Page 10 of The Seduction of an English Scoundrel

Jane reclined on a tufted crimson couch in the corner, a half-eaten hothouse peach in one hand. A portfolio of old letters lay across her lap.

Love letters, Grayson thought as he stood in the doorway, temporarily distracted from his task by the languid sensuality of her pose. She must have been pouring over the insipid poetry of Nigel’s that he’d sent her through the years. One pale arm was bent at an angle to support her head, a position that thrust her ripe breasts out into an enticing silhouette. Her bare feet dangled over the opposite arm of the couch. The heartbroken beauty had not changed out of her wedding gown.

He took his time to study her in this unguarded moment. Her eyes were closed, silky black eyelashes casting shadows on her finely boned cheeks; her slender toes flexed and unflexed as if she were striving to relax. Coils of lustrous honey-hued hair tumbled over her shoulders to the floor. Grayson imagined burying his face in that hair, shaping her curves with his hands. The unexpected fantasy warmed his blood.

To think that Nigel could be enjoying all that sensual potential in his bed. What an utter moron. But then Grayson did not know her at all. Perhaps she had some hidden defect—well, it would have to be very well hidden. He felt the dangerous stirrings of desire just standing here.

“May I disturb you for a few moments?”

That deep voice wrenched Jane out of her trance. She sat up so abruptly that the letters fluttered from her lap to the floor. The afternoon sun, the tension of the morning had made her drowsy. She’d been daydreaming, wondering how to implement the next phase of her plan.

She had been contemplating the delicious freedom that Nigel had granted her.

The freedom to choose her own mate. To flirt to her heart’s content. To fall deeply in love as dear Nigel had been with his governess. Or to not fall in love and marry if the perfect man failed to appear.

She had been daydreaming about what it would be like to experience true passion for herself, the sort of horrible, impulsive, tingle-from-head-to-toe sweeping passion, when that dark voice had disturbed her.

Her heart began to thunder with accountable anticipation. A vaguely familiar shadow fell across the corner where she had reclined in a daze of self-congratulatory contentment.

A shadow she remembered from the chapel with a shiver of foreboding. No! It couldn’t possibly be. Not here, in her home, her haven—

“Lord Sedgecroft, this is an . . . an unexpected pleasure.”

“Unexpected pleasure” did not even begin to describe the unsettling sensations that his appearance evoked. The sunlight played across the chiseled planes of his face and caught the burnished wheat gold glints in his hair like an artist’s brush.

And his physique—well, that broad-shouldered torso and lean body so superbly displayed in a charcoal jacket and snug black pantaloons put the statues of the Roman gods that surrounded them to shame.

She slid to her feet, realizing belatedly that she looked nothing like a corresponding goddess. There was a bright spot of peach juice on her skirt. She’d stuffed her stockings under a cushion. And what could he be doing here? Her throat went dry. The devil could not possibly have found out about Nigel’s secret marriage already, could he?

“Can I do something to help you, my lord?” she asked quietly, sweeping all her concerns under a demure demeanor.

He took her elbow, guiding her back a step. “It is I who have come to help you.”

Jane plopped back down onto the couch, too astonished to dissemble. He followed, his movement far more graceful than her shocked thunk. His physical presence quite overpowered her, his heavy thigh pressed against her knee, and she could not imagine that her papa had sent him up here to . . . to what?

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“This whole affair must be extremely upsetting to you.”

“Quite.” Although not as upsetting as marrying Nigel would have been.

“I have to admit I admired your composure today.”

If he’d had any real understanding of what she was truly composed of, Jane doubted this conversation would be taking place. “Thank you.”

“It must have been difficult.”

“You have no idea.” Intriguing. He seemed quite nice, actually. What could he be trying to say?

“To have everyone staring at you,” he said, shaking his head in sympathy.

“I hardly noticed.”

“To have everyone whispering while you stood there in utter humiliation.”

“It wasn’t pleasant, but I am still alive.”

He tsked. “To be the object of universal disgrace. Of mockery. Of pity.”