London's Most Wanted Rake. Bronwyn ScottЧитать онлайн книгу.
directly helped himself to her bed. There he lay, hands behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles and looking entirely too comfortable. She boiled to take him down a notch. ‘I think the rule is that you’re supposed to wait until the house settles for the night.’
Alina set down the lamp on the dressing table and crossed her arms. For all her bravado, she was startled to see him. After his lecture at the stream about the need to protect her reputation, this seemed to do the opposite. ‘Did anyone see you come in?’ She had just put the next step of her plan in motion and it depended on convincing Seymour she was alone.
‘Of course not,’ Channing scoffed at her worries, arrogant in his own way.
‘What are you doing here? I’m sure there’s nothing that can’t keep until morning.’ Alina unfastened her pearls. ‘Unless it is an apology for kicking me all night.’
Channing snorted. ‘I kicked you twice and you deserved it. You were flirting with Seymour. Which raised a burning question in my mind. I don’t think I could sleep without an answer.’
‘If I tell you, will you go away?’
Channing shrugged. ‘Maybe. This bed is pretty comfortable, though.’ He paused and fixed her with his gaze, the humour fading. ‘Why is it you insist on seeking out men you don’t like?’
There was a great riposte in that, but this was not the time for teasing. ‘What makes you so certain I don’t like Seymour?’ Alina slowly pulled the pins from her hair, gathering her thoughts. It was easier to think when she was doing something. There was less time for her brain to be distracted by the sight of Channing lying on her bed.
‘You wanted to eat him alive at cards tonight, not exactly an attitude that matched the soft colours, and innocent pearls.’ Ah, Channing had noticed. He was far too perceptive. ‘Whatever “business” you have with Seymour, I’m starting to think it’s not friendly.’ And now he was meddling, too, just as she’d feared.
She shook down her hair, letting it fall over her shoulders. Channing shifted on the bed. He was in a poor position to hide any effects of her toilette. Well, good, let him be the uncomfortable one for a change. ‘Are you going to come over and help me with my gown?’ She made a show of reaching for the impossible back fastenings.
Channing rose from the bed and came to her, standing close enough to smell, close enough to kiss. She thought she had him, aroused and distracted. Even in dark evening clothes, the former was evident. But apparently she hadn’t succeeded with the latter because his answer surprised her. ‘No. I am not going to help with that gown. We both know what will happen if I do. It won’t stop there.’ His words were a whisper between them, part anger, part a seduction of his own. ‘I don’t want you like this, Alina. I’m not a game. I will not be used.’
Alina would not retreat. Her arms went about his neck, her lips kissed his throat. ‘I thought you said those two weeks in France were the best of your life,’ she whispered.
‘They were, which is why I refuse to tarnish them with something like this,’ Channing growled, setting her away from him. ‘Not all men are like your husband, Alina. Not everyone can be manipulated with sexual favours, nor does everyone expect to be.’
She froze at the words, all thoughts of distraction fleeing in the wake of her anger. ‘Are you calling me a whore? Considering your line of expertise, that would be quite like calling the kettle black.’
‘Am I mistaken? I thought it was you who was so fond of saying there wasn’t much difference between prostitution and marriage because we all did it for money in the end.’
‘You would know. You’ve done it more times for money than the rest of us.’ They were hurtful words. She knew what the League of Discreet Gentlemen meant to him. She knew it was about more than the money and the sex. But she hurled the words anyway because he’d hurt her and she was angry. She made a sharp gesture towards the door. ‘Get out!’ She was shaking with rage. ‘Don’t even think you can lecture me on the way I managed my marriage. You don’t know what that man was like. You don’t know what I had to do to win my freedom.’ She’d told no one about the degradations that had gone on behind closed doors. Not even Channing with his keen intuitions could guess at half of it.
‘A thousand pardons, comtesse.’ Channing gave her a frigid stare and exited the room.
Well, at least he’d dropped the matter with Seymour. But it was small consolation. This had not been how she’d wanted to do it. Still, she’d known from the start how things could explode with Channing. They’d been too intimate, too close, once upon a time. They knew each other far too well for objective games of manipulation to work without consequence. They knew just how to prod the sleeping lions each carried within them as this last demonstration had proved.
Alina rang for Celeste, disappointment blooming where anger had resided. Channing had been a source of strength for her once. Those two weeks had given her power, had taught her that she was strong, that she had value, the taint of a bad marriage could not diminish.
She was facing another important trial right now in exposing Seymour. Channing’s strength would be welcomed. But she couldn’t risk it. She didn’t want him involved. He had the League to protect. If her plans went sour, there’d be a scandal and she couldn’t promise he wouldn’t be exposed along with it. She’d never contemplated involving Amery when she’d hired him. She had no intentions of involving Channing now no matter how much he pushed, which was why she’d be sleeping alone tonight.
* * *
He’d be sleeping alone tonight because he hadn’t pushed, not in the right direction at least. Channing yanked off his cravat with an angry pull. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been thrown out of a woman’s bedroom. He had only himself to blame. He’d done it all wrong, broken every basic rule of relationship management. He’d called her attempt at seduction a manipulative ploy and by extension he’d implied rather blatantly she was prostituting herself in order to distract him from the true issue.
It had been a low blow no matter what. A gentleman never called a lady a whore. It was an especially low blow because he knew what her experiences would cause her to make of the situation. He’d accused her of being no better than the comte, a man whom she had thoroughly despised.
Channing undressed himself without assistance. He was in too poor of a mood to inflict himself on the unsuspecting valet. He should apologise. Once he did that, he could seduce her, which is what he should have done in the first place. Everyone knew you caught more flies with sugar than vinegar and he’d been nothing but vinegar. He’d rebuffed her efforts in the forest and he’d picked a fight with her tonight. Neither of those were classic recommendations for winning a woman’s favour or her trust. He needed both if he was going to uncover her business with Seymour and, if need be, protect her from her own impetuosity. She was paying the agency for protection and he was damn well sure she was going to get it even if it was protection from herself.
Why do you even care? his mind challenged. She’s been nothing but trouble to you since the day you met her and likewise she thinks the same of you. Yet you can’t seem to stay away from her. But Channing knew why. She was beautiful and strong and yet more vulnerable than she understood. There was a joie de vivre in her laugh, a magic in her wide smile, an exhilaration in the lightest of her touches. He’d never met a woman like her who could captivate a room so effortlessly by simply walking into it, who could captivate him, a man who had known so many women in his time and who could have any woman.
And yet you remember everything about her. You remember the first time she looked at you from across a Parisian salon, how she smells, how she freezes a man with a glance and how she stokes him with one as well. Channing blew out the lamp and climbed into bed, knowing full well the night was a lost cause. He was going to dream of Paris until the sun came up.
* * *
The comtesse might be genuine. Roland Seymour yawned sleepily from his discreet post in the hall. Perhaps she was truly alone. There’d been no questionable entrances or exits from her room since he’d taken