The Problem with Seduction - By Emma Locke Page 0,44
powerful men. Older men, usually, but she was coming to think there was a hunger to be stoked in a younger man. One who hadn’t had twenty years of sexual encounters to jade him.
Yet it wasn’t her thrill at his dishabille that caused her to fear what would happen next. It was his reaction to her. His passion empowered her, and like a heady drug, addicted her. His tightly leashed desire to push up her skirts and throw her over the back of the couch excited her in a way his pretty words wouldn’t. She fed off his desire. He wanted her, and she longed with all of her heart to be wanted.
She must play her cards right. He wanted her, but not because he wanted to. Why he didn’t remained a mystery, one she would unravel with her next few moves. She’d succeeded with less.
Until she knew him better, she must be mindful. She’d provoke him carefully and observe his reactions. Any action on her part could turn his desire into loathing, or worse, disgust. If he thought she needed him more than he needed her…she would never draw him into her bed.
She made no move to adjust his heavy coat slung around her hips. It draped down the backs of her legs and caught the heat of the fireplace against her limbs. “Refreshment, my lord?” She moved toward the tray. Swish. Swish.
She poured out two snifters, each move deliberate, and set the stopper into the mouth of the bottle. She turned and held one cut-crystal vessel toward him. He hesitated. She curved her lips into a teasing smile. “My brandy is perfectly illegal, I assure you.”
The scowl between his eyebrows crinkled. “I’d daresay most men would kill to be in my position at the moment. But you, madam, have me quite on edge.”
And there it was. Confirmation that he didn’t think he wanted to be seduced. She must tread very, very carefully. “I’ll stop.”
He cocked his head at her blunt acknowledgment. “You admit you’re trying to seduce me?”
She held her gaze fixed with his as she sipped her brandy. Boldness suited the moment. If she seemed weak, he’d be repulsed by her neediness. “You’re a handsome man. I was lonely.”
He gaped at her. “Is this an appropriate conversation?”
She laughed. “Do you think only men feel desire? Forgive me if I saw a handsome man and became carried away. It won’t happen again.”
He flinched. “Yes, well… See that it doesn’t.”
She smiled serenely, as if she’d agreed. “Now, where were we? Lust does have a way of wiping all thought from one’s brain.”
“Elizabeth!”
She chuckled. “No more, I promise.”
He regarded her warily. “Are we to have dinner? Or was this nothing but an attempt to draw me into your bed?”
An unbidden laugh escaped her. “There will be dinner.”
His lips parted. He wanted to ask her more, and understand what she was doing. She couldn’t let him guess. To her relief, he fixed his eyes on an oversized, carved picture frame suspended to her left above an azure French settee. She couldn’t think he’d suddenly developed an appreciation for the Baroque nude framed within it.
His gaze swung back to hers. “A trifle over-the-top, wouldn’t you say?”
She was sure he didn’t mean the painting.
This wasn’t going as easily as she’d thought. He was virile. She was enticing. Why was he fighting it? “What sorts of paintings do you find appropriate?”
His brows drew down. As though he’d never afforded it much thought. “Ones with more clothes.”
She held her snifter in two long fingers and lightly caressed the bottom of the glass with her other hand. “Are you a prude?”
A smile crept across his lips. “I never thought so before.”
She shrugged. “Maybe you’ve changed. I know I never was one for dull displays, in my youth. I preferred dramatic expression, and it suited me, I think. Now that I’m older, I don’t have time for silliness. I like this oil because it brings both halves of me together.” It was also one of the few things she’d brought with her from the apartments Nicholas had let for her after Oliver’s birth.
Lord Constantine regarded her. “When did you change?”
It was her turn to be surprised. “Recently, I suppose.”
He stepped to her right to move around her, then began a slow promenade about the drawing room. Not a large room compared to what he must be used to, coming from the ancestral pile his brother managed in Devon, and Merritt House here in London, but a good