Your Darkest Dream (Blackwood & Friends #2)

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

"I know what you are doing, Blanche."

She repressed a grin and slowly straightened from the waist. Previously, she had accidentally dropped the short leaden bar that she had been holding in one hand, turned so that she presented her bottom to him, and with as much deliberation as possible, bent over to retrieve it. "You do?" She blinked at Nate innocently.

He merely raised an eyebrow but there was an amused look in his eyes.

They were in one of the lesser used parlour rooms of the manor house that was situated in the eastern wing. This one was sparsely decorated in muted yellow tones with matching lined wallpaper and dusty drapes that were pulled back from the bay windows, outside the storm continued unabated. At her mother's insistence, the doors were kept open while Nate routinely and methodically drilled her on how to throw a right hook then a left hook. The wooden furniture- chairs, settees and tables- were all pushed away from the centre of the room, allowing them enough space to manoeuvre in tight circles. On occasion, Kathleen would stick her head around the door to check in on her daughter. Not Nate, oh no. Kathleen was not worried about the muscular man helping her daughter improve her self-defence. The looks Blanche's mother had been giving as she stuck her matronly head around the door from time to time were particularly quelling and particularly directed at her daughter in warning.

Granted, in this case, Lady Blackwood's concerns were founded.

Blanche was presently trying her best to drive Nathaniel Southill mad with lust.

Was it working? Partly. The man had an astounding level of self-imposed self-control. He stood leaning against the wall beside the door that was open, his arms casually folded across his broad chest, and Blanche half suspected he was standing there as a means of self-preservation.

"I do not have any idea what you could mean," she told him as she lifted the heavy bar in her arm. She held two, one in each hand. They were weighted, he explained, to strengthen her arms and for the last thirty minutes she had been jabbing, hooking and moving with them. It was hell. Her arms were straining and trembling like gelatin and her body was pouring with perspiration.

She supposed she hardly looked like someone who could successfully seduce a man, but if the closeness she had been sharing with him over the last day or so was anything to go by, she figured she could look like a bedraggled horsefly and Nate would still kiss her with the longing of a man who seemed like he wanted to consume her. It was not as if she were expecting him to propose to her, certainly not. But she was devastated by each of his kisses, and she wanted more.

After everything she had been through, Blanche didn't care if she married or not. If the man who was to be her husband was not Nathaniel Southill, she didn't want a husband. And that is simply what it came down to- if Nate wouldn't marry her for whatever reason he was harbouring, she was not going to force his hand. However, she wouldn't deny herself the opportunity of experiencing what it would be like to have him as her lover. She would march into her awaiting spinsterhood with a secret that would light her wayward fantasies well into her old age.

If only he would let her.

She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her arm, her chest heaving from exertion. After returning to the manor house, she had changed from her saturated attire into a plain white frock and unfortunately that also meant a corset once more. Nate had also changed and he was sporting a fresh shirt and dark brocaded waistcoat that hung open and loose, hair slicked back into his queue at the nape of his neck as usual.

"You know exactly what you are doing," he said quietly, notching his chin down. "Hands up."

"Is it working at least?" Blanche asked, lifting her trembling wrists once more to her face. She had used every opportunity to avail from him a touch, a look of sultry promise, brushing up against him when she did not need to, bending over deeply to afford him a view of her cleavage- though this was largely ineffective as it was very conservatively covered by the neckline of the gown she was wearing- however his gaze had hardened when she bent the other way. Clearly Mr Southill held a particular fondness for her derriere. Lest she be the one to deny him, she utilized this knowledge to the best of her advantage.