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 free. 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.
He looked up. There was a lightness about his expression. “Tell me, which did you enjoy more? Outwitting me, or allowing me to run my hands over you?”
“Both, I should think.” She put her hands on the door handle. “Which did you enjoy more? Kissing me, or tricking me into running away so you could untie yourself?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he jerked his hand free and straightened. “You were right about one thing.”
“Pardon?”
“Lord Blakely—his responsibilities do not extend to seducing you. I reserve that pleasure for myself.”
And on that incomprehensible note, Jenny fled.
GARETH HELD HIS BREATH until the door shut behind Madame Esmerelda. He should have followed her out and made sure his servants did not harass her. But he was too confounded by what had just transpired to move from his seat.
She’d seduced him. She’d seduced Gareth. Oh, not all the way, unfortunately. But those clear eyes of hers had seen right past Lord Blakely. Past the title that bound him. One word—his Christian name—and he’d let her tie him in knots, of both the literal and figurative varieties.
Where would be the fun in that? she’d asked. Lord Blakely had no room in his life for fun. Even when he made time for the sexual act, he kept the transactions as cold and business-like as possible. Impersonal exchanges, money for temporary physical satisfaction. It had never been about fun; it had been about relief from his body’s demands.
Gareth clenched his hand. The specter of his title had robbed everything good and convivial from his life. His mother. His sister. His own chance at a family. But Gareth would allow himself this one thing: this woman, in his bed. Until he no longer risked forgetting that there was a man beneath the mask of Lord Blakely.
And if, in addition to the physical longing that racked him, she awoke some deeper wistfulness…He looked down at his fist. He was still clutching her stocking in his hand. Fun. Wistfulness. Loneliness.
Physical pleasure would purge these longings from his system. It had to. And if it didn’t work the first time, he’d do it over and over, until finally her hold over him dissipated like smoke.
In the meanwhile, he’d send back the dress.
But this time, he’d send along a maid.
Chapter Seven
NED WAS VERY FIRM in his notion of what constituted an enjoyable time. It started with a few good friends and a tankard of ale. Add in a horse race or some kind of boxing match, and a girl who wouldn’t mind showing her ankles. There followed jokes and laughter. More liquor. More ankles. In the two years since Madame Esmerelda had helped him banish his black despair, he’d learned to enjoy the finer things in life.
And so this musicale, attended in his dour cousin’s company, was hardly his idea of fun.
As a general rule, a good time did not include starched ladies whose voluminous gowns rejected the notion that women existed below the waist. Especially if one of those ladies was the cold and lovely Lady Kathleen.
Lady Kathleen sat as far from Ned as she could get in the ordered rows, and behind him, so that he had to turn his head to even get a glance at her.
Ned had neither the need nor the desire to look at her regularly. She was destined for Blakely.
Still, Lady Kathleen drew his eyes. Perhaps it was the confidence in her carriage, the assurance in her every movement. Perhaps it was the way her eyes snapped to his when he turned in her direction.
Perhaps it was just that there were not so many other people worth ogling. For instance, there was the stiff baroness who served as the hostess for this horrible event, standing to announce the next performance. She looked as if she’d turned into fossil before ankles were even invented. Ned suspected if he lifted her skirts, he’d find nothing but layers of lace and petticoats.
Ned sighed. At least looking was better than listening. Ned had no ear for music. He shifted impatiently in his chair.
“Next,” warbled the hostess, “we are in for a special treat.”
Yes, yes. The opera singer. Hired to give a professional performance, and somehow convince all these people to sit through the amateurs. Why Blakely had insisted Ned come to this event was a mystery. Perhaps, Ned thought longingly, Blakely had heard that Lady Kathleen would attend. That had to be it. After all, Blakely had come with Madame Esmerelda in tow—and she’d come dressed in London finery, making her a surprisingly pretty lady. Why else had Blakely come here, if not to impress his future wife?
Perhaps his interest in her had sparked. He would marry her, and Madame Esmerelda would be proven right.
“Lord Blakely,” continued the baroness, her Chinese-screened fan fluttering in her hand, “will honor us with a performance.”
Shocked, Ned remembered that Blakely had promised to deliver an ode to a crowd. Surely he didn’t intend to sing in this crowded venue? But Blakely stood up, calmly as ever, and made his way to the front.
The baroness’s fan fluttered at an increased rate. And no wonder. What a coup this must be for her. The reclusive Marquess of Blakely had not only come to her musical evening, but—for the first time ever—he’d also offered a public performance.
The hostess was not the only one beaming in obvious interest. Around him, he saw women lean forward. A hush fell, and so when Blakely paused by the baroness, everyone in the room heard their exchange.
“My lord,” she twittered, “will you need any accompaniment?”
Blakely cocked his head to the side, as if considering. It was one of his affectations, Ned knew—meant to make him look intelligent. Not that it didn’t work; just that he hardly needed to pretend.
“The work I intend to perform,” he eventually said, “is of my own composition. And it is in a style that, were it performed in Brazil, where I have visited, would likely be called terrivel.”
“Oh, my!” The baroness almost dropped her fan in excitement. “Brazil! How exotic!”
Blakely could not have looked more bored with her enthusiastic response. He looked away, across the room. “Which is to say, it could not possibly be improved by accompaniment.”
She looked shocked. “The style of—uh—ta heevil? No. Of course not. I understand completely.”
Blakely nodded, high-handed dismissal writ across his face, and continued to the front of the room. He faced the crowd. His gaze swept over the gathered throng as if it were a mass of lepers. Then he clasped his hands behind his back, and sang.
A frog croaking a tuneless, off-key baritone would have handily beaten Blakely in a singing competition. Ned’s expectations had risen as high as the soles of his shoes. They’d been too high.
This wasn’t an ode. It was carnage.
Ned put his hand in his mouth and bit down. It didn’t do much good. His shoulders still shook with laughter.
And then there were the words. Dear God. How long had it taken him to come up with them?
“One thing about Ned that will never spoil,” Blakely sang, “Is that he is indefatigably loyal/No matter the troubles in which they’re embroiled/He will not from his friends recoil.”
Ned bit harder. Teeth pierced glove and ground into flesh. He chanced a look around him. The faces nearest his were very guarded in response. Everyone’s, that is, except Madame Esmerelda’s. Her eyes were lit by a mischievous joy.
Happily, Blakely was not yet finished. “Ever jolly is Ned’s disposition/For this much, at least, he deserves recognition/He would make a fine politician/If ever he stood for a good proposition.”
Ned wasn’t sure whether that worked out to a compliment. “Ever jolly” certainly bore no resemblance to the truth. He chanced a look behind him. Unlike the rest of the crowd, Lady Kathleen was not watching with pretended interest. She looke
d carefully from side to side, her fingers cinched around the arm of her chair. As if the details of the room were of greater interest than the spectacle Blakely presented.
Blakely continued. “Ned is worthy of great esteem/For he is precisely as he seems/He has no plots or deceitful schemes/Unlike the one I intend to make—”
Blakely drew out that last note—if you could call that low, cracking tone by so innocent a name. He was looking directly at Madame Esmerelda, and Ned tried to fill in the rhyme to come. Make dream? Steam? Scream?
Madame Esmerelda blushed pink, one hand on her throat. How strange.
“—wince as I finish the last line without any sense of meter or rhyme,” Blakely concluded.
There was a moment of silence. Blessed silence. The glances around Ned all said the same thing—Dear God, please tell us it’s over. Blakely eyed the gathering with his typical lofty indifference, daring them to boo.
They did not dare. Ned could see the thoughts skim through their minds. He was a marquess, after all. Perhaps things were different in Brazil. The performance was exotic. It was short. And it wasn’t much more dreadful than the Chinese opera that had been performed last year.
“Bravo!” Ned called. He applauded madly. Thankfully, everyone joined in.
Blakely bowed, rather stiffly, and picked his way through the rows toward his seat. He didn’t even make eye contact with Ned, didn’t acknowledge that Ned had just saved him.
Ha. Just because Blakely had no humility didn’t mean Ned couldn’t try to humiliate him further.
“Encore!” Ned shouted.
Blakely fixed Ned with a look that promised eventual dismemberment. Luckily for the future attachment of Ned’s limbs, nobody else took up the cry. Blakely made his way through the seats amidst very polite, and not particularly encouraging, applause.
He brushed by Ned and had reached his seat on the other side of Madame Esmerelda, when the annoying woman on Ned’s right leaned over.
“Lord Blakely,” she said. “What an unusual style. I just want to know—who is Ned?”
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