Proof by Seduction (Carhart #1)

Ware’s eyes drilled into Ned’s sternum. His mouth set. Ned wanted to hide, but he made himself stand straight and return the look.

Finally, the duke stood and walked to the door, his legs stiff. He threw it open. On the other side leaned Lady Kathleen, her hand cupped where the door had been.

She stiffened into a guilty curtsy. “Papa. Mr. Carhart.”

Ned bowed. “Lady Kathleen,” he said. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Well, poppet,” Ware said with a sigh. “Shall I slay him?”

The angelic Kathleen shook her head. The light caught her hair in a fine nimbus, almost like a halo. “No, Papa.”

Ware deflated. “I was afraid you would say that.”

“Not in the parlor,” she added. “Blood stains so.”

“So it does. So it does. I suppose you’ll talk to him, then?”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to.”

Ware jerked with his thumb. “Call out if he annoys you. I’ll come in and gut him with the poker.”

Ned’s gaze traveled to the fireplace where the implement rested. “But it’s not even remotely sharp!”

Ware smiled broadly and rubbed big, hairy hands together. “I know.”

Well. At least Ned could discard the worry that she’d turn him down because she feared he was mad. She was likely used to insanity. The door shut behind the duke, and Ned was left alone with Lady Kathleen. He knew what he needed to do. It should not have felt like such a hardship.

Right. He got down on one knee. She stepped back, her lips pressing together. Silence stretched.

“See here,” he finally said. “We had better get married.”

She winced and flattened herself against the wall. “A week ago, you sent me a letter, saying you wanted to speak with me alone. As a result of that letter, we were caught together in an improper situation, and you disappeared. It’s been seven days since last I saw you. What the devil have you been doing?”

Ned grimaced wryly and glanced across the room at her. Explanations flitted through his mind. He finally settled on a variant of the truth. “I’ve been afflicted by madness. It was only temporary.”

She shook her head. “This seems to be a common affliction in your family. Ought I be worried?” There was a hint of a smile on her lips; no doubt she thought he was joking again.

Ned thought of the darkness that came over him from time to time, robbing him of strength. And he thought of his own will. It seemed a slender reed to stand against that howling storm. “Yes,” he said solemnly. “You should.”

She shut her eyes. “Well. This is romantic. You don’t really want to marry me, do you?”

A marriage, Ned thought, ought to be composed of a great many qualities. Affection. Infatuation. Friendship. But he had nothing to offer her except one last quality: Honesty.

“No,” he said. “But then—do you really want to marry me, either?”

She was silent for a very long time. “I’m a duke’s daughter. I never expected to marry for love. I always expected to marry the heir to some great title—and here you are.” She looked at him through long lashes, and an uneasy roil built in his gut. “You make me laugh. You’re not puffed up with your own importance.” She glanced at the door. “You understand, I hope, that I’m my father’s only child, and I’ll be helping him with matters in the House of Lords. Will you interfere with that?”

“No.” He swallowed uncomfortably and looked away. “Lady Kathleen,” he finally said, “I don’t want you to expect too much from me. I am, after all—”

She interrupted this speech by reaching for his hand. Instead of taking it in her own, however, she shook it firmly—as if she were embarking on a business deal, not a betrothal. “You’ll do,” she said.

And like that, Ned was engaged.

GARETH HAD ARRIVED precisely at the appointed hour. Jenny was aware of his eyes flicking toward her throughout the drive. The sun shone brightly; birds chirped merrily. It was a day pulled out of an idyllic romanticist’s novel; a phaeton, a pair of smart-stepping horses and a handsome man. The world was sharp and crisp around the edges as their conveyance crossed Blackfriars Bridge.

But the handsome man wasn’t speaking words of adoration, and besides, she was going to have to leave him. What he did not say in words, he showed in gestures. She read his unease in every movement—the tight clamp his gloved hands kept on the reins, his monosyllabic responses. And always, always, the way he watched her. Warily, as if she wielded some mighty weapon.

Jenny could have wept.