Proof by Seduction (24 page)

Ned had no doubt what the solution would be. He was going to have to marry her.

Even if she had been the sort of woman he would have chosen as a wife, the thought of marriage left him cold. Marriage was for men who could be
trusted,
men who did not collapse every two years in debilitating darkness. Marriage was for men who wanted children, not fools who feared they carried madness in their blood. He’d always believed he would never marry. But it would have been too much to say his spirit quailed at the thought. Quailing took effort; Ned had only the energy to feel an unwelcome pressure against his lungs.

Ned turned over and thought of that London street leading through the square just outside his window. If he were to get up now and put on clothing, he could set foot on that road.

He might walk on it, put one foot in front of the other, and then the other. He would disappear into the gloom of the night, never to be seen again.

Perhaps, he thought with a hint of interest, he would be set upon by thieves and robbers. Maybe he would fight them.

Maybe he would lose. Such sure and sudden defeat would certainly make his life easier.

Still, even if he expended all that effort, there was no guarantee he’d be waylaid, and the thought of walking far enough to escape Blakely’s reach made Ned feel very tired indeed.

Besides, he’d never escape his own clutches, no matter how many miles he put between himself and London. And that was the biggest problem of them all.

So instead of setting off in search of thieves, he turned over on his side and fell back into a restive sleep.

“H
ERE THEN
. Where’ll you be wanting this?”

Jenny, still bedraggled from her walk home through the rain, stared blankly at the man in her doorway. He spoke around a piece of hay in his mouth. He smelled of unwashed laborer and his hair looked as if it had not been combed in upward of a month. Puddles lay around them, but the sun peeked out from behind dismal clouds. A shame; a wash might have done the man good.

Jenny stared in blank incomprehension out her door. Outside, a cart, pulled by a drooping nag, blocked half the street. Two men were dragging heavy slabs of oak out of the conveyance.

“Wanting what?”

The laborer looked at her as if she were daft. “The delivery. What else would we be discussing?”

“What delivery?”

“We’re to be bringing in the new and carting away the old.”

“But I’m not expecting any deliveries. New or old. Especially not a delivery of—of—what is that thing?”

“It’s a bed, ma’am. And I was told the delivery was urgent by the gent.” He grimaced then, and turned away.

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 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 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.”

His erection brushed against her belly. That firm ridge leapt at the contact. He sat on the bed and pulled her so she covered his body with hers. The mattress sighed smoothly under their combined weight. The rough pads of his fingers were on her, sighing down her skin. He pulled her closer still.

“God,” he breathed in her ear. “I want you to ride me.”

Jenny stilled in confusion.

He looked up; her bafflement must have been written on her face.

His hands grasped her hips and he showed her his meaning. He angled her body with his hands and gently brought her to his hot, thick member. His hands took hers, and he pulled her down. She stretched around him as he guided her down the rounded head of his penis, down further, filling her with heat.

“Jenny. Say my name.”

“Gareth.” She squeezed him, deep inside her, as she spoke.

His hands moved again to her hips and he exhaled, his eyes fluttering shut.

And then he showed her his meaning again, guiding her up and down. His hands on her hips set the rhythm. They found a beat together. Warmth coalesced where their bodies joined, and then slick heat.

He surged into her, his hips slapping against her thighs. When she came apart in a flood of light, he groaned. Then he, too, shouted, thrusting into her.

When she finally slumped against his chest, Jenny ran her hand through his sweaty hair. Her body glowed like some kind of incandescent star. She pulled herself off him; his hand caught hers, and brought it to his mouth. He placed the gentlest of kisses against the blue veins of her wrist.

“You see, Gareth? No science necessary.”

“Science.” He turned to face her. “Observation is good for one thing. Really, Jenny. I thought you were ruined.”

“What ever do you mean by that? I was. I
am.
”

He snorted. “Then how is it you’ve never ridden a man before?”

She shook her head in confusion.

“And how, exactly,” he asked, “did you become Madame Esmerelda?”

G
ARETH FELT
Jenny’s hand stiffen where it had been stroking his chest.

“Why do you want to know?” Her words crept out, wary and low.

Why?
He wanted to uncover every unknown thing about her. Every secret of hers pulled at him like hidden string.