Only Scandal Will Do. Jenna Jaxon

a hand slowly down her arm, fingers trailing silkily against her bare flesh. Mouth agape at such a liberty, she slapped the hand away and ran for the door. With a long arm, he snared the diaphanous folds of her gown. The material strained against her body. Kat froze lest it rip, exposing her completely. Cursing her own folly for choosing such a costume, she swung around to face her captor.

      “Please release me, sir,” she demanded, trying to keep her temper in check. She needed to woo this man to her cause. And though it galled her, she could only do so with soft words, not blows. Perhaps the blows could come later. “I beg you to aid me in my hour of need.” She put every ounce of charm into her smile; she could cajole him, as long as he couldn’t read her mind.

      “Ah, but I have needs too, slave.” His hands were in her hair again, as though he could not help himself.

      Well aware from his husky tone what needs the man likely had, Kat winced. If only she could see all of his face. It was so difficult to judge the man under that golden mask. She forced herself to relax, though the thought of his hands on her raised gooseflesh everywhere. It was only her hair, after all. No great sin. Perhaps if she softened her demeanor, she could convince him of her plight. She could offer honeyed tones for a little while.

      “Will you hear my story of how a lady ended up in this House of Pleasure, sir?” Even to her own ears, her innocent tone sounded false. How would it sound to–

      Releasing her hair, the stranger grabbed her hand. “We both know how you will end up, my slave. Come.” He pulled her toward the four-poster and she dug her toes into the rough, worn carpeting. Honey be damned, she had no intention of going anywhere near that bed.

      “Let me tell you my story, sir. ’Tis truly enlightening.” She snapped her wrist down, freeing herself from his grasp, then turned and raced across the room, searching in vain for weapons once more. Frustration mounting, she seized the wingback chair. At least it presented a barrier of sorts. She thrust it in front of her.

      “Sir, you must hear me. I truly am not what you think.”

      His skeptical stare was bearable. But when he pursed his lips and made a “tsk tsking” sound, he might as well have shouted the word “whore.”

      “I am not!” Katarina clutched the chair’s golden upholstery to keep from launching herself at him and wrapping her fingers around his arrogant throat. “I am Lady Katarina Fitzwilliam, sister to the Earl of Manning. I was kidnapped and brought here tonight against my will.”

      He cocked his head. Then his mouth twitched. “Truly? What an exciting life you must lead...Lady Katarina, was it?” He chuckled deep in his chest, and took a step toward the chair.

      She glared at him. “I am Lady Katarina Fitzwilliam, you dullard.”

      “And true ladies always run around London at night scandalously underdressed as Greek slaves?”

      “My brother and I were on our way to a masquerade ball when I was abducted.”

      “As was I, fair lady,” he bowed with an exaggerated flourish, “when I decided to come to this charming establishment instead. Perhaps if we had continued on our ways uninterrupted, we would even now be dancing together at the ball.” That nasty laugh grated against her nerves worse than the screech of rusty nails, making her contemplate murder. If the scoundrel didn’t believe her story, killing him might be her only means of escape.

       3

      “I tell you for the third time, I am Lady Katarina Fitzwilliam!” She all but screamed the words at him. As though making them louder would somehow convince him of their truth.

      “I see you would prefer to play a different scenario, my lady?” He smirked as he emphasized the last two words. “I, for one, would fancy seduction rather than force.”

      She clenched her hands. “But I am a lady, you oaf! Why will you not believe me?”

      “Then convince me, Lady Katarina.” His voice dropped to low, sultry tones. Even worse, his mouth softened from the hard lines of the arrogant master to the soft, sensual half-smile of the practiced rake. A shiver ran through her that had nothing to do with fright.

      “As...as I told you, my brother is the Earl of Manning.” Somehow more vulnerable now than when the man had declared himself her master, she eyed the door, wondering if they had locked it behind him.

      “How delightful!” The low-pitched words rumbled dangerously close to her ear; her throat closed, stealing her breath. “I am very good friends with the earl.”

      “You are?” Dumbfounded, she choked on the words.

      “I am sure he will be as astonished as I that his sister has been sold to me.” The man’s full lips twitched in restrained amusement. “Although, I confess, the earl never mentioned you to me.” He stepped closer and laid a hand on one of the chair’s wings, stretched a long finger out and caressed the side of her hand.

      “What!” Katarina jerked it away. Her hand tingled alarmingly with the brief contact. “He most certainly does have a sister.” She tossed her head and raised her chin. Why had Jack not told this man he had a sister? Was the rogue even telling her the truth?

      “I am sure I would have remembered you, fair lady, had he described your wondrous charms.” That chuckle sounding in his throat again, the man inched closer, trying to sidle around the back of the chair.

      Katarina, experienced in these kinds of games from years of chasing and being chased by Jack, continued around the chair, maintaining a constant distance from him. “I am sure I don’t know why Jack never thought to mention me, but the fact remains that I am his sister.” She advanced another cautious step, surveying his tall form, trying to gauge his next move.

      “Jack?” The man’s eyes gleamed. “But surely Manning’s name is William Fitzwilliam.”

      She stopped. “Uncle William? You knew Uncle William?”

      “Knew him?”

      “He died in August last year.” Hope stole through her. He didn’t know about Uncle William. That was why he didn’t believe her. “My father, Colonel Robert Fitzwilliam, his younger brother, inherited the title. We lived in Virginia all our lives but were planning to remove to London when my father died unexpectedly in October, leaving my brother John the earldom. After several months of settling our affairs and a horrific crossing, we finally arrived in England four weeks ago.”

      “Oh, my dear, I am so sorry. How dreadful for you.”

      At the soothing words laced with sympathy, she sagged with relief. At last, he believed her.

      He grasped her hand, and the warmth of his skin dispelled the chill in her fingers. With his thumb, he stroked over the top of her knuckles, kneading the skin with soothing circular motions, an exquisite treat for her misused flesh. “You must have been devastated, my lady.”

      Staring at their intertwined hands, she became lost in the velvety sensation of his touch. She raised her eyes to his. But his head was still bent over their hands as he concentrated on each small, comforting movement of his thumb.

      “I was.” The confession popped out. “I still miss my father dreadfully.” Blinking back tears she had no intention of shedding, she shook her head. She tried to withdraw her hand, to distance herself from him and the painful memories that weakened her ability to think clearly. But he tightened his grip and snared the other hand as well.

      “You are distraught, my lady. It has been a harrowing night for you. Please allow me to come to your aid.” He brought her hands to rest on the soft black cloak that disguised the solid expanse of his chest. The concern and respect in his voice, which had so recently mocked and insulted her, broke through her crumbling defenses. Ready to drop from weariness, she could not reclaim the strength leached away by the excitements of the night. And his chest was so strong and warm under her palms. Incredibly warm. Kat sighed as that heat stole into her body, relaxing the muscles in her hands and