Page 66 of The Seduction of an English Scoundrel

But Jane and Grayson did end up alone, except for the servants who shuffled about in the shadows of the house. Lord Belshire had forgotten that Simon was taking Caroline and Miranda to a birthday ball.

So she and Grayson stood in the black-and-white marble entrance hall like figures on a chessboard, with undercurrents of tension and temptation in the air. Who would make the first move?

He plucked one of Lady Belshire’s peacock feathers from the brass urn and tickled Jane’s nose with a theatrical waggle of his eyebrows.

“Alone with you at last,” he whispered, his mouth brushing her hair. “What do you think we should do first?”

“Stop being silly for one thing.” She pulled off her plum silk pelisse, her voice catching at the dark look he gave her. Not since that night in the maze had they given in to temptation again. “And now you’ve made me sneeze—”

“God bless you.” He tapped her on the head with the feather. “And I’m serious. Shall I seduce you in the rose damask drawing room or in the gold?”

She started to laugh, more to cover how his question aroused her than anything. “Well, we have neither, so it looks as if seduction isn’t in the cards. But . . . it is late. I suppose the proper thing is for you to go.”

“Why?” He pulled her gently against him, wrapping his powerful arms around her waist. Jane caught a glimpse of their reflection in the hall-stand mirror, his tall form in black evening clothes overshadowing her, her body bent to his. For a moment the mirror’s illusion made them become one, joined in shadow. She swallowed, her heart pounding erratically at the thought. The feather dropped from his fingers and drifted to the floor.

“I’m not going to leave you all by yourself,” he said, tilting her face up to his.

“The servants are here. I’m safe.” Safer than with him in one way. But in others—well, she knew in her heart Sedgecroft would never let anyone harm her. If only he could have saved her from herself.

“We can stay up late and play cards,” he said casually, leading her down the hall to the drawing room. “I’m sure you can wager something I want.”

“I—oh, no, I forgot. I’m supposed to have breakfast with Cecily and Armhurst tomorrow.”

“Beg off until next week,” he said firmly.

“I can’t. I have to see her before her family leaves for Kent to ready the estate for her wedding.”

He closed the door quietly behind them, his gaze focused on her. The room lay in darkness, and he watched her as she went to the sideboard. He’d been dying all night to touch her, even with Lord and Lady Belshire sitting beside them in the box. Every brush of her soft shoulder against his had sent a shiver of lust down his spine. Temptation quickened his heartbeat to a dangerous tattoo as she came toward him. His blood thickened, hot waves of desire washing through him.

She took a tiny sip of his whiskey before handing him the glass. “Oh.” She grimaced. “If that doesn’t light a fire in your belly, nothing will.”

Except you.

His long fingers curled briefly around hers as he took the glass, loosening his cravat with his free hand.

Make me leave, Jane, before I forget this cannot go further.

She turned toward the enormous sofa in the center of the room, sinking in a rustle of silk. “What did you think of the play?”

“I didn’t watch it.” He sprawled out beside her. “I was a little distracted.”

She studied him in wonder. His eyes looked silver in the shadowy dark, heated, sparkling with sin. “I don’t think I’m going to ask what distracted you.”

Of course it had been her. While pretending to watch the play, he had been wracking his brain to remember all the gossipy things he’d heard about Jane over the years. Everyone had assumed she belonged to Nigel, and Grayson hadn’t paid much attention. Well bred. Beautiful. A bluestocking. Yes, all right, a bluestocking with a body that belonged in a royal brothel. No one had mentioned her wicked humor and those bewitching green eyes, or that attractive touch of insecurity. Or that with her all his devils would meet their match.

“Who is Armhurst?” he asked, taking a sip of his drink.

“A friend of Cecily’s.”

“A young man?”

“I think so.”

“There was an Armhurst involved in a duel last year over a broken romance.”

She took a breath. There was ice in his voice and heat in his gaze as he slowly leaned toward her, his golden mane of hair brushing the lapels of his black evening coat. The scent of whiskey on his breath tantalized her. The scorching heat in his eyes seared her.

“Don’t go,” he said, his tone deceptively light.