Proof by Seduction (Carhart 1)

“Lady Kathleen.” Ned raised his hand against the rising tide of her ire. “My cousin—”

“Your cousin.” Her words were flat. “Stop hiding behind your cousin.” Her eyes glinted, gray ice against the furious flush of her cheeks. “You can’t really expect me to believe this is about him.”

Ned waved his hands in placation. “Look. I can explain. I needed to talk with you privately, because I just wanted to—to—”

To separate you from everyone else so I could trap you into marrying Blakely. Ned winced. There was no way to honestly complete his sentence. Talk about tossing fuel on the fire.

“You wanted to what?” Her hand rose slowly to touch her lips.

“You won’t believe this,” Ned said slowly, “but I wasn’t attempting any impropriety between us.”

Her brow clouded at that.

“I just—I just wanted to—to—” Ned gave up trying to come up with a favorable explanation for his behavior. It wasn’t possible. “I’m sorry.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. “I know I haven’t acted well. It’s just—you see, I’m in a bit of a bind. And—and—things are not going well for me right now.”

That was a bit of an understatement. As he spoke the words, Ned suddenly realized how Not Well things were going for him. He’d muddled everything up again. Black horror filled his mind at the thought. He really wasn’t good for anything.

Ned stuffed his handkerchief in his pocket. “Just forget it all. Understand?”

She looked at him in bafflement. “You know,” she said, “I was not serious earlier when I suggested you were mad. But—are you?”

Matters went from Not Well to Very Unwell.

“In fact, you look exceedingly ill.” She pulled off her glove and put one cool hand on Ned’s forehead.

At the touch of her bare fingers, Ned’s body responded. He was twenty-one, and only too human. And she was close enough that he could see down her neckline. He could trace the valley between her breasts with his eyes. He was humiliatingly, uncontrollably erect. He prayed she didn’t look down.

She didn’t. Instead, she frowned and moved her hand along his forehead. “You feel a little warm.”

Very Unwell slid into Please Let Me Die in the Next Minute. Ned was alone with a woman. He was aroused and embarrassed, and she was stripping off her clothing—well, her glove—and touching him. He was trying to compromise her into marrying another man. She feared he might be sick. Or mad. Probably both.

Ned knew all too well that her fears had some basis. On his darkest days, he worried he carried some species of madness. And to have this confident woman look at him in that pitying way…Matters couldn’t possibly sink any lower than they were now.

And then, of course, they did.

Ned heard the well-tuned snick of a door easing open. He didn’t even have time to give voice to the terrible, wordless scream that roared through his mind. In that bare instant, he only had time to grab her wrist; no time at all to push her away.

As he’d so carefully planned, there was no place for a trysting couple to hide.

Time froze. The door opened at what seemed a leisurely pace, swinging inward inch by deliberate inch. Ned couldn’t react; his nerves were made of wood, and his limbs of jelly. He could only watch, and wince at the cozy tableau they presented.

There was Lady Kathleen, her face warm and solicitous. Her glove had fallen to the floor. Her gown gaped, disordered, at the waist, where her untied sash dangled. Her bare hand rested against Ned’s face.

Ned had his hand atop hers, almost as if he were pulling her into an embrace.

And it was five minutes after eight. Please, he begged. Please let that be Blakely opening the door. Because if it were not, Ned would have succeeded in compromising Lady Kathleen.

The only problem was, she would have been compromised with the wrong man.

CHAPTER TEN

THE CHURCH BELLS HAD JUST SOUNDED half past seven when someone knocked. Jenny paused before the door, wondering whether she should open it. Her next appointment was tomorrow morning, and she had not yet decided how to handle her clients. With her room stripped of its lies and returned to boring functionality, what could she say?

She would have to find out sometime.

Jenny inched the door open. But no client of hers waited on the stoop.

“Look here,” Lord Blakely said, “I know you are about to slam this door on my nose. But please don’t.”

Jenny inhaled crisp evening air. Lord Blakely was disheveled in the most casually devastating way. He carried his cravat in his hand and had left his waistcoat unbuttoned. His hair was wind-tousled. The last light of the sun imparted a wild gleam to his eyes. Seductiveness wafted off him, and Jenny was reminded of the rough feel of his mouth against hers.

That memory burned through her. Even the air around him was charged with electric anticipation. From two feet away, she could smell his subtle, masculine musk, feel a hint of the heat from his body. An illusion, most likely, composed of lust and wistfu

l thinking on her part.

But she also remembered the cold disrespect he’d shown her the last time she faced him.

“You have one sentence to explain why I should hear you out.”

He accepted this with far better grace than Jenny expected. “Fair enough.” Lord Blakely glanced up into the air, his lips compressing. His eyes narrowed as he no doubt searched for the argument that would change her mind.

A kiss—a real one, a gentle one, unlike that travesty he’d forced on her two nights ago—might have done the trick. But eventually he shook his head.

“I can only think of lies,” he admitted with a sigh. “Really, you should slam the door. I would, if I were you.”

Jenny fiddled with the handle. “I’m feeling magnanimous tonight, my lord.”

He took a deep breath and stepped forward.

“You can have three sentences.”

At first, she thought that frozen look in his eyes was a warning not to make inappropriate jokes. But then miraculously, he smiled. It was a small smile, a bit rusty, as if his face was still unused to such expressions. But it was genuine. And this time, he didn’t stuff the expression behind stony arrogance. He didn’t turn away. He looked a bit less like an unkempt, untouchable Greek god, and a bit more like an extremely handsome and very touchable mortal.

Jenny’s breath caught.

It was just like him. Lord Blakely hadn’t needed any sentences after all.

He used them anyway.

He looked down and fingered the edge of his coat uncomfortably. “I am,” he said in a rush of words, “desperately sorry for my behavior the other night. What I did was unacceptable. You didn’t slap me nearly hard enough.”

Whatever Jenny had expected, it wasn’t that. Her mouth dropped open. “Why would you bother to apologize to me? I should have thought my feelings beneath your notice.”

“I’m not apologizing to you to assuage your feelings.” That icy outrage was more like the Lord Blakely Jenny remembered. “I’m apologizing to you because I damn well owe you an apology.” He nodded, as if that explained everything.