Proof by Seduction (Carhart 1)

The man was undoubtedly realizing what sort of women received beds as unexpected gifts. And this gift could have only one possible source. Lord Blakely. Jenny colored. If he intended to pay for services rendered with unwanted bedroom furniture, she’d tell him what to do with the bed. Stupid man.

She would have been extremely angry if the gesture wasn’t so disarmingly sweet.

So much of Lord Blakely’s cold manner was awkwardness, real uncertainty about how to talk to people as if they were…well, people. Some, of course—a goodly portion—was real arrogance. She couldn’t begin to guess which predominated in this gift. Both? Neither?

Jenny let the men in, unease pricking the hairs on the backs of her arms.

The carpenter—for carpenter that sour-smelling man was—fitted the bed together, setting the precise wooden joins into place. He was careful not to look Jenny in the eyes. Not to look anywhere, for that matter, but on his work. Scarcely half a day since she’d ruined herself again, and this, apparently, was the attitude she would experience for the rest of her life: an honest man’s contempt. She’d already experienced a dishonest man’s connivance.

But the disdain the carpenter showed as he slowly hammered the final slats into place was not what curdled her stomach. It was the thought that mere days ago, she too had turned up her nose at mistresses. At those unfortunate women who had no choice but to sell their bodies, and to bow to a man’s whim in order to maintain their livelihood. A mistress was all dependence without any of the benefits of respect. She’d tasted it once, then run as far as she could from the profession.

Had she become one without intending it?

The men carted away the old, rickety frame and her tick. Which really wasn’t all that lumpy. Not if you knew where to sleep. Minutes later, another cart rumbled by—this time with a mattress, the covering so thick and fine, and the fibers so tightly woven, Jenny had never seen its equal.

Of course, it was not lumpy anywhere.

Thick swansdown blankets and fine cotton sheets followed.

The bed was substantially larger than her previous furniture. In fact, it was almost too large, intruding into the small space she had in that back room.

Much as Lord Blakely had intruded in her life. He’d marched into her rooms with his pencil and notebook and turned her life upside down. He’d looked at her with that silent sneer. There’d been no room for his judgmental morality in her life. And yet here she was—stripped of income, stripped of clients, and now stripped of access to her bank balance.

She’d be damned if she let him take her independence. She wouldn’t be turned into a pitiful creature, unable to act for fear of losing a protector.

She kicked the trunk she was unsuccessfully trying to shove into the last corner remaining after the new bed had been put in. “Idiotic Lord Blakely,” she groused.

“And how many times have I said it?” said a voice. “It’s ‘idiotic Gareth’ to you.”

Jenny whirled around. He didn’t look one bit tired, which was extremely unfair. And he looked well put together—pressed trousers and jacket, and a cravat tied with his usual careless air. His eyes flashed almost golden in the evening sun.

“Gareth!” She shook her head. “About that bed. I don’t want your gifts. It makes me think—”

He examined his fingernails. “That,” he said, “was not a gift.”

“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 le

t 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 breasts 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.

He watched her, openmouthed.

“There. You can have anything—everything—you want. But you have to ask for it first. And you have to want it for yourself. Not for science. Not for proof. For yourself.”

Slowly he stood. He did not touch her. Instead, his gaze swept from the dark triangle between her legs up the line of her navel, past her breasts. Finally he met her eyes. “You. I want you.” He licked his lips.

“If you want me, then take me, you fool.”

Gareth was no fool. He pulled her into his arms, his crisp linen meeting her naked flesh, and then compressing as he pulled her against the hard muscle of his chest. His mouth bruised hers; his lips stole her breath. And by some magic, he doffed his own clothing while kissing her. It seemed mere seconds until his skin was warm and naked against hers.

“I want you to call me Gareth,” he growled, his hands cupping her backside. “Gareth, and nothing else.”