Rake Most Likely to Seduce

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘It took my maid twenty minutes to do up the buttons. You’ve done this before.’ Gianna tried for levity, anything to keep her mind off the fact that she was alone in a hotel room with a man she didn’t know and she was there for the express purpose of being bedded by him. Never mind he’d tried to let her go. She’d refused. He would think that refusal was an acceptance of another sort...

  He laughed, finishing the last of the buttons low on her spine. ‘Let’s just say you aren’t the first woman I’ve undressed, wet or otherwise.’

  She supposed she’d deserved that with her leading question. The gown fell open. She could feel his gaze on her back, a sensation that was provocatively possessive and not without its own thrill. ‘Stand still,’ he murmured at her ear. ‘I’ll have to use my knife.’

  His knife? That galvanised her into action. Gianna spun away from him, clutching her dress to her, her eyes rapidly scanning the room for a possible weapon, all sense of flirting, of wanting to lure him with sugar evaporating in the wake of self-preservation. ‘There is no need for knives, I assure you.’ She tried her best calming tones, the tones she used to reason with the count when he was irrational—which was nearly always. Surely she could handle one Englishman.

  Gianna snatched up a ewer, brandishing it in self-defence as she edged towards the door. A knife flashed in his hand from some secret place on his person and she knew she was right to have gone on the defensive. Good lord, he’d been armed all along! What sort of man carried a weapon to a party? She’d traded drowning in the canal for being stabbed by a madman in hotel room, who was laughing.

  The Englishman held out his arms in a gesture of peace, apparently having found great humour in the situation. ‘Put down the ewer, Gianna. The knife is for the laces. They’re in knots. I’m afraid there’s no saving them. Now, turn around and let me at them. Your bath is ready and you’re shaking.’

  Hot embarrassment crept up her cheeks. She’d completely overreacted. But what else was she to think? It was easier to turn around than to let him see her blush. She’d let herself look foolish. ‘You find this funny?’ she scolded. She felt the slice of a sure blade through the sodden laces of her corset, felt the tight garment slide away, felt her body breathe, set free.

  His hands closed over the caps of her shoulders, warm and firm against her chilled skin. ‘I think it’s funny that you believe I would go to all the trouble of dragging you out of the canal just to stab you a half hour later in my room.’ His fingers flexed gently against her skin, his mouth close to her ear. ‘What holds no humour for me is why a beautiful woman would have reason to think a man would do that.’

  His body was just inches from hers. She could feel the heat of him through his wet clothes, feel the strength of him—it was there in the low rumble of his words, in the remembrance of the arm that had brought her to the water’s surface. This was a very different man than the count. She’d known it at the palazzo, but had not fully understood what it meant until now.

  Where the count thrived on cruelty and force, this man did not. However, that mere discrepancy did not make him a saint. She had to be careful not to ascribe heroic attributes to him just because he’d dragged her out of the canal and hadn’t ravished her yet. He was still a gambler and he was a still a rogue—a rogue who was growing more appealing by the moment.

  A shiver of a different sort swept through Gianna. She knew danger when she encountered it and it was standing right behind her. It wasn’t the knife in his hand that made him dangerous, it was his manners, his temptations.

  He stepped back, releasing her. ‘Take your bath.’

  Gianna turned to face him. He’d saved her tonight. He’d looked after her. How long had it been since anyone had done that? He was a complete stranger, someone who didn’t have to do any of those things and yet he had. She didn’t even know his name. She stretched a hand out. ‘You have my thanks, ah...?’ She waited for him to fill in the space left by her words.

  A small smile twitched on his lips as he took her hand. ‘Are you asking me my name? It’s Nolan Gray.’

  ‘I’m trying to thank you, Mr Gray.’ She couldn’t resist a smile of her own, something warm unfurling in her stomach. She imagined he rather regularly had that effect on women. Once more she counselled caution. She didn’t want to like him. She just needed him to get through the next four weeks.

  * * *

  He just had to get through the night. He had a naked woman in his tub and no idea what to do with her, a most novel situation to be sure. Usually he knew exactly what to do with a naked woman in the tub, out of the tub, on the bed, off the bed, against the wall, out on the balcony with the moon overhead. He had to stop, this was starting to sound like an erotic prepositional exercise or bad poetry. Too bad his tutors had not aspired to such creative lengths—he might have done better in school.

  Nolan stripped out of his clothes at last, glad to be rid of the damp and stench of the canal. He towelled dry his hair and slipped into his banyan, feeling warmer, cleaner already, but that raised another point of concern. What was she going to wear? Her gown was beyond use, wet and ruined. It was past midnight. There were no shops open and he didn’t know any shopkeepers to rouse. But he did know a friend... Brennan. Nolan grinned and hurried next door.

  Brennan answered, half-dressed and less than half-sober. ‘Do you still have that nightgown, Bren? The one you just ordered.’

  ‘The one I ordered for my special lady,’ Brennan drawled his correction.

  ‘I need it, Bren.’ Nolan leaned against the doorjamb, his voice low. If Brennan was home this time of night he wasn’t alone and he didn’t want his business broadcast to all and sundry. ‘I have a situation.’

  ‘I have a situation, too, as it were.’ Brennan directed his eyes downward meaningfully where his robe gaped.

  ‘Please, she fell in the canal and has nothing to sleep in.’

  Brennan raised a brow. ‘And that’s a problem how? I thought you screwed naked.’

  ‘Normally I do.’ Nolan stopped. What was he doing? He did not have to justify that to Brennan. Nolan rolled his eyes. One of the consequences of living in his friends’ pockets was that they knew everything about him, personal habits and all. He had no privacy left even when he had separate rooms. Nolan pushed a hand through his hair, striving for clarity. ‘It’s complicated, Bren. I won her in a card game, she fell out of the gondola, she’s in the tub right now.’ Striving and failing. Nolan blew out a breath. He could see the explanation didn’t help. He was flubbing this up miserably in his haste to get back to the room.

  Brennan waved him off with a hand. ‘Enough, you’re making my head hurt. You can have the damn nightgown if you’ll just stop with all these details.’ Brennan retreated into the dark of his room and came back, a silky white item in one hand. ‘Just to be clear, I won’t want it back when you’re done.’

  ‘Thanks, I owe you one.’

  Brennan laughed. ‘One nightgown, to be precise. I will want it replaced. Now, go to bed.’

  Bed was an interesting proposition indeed given there was only the one in his suite and he’d not planned on sharing it with the lovely, mercurial Gianna. He’d also not planned on having her in his room, let alone his bed. Nolan stepped into the steamy bathing room, calling out his approach from the dressing screen that shielded the tub from any intruders. ‘Are you decent? I found you something to wear.’

  He heard the water slosh, her voice momentarily flustered. ‘Toss it over the screen, I’ll be out in a minute.’

  ‘There’s no need to rush,’ Nolan called back, trying to sound cheerful. No need at all. He was still trying to figure out what to do with her, but before he could do that, he had to figure out what to make of her.

  He draped the silky material over the screen. The evening hadn’t gone quite as anticipated. He was supposed to have won money, not a woman. But he�
��d had a plan for that, too. That woman was supposed to have embraced her freedom and left him at the pier. It was a nice, expedient option that should have satisfied them both. In the main room, Nolan poured himself a drink and went out on the balcony to think and to wait. He’d had one plan, but apparently, she’d had another, and that was cause for wonder.

  Nolan leaned on the railing, his gaze going out across the dark waters as he sipped at the brandy, letting his thoughts come fast and logical: Was Gianna Minotti a fraud? Was she for real? Was she a little of both, part fact, part fiction? Perhaps of more immediate concern, what did she want badly enough to turn down her freedom and accompany an unknown man to a hotel room, an act that had obviously inspired at least a little fear in her?

  There was a delicate cough behind him. He turned, preparing himself for the sight of Gianna Minotti in whatever passed for Brennan’s taste in nightwear. There would be no reason to overreact. This wasn’t his first woman in a nightgown or his first woman anything—he was way beyond firsts when it came to what happened in a bedroom.

  His preparation was not enough. Thankfully, years of rote response came to his aid. ‘Will it suffice?’ The words came out of his mouth with little effort from him because the rest of him seemed tongue-tied. The pale-blue dress with its heavy adornments had not done her justice. It had, in fact, distracted the viewer with its opulence from the full onslaught of her beauty. But there was no distraction now.

  Nolan’s eyes were riveted on her face, helped there by the simple classic lines of the gown, the thin unobtrusive straps at her shoulders that demanded no attention and the dark cloud of her hair hanging loose and damp at her shoulders, framing her face and those striking hazel eyes. Her face itself was ultimately feminine, at once managing to be compassionate without being soft or delicate, intelligent without being hard. A smart man, a man who wanted to understand her, would study that face for hours and recognise its layers, the complexities of her expressions. Only when that was mastered would he move on to study the rest of her body, shown to perfection in the simplicity of the white gown. Tonight he could not be that man.

  Nolan felt his body, typically well trained to reserve its judgement until his mind was made up, stir with arousal. The gown flowed over her curves at the behest of her body, not of fashions. Where the blue gown had forced her to conform, this silk conformed to the wearer, flowing over the swell of her breast, the nip and flare of waist and hip. No wonder Brennan had been reluctant to part with it. The gown had been made by a magician.

  ‘It suffices, I’d say.’ She took a few steps forward to the cluster of furniture around the fireplace, the silk emphasising the sway of her hips, her mouth quirked in a wry smile that said she’d noted his interest. Damn. He hated being the transparent one. Usually, those roles were reversed. Usually... How many times had he thought of such contrasts tonight? The ‘usual’ held no power here. Nothing that had happened tonight had gone according to plan or prediction.

  ‘I see the tea has come.’ She sat on the curved sofa and prepared to pour, presiding over the porcelain like a naughty angel in her white gown, her hazel eyes looking preternaturally green against the paleness of her surroundings. ‘Perhaps you’d prefer something stronger?’ She gestured to the decanter on the sideboard, noting the half-empty glass in his hand. ‘I think I’d prefer a little of both after all the excitement tonight.’

  Nolan brought the decanter over and sat down, one leg crossed over the other, and let her serve him. If women served tea in nightgowns like this more often, men might actually enjoy the event. He admired the way in which she had manoeuvred things. It was neatly done indeed, masterful even. Of course, he recognised her strategy. It was a trick he used often. To take charge of a situation, one merely had to find a task to perform and then incorporate others into the scheme by asking them questions. Suddenly, you were giving orders and people were looking to you for direction.

  She refilled his glass and passed it to him before splashing a healthy amount into her teacup, slightly self-conscious for the first time now that there was no task to perform; no wager to watch, no canal to be hauled out of, no bath to take, no tea to serve. Their action-packed evening had come to a screeching halt and now it was just them and the original reason they were together to start with.

  ‘So, here we are.’’ Nolan drawled with lazy nonchalance, settling back deep in his chair. Despite his misgivings over her authenticity, he was starting to enjoy this. The next move was hers. What would his bold lady do next?

  Chapter Five

  Here they were. In their nightclothes. Together. Gianna took a slow sip of the hot tea. There was a reason polite society didn’t encourage conversation in dishabille and this was it. Without the trappings of one’s wardrobe, one was entirely exposed in more than the obvious ways, although just the obvious exposure alone was enough to leave her feeling flustered and hot at a time when she need to be completely in control.

  ‘Here we are.’ She smiled, trying to give away none of her nerves. ‘I must thank you again for all you’ve done for me tonight.’ No, that was all wrong, it was too bland. She had to say something more than that if she meant to hold his attention. ‘The gown is lovely. I’m amazed you were able to find anything on such short notice.’ No, that was wrong, too. A man like him must have access to all types of female venues and females. She wondered where the gown had come from, which woman had sacrificed it for her, in return for what? What had the intriguing Nolan Gray promised in exchange?

  ‘I’m only sorry it didn’t come with a robe.’ Nolan Gray said easily, casually, from his chair, as if he talked with barely clad women over tea all the time. And he might. He’d made it clear in the bathing room undressing women was not a rare occurrence in his life.

  ‘Liar.’ Gianna caressed the word, a knowing half-smile on her lips. Women were easy for him. This was a man who would want to be flirted with, a man who would want a sensual challenge, something that differed from the norm of his usual experience. She let her eyes hold his over the rim of her tea cup. They were mesmerising eyes, not hard at all to look at with their quicksilver flecks, but hard to look away from. A woman could get lost in them and the decadent promises they held. ‘You’re not sorry at all.’ They were bold words from a bold woman, the sort of woman this man would find appealing.

  Nolan Gray wasn’t the sort of man who had to win a woman in a card game. An expanse of well-muscled chest showed in the open vee of his robe, reminding her of the powerful body that had propelled her out of the water, reminding her, too, that she played with a certain intimate fire here. She’d initiated an assertive flirtation and he was very willing to respond in kind.

  His eyes drifted over her in a deliberate slide of quicksilver on silk, his gaze making his unspoken thoughts evident: he wanted her. It was to be expected given the circumstances. She was his to want, won fair and square according to the rules of men. But there was more in that gaze than sheer male covetousness and that was what made her pulse race. Those thoughts conveyed possibilities, promises, of pleasure. ‘No, you’ve caught me out. I’m not sorry. You’re a beautiful woman. The blue dress hid you.’

  ‘The blue dress was worth a fortune,’ she countered, encouraging the flirtation. Flirting was a means to an end, part of her arsenal. If he wanted her, he would let her stay. She had to view that as progress. On the docks he’d been ready to let her go and that did not suit her purposes. But to get what she wanted from him, she’d have to tempt him beyond coy flirtation and who knew where that would end? Well, she knew where that would end—in his bed, with her taking one step closer to becoming her mother, one step closer to being dependent on men, the very thing she’d fought so hard against the count to avoid.

  ‘It’s too bad the count didn’t wager the dress instead, then.’ Nolan took a swallow of brandy. She followed that swallow down the strong length of his throat. Did she really have a choice in the short term
if her long-term goals were to be met?

  Gianna stopped her line of thought. How often had her mother said the same? She’d married the count based on that exact logic. She’d wanted respectability for her children, the kind that came cloaked in a title. And yet, despite that cautionary tale, Gianna couldn’t help but think that if she did have to sacrifice herself to the Englishman, then so be it. Was it wrong that part of her didn’t think it would be a terrible sacrifice if it came to that?

  The man across from her was attractive with his grey eyes accented by the sweeping upper curve of his cheekbones. It made for an appealing combination of strength and approachability, drawing the eye up to the spill of water-dark hair pushed back from his forehead. His hair would be lighter once it dried, although right now it was the shade of walnuts. His hair had been the colour of sweet pralines in the ballroom. He was a finely made man, too. She’d already noticed how tall and lean-muscled he was and with the manners to go with the looks. To dance with him in a ballroom would be a dream...a dream she should not be entertaining given her circumstances. It would certainly have helped lessen his appeal if he’d been a boor.

  ‘Why do you suppose he chose to wager you and not the dress?’ Nolan was musing out loud, and she needed to pay attention. Listening was one of a courtesan’s most powerful weapons—the source of information.

  ‘He was angry with me,’ Gianna replied, not wanting to go into the details. If she was too messy, too complicated, or if he sensed an association with her could be potentially dangerous, he would be rid of her. Nolan raised a brow as if to suggest ‘angry’ didn’t quite explain why a man would wager his daughter in a card game.

  She didn’t want to explain. She didn’t want his pity just yet and certainly not his rejection. That was what she’d have if she told him the whole sordid story. She’d tell him later perhaps if she was desperate. Pity could be a tool, too. Besides, telling the story exposed her hand more than she wanted. They might be drinking tea in their nightwear and he might have saved her from drowning but he was still a stranger. So much lay unknown between them. At the moment, she was operating off nothing more than her assumptions about his character.