”

His features froze. “What I am trying to say,” he finally snapped in an accusatory manner, “is that despite the imperfections in the surroundings, I cannot—in all my recollection—remember passing a more enjoyable night.”

Jenny’s lips parted in confusion and he swooped down and gave her another kiss. His mouth took hers imperiously, but she could taste something desperate on his lips. As swiftly as he’d leaned in, he pulled back.

That little speech had been intended as an expression of admiration? It had felt like cold, spiked things gouging into her skin. No other man would strew compliments underfoot as if they were hard iron caltrops, designed to trip up the unwary horse or human who had the misfortune to tread upon them.

His gaze challenged her. Care, he shouted silently. I dare you.

Jenny couldn’t afford to do so. She had a new life to find. Instead she raised one hand to touch his fingers tentatively.

“Goodbye, Gareth,” she said.

He turned and accepted her farewell with grace. Or at least it seemed so, until he turned around at the last minute. “No,” he said. “Goodbye for now.”

And that was how she knew he was coming back. Jenny didn’t know whether to weep or rejoice.

SOME HOURS LATER, after Jenny sent away a former client, she was forced to face one dire fact of reality. With Madame Esmerelda firmly out of the picture, she needed money. And soon.

So she donned the finest dress she’d owned before Gareth’s gifts—a faded blue muslin—and left the house. The noon sun shone in the distance, unhindered by gathering storm clouds. The air was light, and a breeze blew toward the river, bringing with it the smell of fresh-baked bread. It seemed incongruous that mere hours after making love, Jenny should be setting off on a quest to break one of her long-standing rules.

She was headed for her banker on Lombard Street in order to withdraw money rather than deposit it. For eight years, she’d scrimped and saved carefully. Every month, her balance grew and her sense of stability and independence increased. The knowledge that she need never depend on anyone or anything calmed her even now.

She’d returned Ned’s shillings. And a mere hour earlier, Mrs. Sevin had arrived for her usual appointment. Jenny had looked in the woman’s eyes and confessed her fraud. Another half guinea forgone, but despite Mrs. Sevin’s pallor, the confession had felt cathartic.

Catharsis, however, paid no quarterly rents. And as the sum was coming due in a few days, Jenny had a journey to make.

The day was pleasant and muscles she had long forgotten were sore from last night’s exertion. The walk was long enough to leave her invigorated, but not so long that by the time she turned onto Lombard Street her apparel had wilted from humidity.

She ducked inside the doors of the joint-stock bank that kept her funds. It was halfway through the noon hour. At this time, only a few lowly cashiers were present. Luckily, their number included the man who had helped her arrange this account.

Unluckily, Jenny recalled with a sinking in her stomach, that man was one Mr. Sevin, who had ostensibly arranged the account as a favor to his wife.

Most unluckily

of all, the woman appeared to have come here to consult with her husband immediately after her interaction with Jenny. Man and wife stood in close proximity to each other. They did not touch—that would have been uncouth—but from the way they leaned toward each other when Jenny walked through the door, there was little doubt as to the topic of their conversation.

Mrs. Sevin gripped her reticule and glanced away. But it was her husband who minced forward, curtly motioning his wife to follow. She trailed behind him, her eyes down.

“Madame…Esmerelda.”

Mr. Sevin turned his head, his gaze darting up and down as he took in her demure dress. The skin around his eyes crinkled. But he did not remark on the change in her attire from tawdry to tasteful. Instead, his lip curled in the pretense of a smile.

Jenny had long suspected that he disliked her. That he feared her supernatural powers. It was only now, seeing the smug satisfaction that lit his face, that she wondered if his cloying willingness to help had been motivated by fear. He’d thought she had seen his darkest secrets. It wasn’t hard to guess at them; the scraps of information that his wife disclosed about their married life had been troubling.

“And how are you?” His voice boomed in the small room, a bit too jocular, a bit too loud. The polished wood of the empty desks reflected the sound back at him, and a few of the other employees looked up, idly. He puffed out his chest, a boy announcing while walking through a forest at night that he was not afraid of bears. “My wife, she reports an interesting conversation with you.”

His chin lifted in infuriating bravado. Mrs. Sevin shrank back, crouching behind her husband.

Jenny gave the man her best pretense at a smile. He flattened his ink-stained hands against the top of his desk in response, a flash of triumph in his gaze.

“As it happens, Mr. Sevin, I am withdrawing from the business of fortune-telling.”

Officious delight lit his face. “Yes. And that is because…?”

He knew, the terrible man. But he had to draw it out of her, a cat playing with a mouse. Confessing her sins to the quiet, calm Mrs. Sevin had seemed only right. But her domineering husband seemed another matter entirely.