Pride and Pleasure by Sylvia Day Page B

mere presence made her highly conscious of her own femininity.
    “Why are you here?” she asked, twisting to face his back.
    There was a long hesitation, then he said, “Your father’s death. Did it come as a surprise to you?”
    “Yes.” Eliza’s fingers linked together in her lap.
    Jasper looked at her over his shoulder. “You answered too swiftly. I need you to be honest with me, if I’m to succeed.”
    The way he stared at her gave her pause.
    “Very well,” she amended. “I was surprised and not. I knew he was unwell, but I believed he had an affliction of the mind. Not the body.”
    “Affliction of the mind, you say? Was he lacking reason?”
    “He wasn’t mad. Although I sometimes thought my mother was determined to drive him to it.”
    He focused more intently on her. “Explain.”
    “He was unhappy, which contributed to an excessive fondness for strong spirits, but I did not collect how sick he’d become until it was too late. Why do you ask?”
    “You lost both of your parents too early. I must be certain their fate isn’t linked to your present situation in some way. Are you quite confident your father’s death was natural in cause?”
    “It was expected,” she qualified. “I wouldn’t call it natural. As you said, he died before his time.”
    “And your mother’s death? Are you confident it was an accident?”
    “The only surprise about her demise was how long it took to happen,” she said sharply.
    “Eliza . . .” Jasper came to sit beside her.
    The air around her became charged with his energy.
    I never feel so alive as I do when I am the object of a man’s desire, her mother had said, while spinning like a giddy girl with her skirts held in each hand. The blood sings, Eliza. The heart races. It is the most glorious feeling in the world.
    Why did Jasper have to be the man to awaken such reactions in her? Why did he have to prove, just by breathing, that she wasn’t immune to needing someone after all? She was so disappointed to realize there were indeed some shades of pleasure that could be colored only by another hand.
    His dark eyes were warm with concern. “Please understand, I only wish to be thorough. Your safety is of the utmost importance to me.”
    She nodded, believing the sincerity in his tone. A lock of her hair was dislodged by the movement, slipping free of her hastily tied ribbon to slide over her shoulder.
    He stood. Holding out a hand, he assisted her to her feet. “Turn around.”
    As Eliza pivoted, she disturbed the air, allowing the primitive scent that clung to him—horses and leather, tobacco and bergamot—to tease her senses. She jumped slightly at the feel of his fingers against her nape. Awareness of him swept outward, flowing across her skin like warm water. He lifted the curl from her shoulder and rubbed it between his fingers.
    “Like fine silk,” he murmured. He loosened the ribbon securing her hair, returned the errant lock to its former place, and retied the whole more securely.
    Her gaze darted around the room, hyperaware of her surroundings. Everything was rendered in brilliant clarity, from the crystals hanging from the many ornate candlesticks to the inlaid mother-of-pearl glimmering from the tops of the end tables.
    In the swirling confusion, she grasped the first thought that came to her. “Are you one of those gentlemen who has an unusually strong interest in red hair?”
    “I have an unusually strong interest in you.” He pressed his lips to the bare skin between her shoulder and throat.
    “Jasper,” she whispered, shocked by the violent quiver that moved through her. “What are you doing? Why did you come now . . . tonight . . . when I’ll be seeing you tomorrow?”
    His hands fell to his sides. “I saw the way you looked at Montague. What he said made you see him in a way you haven’t before.”
    Eliza faced him. He was more than a head taller, but his frame curved toward her in a way that made their proximity searingly