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Chapter 5

Elise was driving him mad. Prospero beckoned her with a crook of his finger, needing her to come to him. If she sat in that chair a moment longer, taking prim little notes about the art of a man undressing, he would go utterly wild with the need to strip her clothes off and teach her about a man's instincts.

"Come here, little naturalist, and study me," he commanded when she looked at him with those wide, innocent brown eyes. He knew she was vastly intelligent, it was quite clear from their conversation at dinner, but she was an innocent when it came to men. In that moment, he knew truly what his mission was. He would teach her everything about men and instruct her in the ways that a man could please a woman. He was well-versed in seduction and lovemaking, and for once he wanted to indulge himself in pleasure by seducing this clever, beautiful creature. He wanted to do this because she needed him to show her that learning about the opposite sex couldn't be done at a distance and kept completely scientific.

She needed to feel what he felt, the raw lust, the potent desire that wove spells over a person's body, heart, and soul that made the eventual lovemaking all that more intense. He knew she wouldn't fall in love with him, he wasn't a fool, but if he could show her what she truly needed to know about passion, it would be a gift between them, not simply a repayment for her providing him a means of income for a short time. No, he wanted to do this because he genuinely liked her and deeply desired for her to know what pleasures a woman deserved to experience with a man. There was more to love than logic and science could ever explain. He would show her the magic that lay in twilight kisses and soft, sliding bodies in the dark.

Elise moved at his command to come to him, and when she was close enough to touch, he grasped her right hand and raised her palm to his smooth, shaven cheek. He'd shaved before coming over this evening out of his usual habit. None of his Parisian widows had liked a beard or mustache.

"Feel that?" he whispered. She nodded, eyes wide and luminous. "Smooth skin is often preferred by ladies when they wish to be kissed. A man starts to grow a beard or stubble toward the evening if he shaves early in the morning, and some women do not like to feel that scratching their lips, cheeks... or other places."

"What happens when it is rough?" she asked.

She truly was innocent. Had this woman ever been kissed? If she had, it must have been some pathetically chaste peck; otherwise, she would know what he meant about roughness. They really should educate women more, because exploring things like this made it difficult for a man to behave.

Her fingers remained on his cheek as she continued to study him critically. Her touch burned him in the best way. It had been such a long time since he'd felt this deeply maddening desire for a woman.

"Well?" she prompted, and he struggled to remember what they had been discussing.

"Yes, well, when a woman is kissed by a man who hasn't shaved recently, she can get rubbed a little too vigorously and her skin can become sensitive to it."

"Is that why you have no mustache?" she asked. She blushed a soft color of persimmon. "To avoid irritating a lady's skin?"

He was aware mustaches were a fashion of the day in London, but he had no interest in them.

"In part, yes, but trimming and maintaining a mustache takes time and effort."

She squinted a little, as if trying to guess how he might look with one.

"Would you be interested in seeing me grow a mustache?" he teased, but she took the question seriously.

"Perhaps in the second week of our study?" She still had her palm up on his cheek, and traced his cheekbones, then the line of his jaw with her fingers. "So, you've already shaved?" she asked.

"Yes, just before I came here."

"Oh..." She looked disappointed. "I would like to see you shave in the morning to see how it's done."

"You've never seen a man shave?" he asked, more curious about Elise than she could possibly guess. It was clear she'd never been kissed, or at least, kissed properly, and it was unlikely she'd had any close encounters with men and their lives. Perhaps that was the true reason for her study, to fill this gap in her worldly understanding.

"No. I live with my father, but I've never had an occasion to see him perform his morning or nightly rituals such as shaving."

"I suppose that makes sense. It is a rather intimate thing. Likely only his valet or your mother would have seen him do it. When I was younger, my valet used to shave me, but it's been years since I've had a servant for such tasks."

She lowered her hand from his cheek, but he caught her wrist in both of his hands, warming her chilly fingers by rubbing them between his palms. It was something he did without thinking. He'd grown used to taking care of women in the smallest of ways. It was why he'd been so popular in France. He knew what a woman needed, not just what she wanted.

Women were strong creatures, so strong that they often went entire lifetimes without their needs fulfilled, however big or small. He'd found joy in being a man who gave women what they needed, from hours of exquisite lovemaking, making them a cup of tea, or setting up a picnic in the sunshine with their favorite books and treats ready for them.

He studied her brown eyes, enjoying the insatiable curiosity that shone in their depths. What did Elise need? She craved knowledge. She wanted to understand him. She sought the keys to unlock his mind, perhaps his very soul. To his surprise, he found that he wanted to give them to her.

"Shall I continue undressing for you?" he asked, his voice softer, deeper.

She nodded as he released her wrist, and then he pulled the shirt off before he tossed it to the floor.

A little gasp escaped her, and she covered her mouth with one hand.

She'd probably never seen a man's bare chest before. He was aware that his muscled form was quite attractive to most women, even those who buried their adorable noses in books. The only thing that marred his skin was a dark knot of scar tissue where Aaron Jackson's bullet had torn through him. But her eyes didn't linger there—as if she was too overwhelmed by the rest of him.

"I assume you've studied the musculature of humans?" He allowed himself to flex a little as he reached for the buttons at the front of his trousers. Her throat worked, and she swallowed hard as he undid a single button. Very good. She was as affected as he was by the intimacy of this moment.

"I... yes. I've studied the human form and anatomy." Her gaze lowered to his chest as he moved cautiously toward her. "I've seen statues in museums, of course, and I once visited a mortuary and was able to witness an autopsy, but this is... different," she admitted as though baffled.

"You may touch me, Elise. I am no marble statue in a museum behind a velvet rope. Explore me, study me however you desire."

Heat flashed in her brown eyes as he said desire, and he saw the effect it had on her. She intoxicated him on a level he didn't fully understand, but wanted to. He planned to study her just as she studied him until he discovered why she affected him like this. The only way he had ever learned about a woman was by taking one to bed. Of course, this woman was not going to fall into his arms like the others because?—

In a blur of movement, Elise stumbled. Prospero lunged, catching her an instant before she would have struck the edge of the nearby dresser. Her body became tense in his arms for a moment before she sighed with relief.

"Oh heavens, I'm never clumsy like that," she muttered.

Prospero stabilized her and made sure she could stand before he loosened his hold on her.

"I think your slipper caught on the edge of the rug." He nodded at the evidence of her single slipper overturned by the corner of the Oriental rug. She glanced over her shoulder, and Prospero was stuck by the singular beauty of her swanlike neck. He had heard men describe a woman's neck that way before, but he'd never understood until this moment what they meant. Her ivory skin had a hint of blush, and the column of her throat trailed down into an elegant shoulder, slightly exposed when her tea gown fell off it. He wanted to bury his face in her neck, kiss and nibble it until he left faint love marks upon her skin. Prospero wanted other men to see his love marks upon her body, the marks of him loving her and giving her pleasure, but he didn't say that. Not yet.

She turned to look up at him, as if finally realizing that she was leaning against him, her body pressed to his tight enough that he could feel the beaded points of her nipples rubbing against his chest. His rebellious little beauty wasn't wearing a corset. This woman was going to be the death of him, and he had known her for less than a day.

He cleared his throat, stepped back, and let her put her gown to rights and tuck up a few coils of hair that had come undone in her tumble. "So...," he began awkwardly. "Trousers." He had never been shy around a woman. He wasn't exactly shy now, but damned if he didn't feel odd removing his trousers before her and being studied like a breeding stud at Tattersall's.

"Trousers," she echoed as uncertainly as he had spoken. Their gazes met again, and he suddenly laughed at the absurdity of the situation.

"What?" she asked, confused.

"Usually when I'm stripping off my clothing, it's under rather different circumstances. Usually, the woman I'm with is undressing as well. I've never realized until now that there was a certain comfort in the act of mutual disrobing."

Again her cheeks flushed that perfect pink. "Oh..."

"Perhaps you ought to take notes?" Prospero reminded her. He bit his lip to hide a grin as she dove for her notebook. She made a show of sitting and taking notes. He was undoubtedly curious as to what she was writing about him, but he didn't dare ask her to share.

He removed his shoes and trousers until he was bare except for his smallclothes. He sat on the edge of the bed and waited. She glanced up, swallowed again, and then hastily scribbled more notes.

"I wish Cinna was here. She does better sketches than I do," Elise muttered to herself. But the room was quiet enough that he heard her.

"Cinna?" he prompted.

"Lady Cinna Belmont. My friend and fellow member of the society."

"I meant to ask during dinner, what exactly is this society of yours? Are you all naturalists, or...?"

"No. We are a society for women to learn about anything that interests them. The arts, mathematics, sciences, economics, politics. We have but one goal: to learn and share our knowledge with other women and to buck society's unfair restrictions on women."

"That's two goals," Prospero pointed out.

"In this society, they go hand in hand."

"Ah, that explains the rebellious part of your society's name."

Her eyes sharpened. "Do you disapprove?"

"Of women or of rebels?" he replied.

"Both."

He folded his arms over his bare chest. "I think, given my presence here, I rather approve of both."

"Perhaps you simply approve of my money?"

"Those other men who ran out of the interview suggest otherwise. With the amount you are offering, they should have stayed, but their own foolish sense of superiority prevented them from putting faith in your work as a naturalist."

"Most titled men don't approve of anything that challenges their social standing or their power."

"Those men fear that which is out of their control. It is a weakness, not a strength. Twelve years ago, I might have become a man like that, had fate not intervened. We shall never know." He honestly didn't know what his younger self would have become. He only knew that boy was gone and the man he was now, the man with blood and death upon his hands, had walked away from trying to control his life or the lives of others.

Her eyes softened a little. "Is it true you lived with widows as a companion to... to..."

His lips twitched. "To get by? Yes, how did you know about that?" It was oddly amusing to see that his situation did fluster her a little. There was a woman beneath the naturalist, and he was fascinated by both elements of her.

"I confess, before your interview, I did ask around a bit, and was aware of the duel and its outcome. I pretended I was not aware of it during our meeting since I wanted to see how you would explain it to me. But as I said the incident doesn't matter to me, but I do prefer to be prepared with information."

"I can't fault you for doing your research. I would've done the same in your place." He didn't say anything more about the widows, however. He didn't want her to realize that he was no different from the ladies of the night in Whitechapel.

They fell into a moment of silence as she wrote a few more notes and looked up again.

"So, do you have any nightly rituals other than to shave?"

"Rituals?" He rolled the word around on his tongue for a moment. "I read a little, if I have access to something good. Otherwise, I suppose I just go to bed." He pulled back the bedclothes and climbed in. "Do you plan to stay here and watch me sleep?"

"Yes, I would like to observe you for a few hours." She made a show of settling into the chair once more.

"As you wish." He fluffed up the pillow and lay back on the bed, folding his arms behind his head. A single lamp lit in the room, and he would have no trouble sleeping despite the small bit of light.

The silence of night stretched on, marred only by the sound of her pen scratching against paper while she continued to write. At first he found it distracting, and he thought it would be impossible to fall asleep to it. But after a while, he felt a gentle calmness descend on him. He blinked once, twice, and as it sometimes happened, he fell into a dream almost instantly.

He was dancing at a ball, one years ago, before he'd fled to France, when he had still been twenty-two. Golden light bathed the doors around him, and he found himself grinning as he spotted the faces of old friends in the crowd.

"Nicholas!" he called, but his friend did not turn his way. More people failed to respond to him when he called their names. They swirled around and danced as his shouts continued to go unheard. Suddenly, a young woman slipped through the crowd and approached him.

Miss Jackson?

"Hello, Prospero," she purred and batted her lashes. "I'm so glad you came back." She leaned against his arm, her body strikingly cold against his own. "I've been waiting for you."

He turned to look more deeply into her eyes and saw a glint of darkness in their depths. She hissed like a viper. "Never forget that I own you..."

He bolted upright in bed with a gasp, specters of his past fading into the shadows of the room. For a moment, he didn't remember where he was. The bed was too lush, the room too warm to be his chilly flat in Paris.

He dragged his hands over his face, rubbing at his eyes as his body felt bone-weary. The remnants of his dream—no, nightmare—still lingered at the edges of his vision like vaporous ghosts. He hadn't had that dream in years, but being back in England had unearthed all sorts of old pains and fears.

Prospero glanced about and saw someone fast asleep in a chair close to the bed.

Elise Hamblin, the little naturalist. Of course. It all came rushing back: the interview, the dinner, the undressing. He needed a glass of scotch to drown his embarrassment as well as his desire for this woman. Prospero's gaze roved over her. Her notebook had fallen to the floor, and her pen dangled from her limp fingers as she lay sleeping in what had to be a most uncomfortable position.

Prospero quietly slipped out of bed. He removed her pen and set it down on the table, then carefully lifted Elise into his arms and laid her on the bed. He then removed her slippers and tucked the blankets up to her chin. She murmured something too quiet for him to hear and then rolled onto her side to face him, but she didn't wake.

Filled with an unexpected well of tenderness, he brushed her hair back and bent, pressed his lips to her forehead in a gentle kiss. She moved a little, her hand suddenly catching his fingers as he started to pull away. He froze for a moment, startled by the simple yet powerful connection as she clung to him. He held on to her hand, feeling a thread of some invisible spell binding him to this woman. Her grip finally loosened, and her hand dropped back to the bed.

He almost reached down to reclaim her hand but pulled back at the last second. Instead, he tucked the sheets around that hand to keep it warm. Then he turned to retrieve her notebook from the floor. With a careful glance over his shoulder to make sure she had not woken up, he studied the notes she had made.

This noble rogue has many qualities that lend to his natural likability. Naturally, attractiveness matters, but good looks without something more to offer would fail to attract quality females. No, this smarter rogue has developed skills like listening aptly to a female whilst in discussion and acting respectably when around females, at least outside the bedroom. More study is required as to a rogue's behavior once he is in private with a female.

Beneath these words was a sketch of a pair of piercing clear eyes and a slant of dark brows. His eyes. She thought she couldn't sketch? Her skill was quite evident because it felt like he was looking in a mirror.

Under the drawing of his eyes, she had written the words "thrilling, captivating, bewitching." Then she'd added the hasty comment: "Windows to one's soul?" She had underlined her own question as though debating with herself about the matter. His lips twitched as he considered the existential question of whether one's eyes were, in fact, the window to one's soul. He believed they were. He wished he possessed the same natural talent to draw, because he would have sketched her eyes beneath his own.

Eyes were indeed the most important feature in a person. Eyes did not age. Perhaps that was what he loved most, to know that if he was ever blessed to fall in love, he would have the gift of growing old and gazing into the unchanging eyes of the woman he loved. The face around the eyes might become painted with lines from living, but the eyes themselves would never age.

He turned his attention back to the woman asleep in the bed. The thread connecting him to this puzzling, fascinating creature only deepened.

"Good night, my rebellious little naturalist." He closed the cover of her notebook and smiled before he settled in the chair to sleep.

* * *

Celine Perkins studied the cards in her hands, and with a sweet smile of victory, she placed them down on the green baize gambling table. The man she played against groaned in defeat.

"Mrs. Perkins wins again," one man muttered.

Celine leaned forward and collected her winnings with glee. She was tucking the much-needed money into her purse when she spotted her elder brother, Adam Jackson, entering the gambling den. He spotted her, storm clouds brewing on his face. That didn't bode well for her. Ever since she'd married Charles Perkins, a man twenty years her senior, she'd done her level best to avoid her eldest brother and his cruelty. When her husband had died from a weak heart, she found herself once more under her brother's power. She bid her partners a good night and quickly tried to move past her brother. He caught her arm and dragged her into an alcove.

"Adam, what?—?"

His eyes were as dark and burning as hot coals. "You'll never guess who is back in London."

"Who?" she asked in trepidation.

"Harrington. Of course, now he's the damned Earl of March."

Celine's lips parted in shock. "Prospero's returned?"

"Yes, and I mean to have my revenge upon him," her elder brother growled. "Harrington won't walk away from me, not after what he did to Aaron."

"Oh please, let it go, Adam, let him be," Celine pleaded. "He is not worth it. Besides, I've been married for years now."

"And now widowed. Don't forget, he killed our brother, Celine. You may not care, but I do."

Between her two brothers, Aaron had been her favorite, but he was gone. Adam, the eldest of the three, had a frightening temper. It was one of the reasons she'd been so quick to marry and escape a household where he could hurt her whenever an ill mood took him. Now he had forced himself back into her life, and all those old fears had returned.

"Please, Adam." She tugged on his arm again. "Let it be. I want to forget, to move on from the hurts of the past."

Her brother sneered down at her. "You made a mess by chasing Harrington after he got you with child, and Aaron got himself killed over it. So you will help me by bringing Harrington down, or I swear to God I shall not give you a moment's peace. Not one."

She didn't dare tell him the truth, that the child wasn't Prospero's. It could have been a dozen other men. She'd been so desperate to get away from her family, and being with child was the only way she had felt she could manage it.

Prospero had never done more than steal a kiss once when she had been a debutante. She'd pointed the finger at him as the father in the hopes he would be kind enough to come to her rescue and marry her. But he'd refused because he didn't love her, and he'd vowed to marry only for love. Aaron hadn't believed him and had challenged him to a duel.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Find his weakness. I want to hurt him, to wound him so deeply he'll feel he can't breathe. Once he's dying inside, I'll put a bullet through his heart."

Celine shuddered. Prospero didn't deserve any of this. Her actions had gotten her brother killed and nearly killed Prospero as well. Now it was happening again, and she feared Prospero wouldn't survive her family's wrath a second time.

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