Proof by Seduction (Carhart #1)

“Look at him.” Ned leaned against the wall easily. “Can you imagine him falling in love without a little prodding from someone like me? He’s so scientific and cold and rational. He needs me. Why would any woman want him?”


In the silent seconds that followed, Ned realized precisely why these moments of too-bright clarity seemed so familiar. He’d reached the apogee again. Twice before, he’d experienced this crystalline sense of over-reaching. It heralded an inevitable loss of control, and a descent into darkness.

Ned knew. He’d fallen before.

But Madame Esmerelda had broken that cycle of dark following light. She’d promised he could live without fear of that downward spiral. She’d told him he was not mad, and for two perfect, brilliant years, she’d been right.

And here he was, fouling everything up again.

“Why would any woman want your cousin?” Lady Kathleen echoed Ned’s last words with a shake of her head. She glanced again down the hallway, and sighed. “Don’t match me for his sake. But if you want to talk with me…” Her voice trailed off and she looked up at him, a hint of inexplicable wistfulness washing over her features.

He shook his head in confusion, and she pointed a finger behind him, directing him back toward the music room. Faint strains of applause drifted down the hall.

“Just go,” she said.

Ned went.

GARETH ESCAPED out the open doors of the music hall onto the veranda. After the thirteenth polite inquiry into the singing styles of countries of South America—excessively larded with exuberant compliments that could not possibly have been sincere—he needed fresh air. He gulped it in.

Of course, the air was only London-fresh. At least it wasn’t perfumed with the bouquet of packed bodies. But the word that came to mind instead of fresh was heavy. Night brought thick fogs, barely pierced by dim blurs of gas lighting. Every lungful of air he took in was moist enough that he might well have been some kind of amphibious salamander. That extra moisture carried all the fragrances of London. Wet soil from the small back garden he’d escaped to. The scent of unfurling buds and mulching leaves. Green smells; nature smells. They didn’t mask the underlying stink of London: particles of coal suspended in vapor and—even in this fine neighborhood—the distant smell of sewage.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized he was not alone. Madame Esmerelda sat on the edge of a cold granite bench, her back straight and her arms, stiff as ramrods, supporting her. She looked up into the night sky. The dense mist rendered it as impenetrable as a slab of slate. There were neither stars nor moon. She hadn’t seen him yet.

He took the opportunity to look her over, in a more leisurely fashion than he’d dared earlier. She looked respectable in the cream-and-red-striped dress he’d chosen. And with her hair dressed by the maid he’d had sent over from the agency, she fit in this crowd seamlessly. The cut of the gown accentuated her bosom and waist. A shame that it hid all hint of her hips. And her ankles.

He’d dreamed of touching those delicately boned ankles last night, of sliding his hand up those limbs again. In his dream, she hadn’t pulled away.

Through the French windows behind him, light leaked out. Long shadows crisscrossed the terrace. He followed those dark lines, treading as silently as he could. But he could not muffle the sound of leather striking the paving stones. Her head turned toward him in startled surprise.

“Hiding?” he asked.

She met his gaze, then looked away. “Now we are equal.”

“Equal?” Thoughts of revolutionary Frenchmen danced through Gareth’s head. Liberté, egalité, and all that tripe. “Nonsense.”

“I tied you up,” she explained. “Now you’ve had your revenge on me by trussing me into this bloody corset. I can’t even take a proper deep breath.”

Gareth let out a covert exhalation. She was keeping track in their curious little competition. Of course. She’d not meant anything else by the comment.

“You’ll get used to it.”

“Why would I want to? I do not believe I wish to play Mrs. Margaret Barnard any longer.”

“Not even for this scintillating company?”

She smiled at his dry words. “I was asked if I wished to be invited to a meeting of the Ladies’ Beneficial Tea Society. Apparently, the attendees embroider handkerchiefs for future dissemination. The aim is to increase hygienic practices among the deserving poor.”

“You are not fond of charitable causes? Or do you disapprove of hygiene?”

“I think that those embroidered handkerchiefs are likely hawked by their recipients within minutes of their distribution. What a colossal waste of time. Do any of these ladies enjoy their roles?”

“No. Nor the men.”

Gareth spoke absently, but she tilted her head.