The Study of Seduction

by Sabrina Jeffries

Part of her wanted to. The other part hated that she couldn’t predict how she would react, once he came over on top of her and tried to enter her. She didn’t think she could bear to witness again the shock on his face if she got panicky and said or did something untoward.

  So when the door adjoining his room opened and she instinctively clutched her magazine to her breasts, she could have kicked herself to see frustration flash in his eyes.

  Though it was swiftly gone, it left her chilled.

  “I wanted to make sure you were comfortable before I retired,” he said with infinite politeness, as if they were mere friends who happened to share a bedroom suite, rather than a newly wedded couple who ought to be consummating their marriage.

  “Quite comfortable.” She deliberately let the periodical drop onto her lap, not wanting him to think she was frightened of him. She wasn’t . . . not entirely. “I shan’t be up much longer. I’m quite tired.”

  “I would imagine so.”

  He continued to stand there a moment, as if unsure what to do. And Lord, he looked so much more approachable in a dressing gown than in his usual oh-so-correct attire. It dawned on her that she hadn’t yet seen even a portion of him undressed.

  No glimpse of what seemed to be a rather broad chest. No glance at what were probably quite fine arms. And just the thought of what he might look like without his clothes on sparked her curiosity.

  Until she remembered what else she hadn’t seen yet. The part she dreaded to look upon, much less feel pushing and tearing its way inside her.

  “Clarissa, earlier, when I said—”

  “It’s fine. I knew what you meant.”

  He halted, his jaw going rigid. “Of course you did.”

  “Good night, Edwin,” she said firmly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Yes.” He swept his gaze over her with a thoroughness that did nothing to soothe her. “Sleep well.”

  Then he was gone, shutting the door behind him.

  She ignored her swift pang of disappointment. If she encouraged his desire—and her own—tonight, only to end up cutting him off again . . .

  No, better to wait until she knew she was ready. She blew out the candle.

  Still, it took her a long time to go to sleep, and when she did, she slid seamlessly into a dream.

  A forest rose before her, dark and gloomy. She didn’t want to go inside, but she had to. It was crucial that she enter, though she couldn’t figure out why. The deeper she wandered into the forest the colder she got, until she reached a black lake that glistened in the light of the moon overhead.

  She dipped her toe into the water. It was surprisingly warm, so much warmer than the forest. It would be lovely to go in and get warm. Slowly, she walked into the lake, sinking into the warmth.

  Then something grabbed her leg beneath the surface and began pulling her toward the center, which had become a whirlpool, swirling faster and harder by the moment. She struggled to swim back to shore but she couldn’t fight the current, which was pulling her down, down into the whirling void, down into the black, into the depths where she would surely drown . . .

  She awoke on a scream. It took her a moment to catch her bearings, and by the time she did, the door swung open and Edwin appeared in the doorway, disheveled and wild-eyed and holding a lit candle.

  “Bloody hell, Clarissa, are you all right?” He lifted the candle to scan the room as if searching for intruders.

  “It was just a nightmare,” she said hastily, starting to feel like a fool. “I . . . I get nervous in new places,” she lied. “That’s all.”

  “It sounded far worse than that.” He stepped farther into the room.

  The firelight now caught him fully, and she swallowed. He wore nothing but his drawers—no nightshirt, no nightcap, nothing but a thin layer of linen that covered him from low on his hips to his knees. And he was as well made as any woman could want—muscular chest, flat stomach, and very impressive calves. Not to mention arms that looked as if they could lift anything.

  Or hold down anyone.

  She shuddered. He wouldn’t hurt her. She couldn’t believe that he would. “I’m fine,” she whispered. “Truly I am.”

  “You’re shaking.”

  “I’m a bit chilly, is all. I dreamed of drowning.”

  The sympathy on his face sliced right through her fear. “Do you want me to stay?” When she hesitated, afraid to say yes, but not wanting to be alone, he added, “I’ll sit right over there in that chair until you go back to sleep. If you’d like.”

  “It hardly seems fair to you—”

  “Don’t worry about that. I know how upsetting nightmares can be. I had a great many as a boy. And my mother would sit with me and rub my back until I could go to sleep.” He approached the bed slowly. “I’ll do the same for you, if you like.”

  “Edwin—”

  “Just rub your back. I promise. Nothing more.”

  She let out a long breath. “That sounds lovely.”

  His smile of pure relief tugged at her somewhere down deep, where she rarely let anyone in. So when he came to sit beside her on the bed, and urged her to turn onto her stomach, she willingly gave herself up to his hands.

  As he began to knead her shoulders through her nightdress, she moaned. “Ohhh. That is wonderful.”

  He rubbed her muscles expertly. “So, tell me about this nightmare. You were drowning?”

  “Mmm,” she said, her fear of the dream already fading, “I’d rather put it from my mind. Tell me about your nightmares. Somehow I always imagined you as a stalwart little boy afraid of nothing. What did you dream about that frightened you?”

  “Skeletons.”

  She shifted her head to look up at him. “Skeletons? Truly?”

  “Well, they started out as people when they came after me. But then the flesh would melt from their bones until they were nothing more than skeletons lumbering toward me with their bones creaking.” He shuddered.

  “Good Lord, that’s a rather macabre dream for a little boy.”

  “I suspect it started when I saw a puppet show at a fair, which featured a skeleton puppet dancing about the stage and scaring the audience. I dreamed of them for a few years after.”

  “You poor thing!”

  “Actually, it’s why I became interested in Father’s automatons. They scared me because they vaguely reminded me of my nightmares, so I deliberately started examining them, determined to get past my fear. Before long I became genuinely interested in figuring out how they worked. The more I knew, the more fascinated I got, and before long, the dreams stopped.”

  “I do hope you’re not going to suggest that I try swimming in a dark lake in the middle of a forest to learn to get past my nightmare.”

  He chuckled. “No. That doesn’t sound wise or safe.”

  She relaxed against the pillow. “Good. Because I can’t swim.”

  “Perhaps I’ll teach you sometime. Just not at a dark lake in the middle of the forest.”

  “No,” she murmured, then yawned.

  His motions grew slower, more soothing. “Better now?”

  “Mmm. Much better.” Her eyes slid closed. “Tell me more about when you were a boy.”

  He started into a story about his first time on a horse, normally a tale that she might find entertaining, but soon his words began to melt together into one long droning, and before long she fell asleep.

  That night there were no more dreams of any kind. And when she woke the next morning, he was gone.

  Sixteen

  Days later, Edwin sat at the breakfast table early in the morning, scouring the Times for any evidence that Durand might have made good on his threats. So far there had been no whiff of that, thank God.

  He drank some of his tea. Hard to believe that he and Clarissa had been married almost a week. After the night of
the blood-curdling scream, after seeing the terror that leapt in her eyes when she first saw him enter her room, he thought it prudent to retreat from any overt physical advances until she was willing to reveal what made her so frightened.

  At least he was making progress. Though she hadn’t had any more nightmares, she let him sit with her at night, rub her back, and talk to her about their day. It was an exquisite agony to be so close to her without being the least bit intimate, but he’d done his best not to think about that. He’d taken to going for long, hard rides through the countryside to release his pent-up desire. And when that didn’t work, he pleasured himself.

  It was ridiculous, really. He’d gone months before without bedding a woman, and now all he could think about was making love to his wife. Undoubtedly because he knew he couldn’t. It had nothing to do with how fetching she looked in her night rail. Or how her merry laugh could instantly brighten his day. Or how her every motion seemed designed to seduce—

  “Good morning!” said a cheery voice from the doorway.

  Speak of the devil. She was of course wearing some treat of a gown that made him think of strawberries gilded with cream. That he wanted to devour.

  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “You’re up early.” He frowned. “Not another bad dream, I hope.”

  “No. I just . . . couldn’t sleep.”

  Picking up the orange he hadn’t eaten, he asked, “Want me to peel this for you?”

  She made a face. “I despise oranges and anything to do with them. The smell of them alone makes me sick.”

  “Then I’d best dispose of this one.” He aimed at the open window and lobbed the orange right through it.

  “It never ceases to amaze me how good you are at judging distances and trajectories.” She cocked her head. “Are you trying to impress me again, sir?”

  “If lobbing oranges through windows impresses you,” he said, “I have a bowl of fruit I can juggle.”

  She laughed. Coming over to sit next to him, instead of at the far end of the table, she saw the newspaper and sobered. “Anything in the Times to worry about?”

  “Not that I could find.”

  “Perhaps Durand has given up.”

  “I doubt that. He’s probably plotting something—we just don’t know what it is yet.”

  “Well, Mr. Doom and Gloom,” she said teasingly, “I think it’s time we got you out of the house.”

  He eyed her with suspicion. “Why?”

  “Because you need more entertainment than throwing oranges. You need a dose of sun and warmth and leisurely exercise. We should do something fun in the outdoors.”

  How he hoped that her idea of fun and his were the same. But somehow he doubted it. “What did you have in mind? Swimming?” Naked, preferably. “Going for a drive?” To somewhere they could be naked. “Riding?” Please let it be riding. But not on a horse. And definitely naked.

  “I thought perhaps we could have a picnic.”

  He blinked. “A picnic! Why would we do that when we have decent food right here in the dining room, served up on plates by well-paid servants?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Where is your sense of adventure, Lord Blakeborough?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Nonsense. Everyone has a sense of adventure if the situation is right.” She pushed the newspaper aside. “In this case, we’ll start with something less challenging—a walk through the deer park, perhaps. I’ve already charged Cook with packing a picnic lunch for us, and after our stroll, we can have our luncheon by the stream between our estates.”

  “Along with the flies and the snails.”

  “I thought you liked the outdoors. You ride all the time.”

  “Yes. Going neck-or-nothing with the wind in my face. Not sitting on the damp ground, surrounded by spiderwebs and squawking crows while I eat cold ham from a basket.”

  “I had no idea you were so missish, Edwin.”

  He scowled. “I am not missish. I just prefer my comfortable house to the vagaries of a forest.”

  “Fine. Then I’ll go by myself.”

  “You will not! Durand might be skulking about somewhere.”

  She eyed him askance.

  “Very well.” He sighed. “We’ll go on your ‘picnic.’ Though it seems rather silly to me.”

  Nonetheless, a short time later, he was tramping through his land with a basket on one arm and his wife on the other. And surprisingly, he was enjoying himself. The sun brightened the barley fields, the sparrows were chirping, and every beech was in bud.

  After a while, he found himself telling her about the various parts of the estate and the roe deer that lived in the park. She mustn’t have found it too boring, for she listened and nodded and asked questions.

  It wasn’t long before three very enjoyable hours had passed. They headed to the stream to have their picnic, which he was still rather skeptical about. But when he saw her spread out a blanket, it cheered him. Blankets could double as beds, after all.

  While she began to unpack the basket, he scanned their surroundings. To keep from dwelling on how lovely she looked beneath the dappled light of the trees, he said, “It seems that the flies and snails are absent just now.”

  “You know perfectly well that it’s too early in the season for either.” She shifted to look out at the water and grew pensive. “I’ve always loved this stream. At this time of day, it glistens like a fairy highway leading to a magical realm.”

  He snorted.

  Planting her hands on her hips, she said, “So you have no sense of adventure and no sense of whimsy.”

  “Neither one, I’m afraid.” He peered at the impressive number of chicken sandwiches, the wedge of Stilton, the jar of pickles, and what appeared to be apple tarts wrapped in paper. “What I have is a prodigious appetite. And it looks as if Cook has packed all my favorites. I suppose that was your doing?”

  She laughed. “As if Cook doesn’t know every single one of your preferences. That woman is a jewel.”

  “We certainly agree on that.”

  Some time later, after they’d both eaten their fill, he lay back on the blanket Clarissa had spread for them and crossed his arms beneath his head while she tidied up. It really was rather nice here. That was a surprise.

  She glanced over at him, and mischief sparked in her eyes. “My, my, do I detect a smile?”

  He tried to stifle it, but it was too late. “Perhaps.”

  “You’re having fun, aren’t you?”

  “I suppose I am.”

  “I was sure you would.” Beaming her triumph, she stretched out on the blanket beside him. “I know you better than you think.”

  “I doubt that. I daresay I know far more about you than you do about me.”

  She turned on her side to look at him. “Really? That sounds like a challenge to me. And as I recall, I won our last challenge.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Very well, a challenge, then. Same terms as before. If you win, you get another automaton. You can even dictate what type and watch me make it. But if I win, you have to wear breeches at dinner.”

  “Why do men love to see a woman in breeches?”

  “I’ll explain it to you when you do it.”

  She sniffed. “If I do it, which is by no means certain since I plan to win this challenge. Though it would help if we had some rules.”

  “How about this? We take turns asking each other questions about our own likes and dislikes, and the first one to answer wrong loses.”

  Her eyes narrowed on him. “All right. Since you laid down the challenge, I’ll start. Which do I prefer—prawns or fish?”

  “Prawns. Which do I prefer?”

  “Neither. You don’t like to eat anything that swims.”

  He scowled. “That shouldn’t count. You’ve been consulting with Cook over d
inner every night. I’d be surprised if you didn’t know of my dislike of seafood.”

  “Hah! You simply can’t stand losing.” She tapped her chin. “Let me see, what else can I ask . . . What sort of jewelry do I like—gold or pearls?”

  “Since I’ve never seen you wear a pearl in your life, I’ll have to say gold.” When she chuckled, he said flippantly, “What sort of jewelry do I like—gold or pearls?”

  “If you start wearing pearls, I shall leave you,” she said with a laugh. “And you like blue sapphires and gold. I’ve only ever seen you wear a sapphire stickpin. With gold cuff links.”

  He smiled. “I ought to have realized you would notice such a thing, given your love of fashion. But here’s a hard one. What political party do I support? Tell me that, if you can.”

  “You’re an ardent supporter of the Tories.” When he frowned, she said gleefully, “I’m right, aren’t I? And I’ll bet you don’t know which party I support.”

  “Do you know which party you support?” He’d never once heard her mention politics.

  “How many are there, again?” At his shocked look, she said, “I’m joking, you fool. Of course I know which party I support. Now tell me which it is.”

  He had to think about that. But Warren was a Tory, and given her propensity to be contrary . . . “You support the Whigs.”

  She poked him in the chest. “You just guessed, didn’t you?”

  “I told you,” he said smugly. “I know you very well.”

  “We’ll see about that.” She knit her brow in deep concentration, then brightened. “Here’s one you’ll never guess. What’s my favorite play?”

  “That’s far too general a question to be fair. There’s hundreds to choose from. But just to show I’m a good sport, I’ll take a stab at it.” He pretended to be unsure. “Much Ado about Nothing?”

  Her mouth fell open. “How could you possibly have known that?”

  “You quoted it at dinner the first night of our marriage. And generally, if someone knows something well enough to quote it, it’s a favorite.” He leaned toward her gleefully. “What’s my favorite play?”

  She scowled, recognizing the trap. “As you said, there’s hundreds.”