Proof by Seduction

by Courtney Milan

  That was what he deserved, he supposed, for playing truant from the estate work that should have taken up the bulk of his afternoon. But Madame Esmerelda’s task, assigned late the previous evening, had tied his mind in knots.

  It had not taken him long to figure out how to sing without humiliation. But the subject matter…

  “Good things about Ned,” he’d labeled the mostly blank page. And then he’d numbered one through fifteen down the side of the page. It was precisely the method he’d employed earlier that day, when he’d labeled a page “Possible Explanations for Swallow Migration (Taking into Account Known Patterns).” Except he hadn’t stared at that page for half an hour without the slightest inkling of how to proceed. He’d filled that sheet of paper in minutes.

  Things that were good about Ned. Hmm. It would have been much easier, and more satisfying, to sing a song about things that were wrong—desperately wrong—with Madame Esmerelda.

  Across from Gareth, his man of business quietly and efficiently sorted through correspondence. William White was young for his position—scarcely older than Gareth—but intelligent and well-versed in modern innovations. His dark hair had been clipped close to his head. He bent over the desk industriously. No doubt he imagined Gareth was addressing matters of similar gravity. Gareth had no desire to disillusion the man.

  Two tasks left. He didn’t have to complete them; he could walk away at any time. But if he did, Ned would continue to consult the woman, and worse—if he gave up, she would win.

  He couldn’t let her do that. He just had to start writing.

  Ned is not so bad to see.

  There. A first line. It had a nice trochaic meter to it, if he did say so himself. It wasn’t, perhaps, the greatest compliment one man had ever delivered to another, but he wasn’t about to wax rhapsodic over Ned’s curly brown locks. Gareth had a certain amount of dignity to maintain, after all.

  Now all he needed was a rhyme.

  Ned is not so bad to see.

  That’s because he looks like me.

  It wasn’t quite true, of course; Ned had a few years yet to grow into the breadth of Gareth’s shoulders. But it rhymed and had meter. And it was a compliment.

  The only problem Gareth saw—well, perhaps not the only problem, but at least one major one—was that when Madame Esmerelda said to write his cousin an ode, she hadn’t intended Gareth to identify all the ways he and his cousin were similar. She demanded he turn Ned to gold. Transmuting Ned into Gareth would be unlikely to pass muster, and the thought of being forced to repeat the song horrified him.

  Reluctantly, Gareth crumpled the sheet of paper in front of him.

  “White.”

  His man of business looked up, his pen arrested mid-dip in the inkwell. “My lord?”

  Tell me all the good things about my cousin.

  No. That would be cheating. He’d carved his own elephant. By God, he’d write his own ode to Ned.

  “What rhymes with ‘trusting’?” he asked.

  The ever-efficient White didn’t even need a moment to think. “Lusting. Disgusting.”

  Gareth took another leaf of paper from his drawer and began to write.

  My cousin Ned is not disgusting.

  Even if he is too trusting.

  Also not the most complimentary of couplets. Gareth gritted his teeth and crumpled this second piece of paper.

  “My lord.” White’s tone was cautious, undoubtedly chosen to keep carefully within the bounds of his station. “Are you writing a poem?”

  “No.” Gareth scowled at the desk in front of him.

  First, he wasn’t writing it. He was failing to write it. Second, it was an ode rather than a poem. And third, even if he were writing a poem, he saw no point in letting the man know. Because if he shared one irrelevant detail with his staff, they would expect others. Pretty soon, Gareth would be nattering on about all sorts of things.

  Like the fact that he was writing the ode to his ridiculous cousin. And soon he’d whine that he had been coerced into writing it by the most annoying woman ever to walk the face of the planet.

  And the last thing he wanted to discuss with his man of business was Madame Esmerelda. Because after he’d raved about how impossible she was, he might add that when she’d left his carriage the previous night, he’d been too struck by that sudden mischievous grin on her face to do anything but imagine her in the gown she should have chosen, shoulders exposed to his touch, skirts puffed out by multiple layers that he could remove one by one to reveal petal-smooth skin…

  White still watched him, interest sparkling in his eyes.

  For one stupid second, Gareth thought about telling the man everything. The thought of confiding in him—a servant, a lesser man—sent shivers down his spine. He silently damned Madame Esmerelda again. “I am not writing a poem,” Gareth said stiffly.

  “As you say, my lord.” White turned back to his work.

  His oppressive tone had worked. It always did. The last thing he needed was to start seeing unasked-for good in those around him. He liked being solitary. He liked not confiding in anyone. And damn it, he had no desire to change.

  THE LIVERIED FOOTMAN—or footboy, Jenny supposed she should call him—delivered the message to Jenny’s door just before ten in the morning. For a moment, she hoped it came from one of her regular clients, expecting to schedule an appointment to see her. There were several she hadn’t seen in months, and she wondered how one client in particular, a shy, unassuming woman named Mrs. Sevin, had fared with her husband.

  But the words were written in a precise hand that could only have belonged to Lord Blakely.

  Have finished ode. Musicale tomorrow at 7 PM. You will attend. -B.

  He assumed she was his to command. What if she had made an appointment for that time? Jenny wished she had, so that she’d be able to prove that she had a life separate from his, that she existed for a reason besides satisfying his whims.

  The note was accompanied by a bulky brown package tied with heavy twine. The boy—really, he couldn’t have been any older than seventeen—pushed the bundle at her. An errant hank of blond hair had escaped from under the boy’s white wig. He tried to look composed. But no matter how stiff and straight he held his spine, he could not hide the fact that his red velvet uniform was much the worse from traversing the streets. Dots of muck—possibly manure—flecked the tails of his coat. He still cut a finer figure than Jenny.

  She took the package. Harsh bits of twine cut her fingers as she pulled at the hard knots, and the paper crinkled, creased, and finally gave way. The package contained a gown. And some other things—silk stockings and heeled shoes and a proper corset. The dress was carefully folded, but Jenny could already see it would pose a problem. It was a complicated gown, with tapes and laces and gold-colored piping outlining seams between red-and-cream stripes.

  She sighed. Lord Blakely was generally observant and reasonably intelligent. What had happened?

  “Is there to be a reply? His lordship told me I was to bring any such back.” The boy was too well-trained to fidget. Instead, he stood unusually still, his back held in a rigid posture of attention that would have suited a sergeant better than a seventeen-year-old.

  Jenny flipped the note over and scrawled her response on the back.

  Unfortunately, I cannot wear this dress. Enjoy your evening. Yrs, etc.

  She handed the note—and the package—back to the servant.

  He gave an undignified gulp and shook his head. “But that’s for you.”

  Jenny shook her head. “Not anymore, it isn’t. Now it’s for Lord Blakely. Do you think he’ll look well in it?”

  Those well-trained eyes blanked in evasive consternation.

  “No, you’re right,” Jenny said. “The gown’s too short for him.”

  Boyishly puffy cheeks swelled in affront. The idea of laughing at Lord Blakely strained his mental abilities. Jenny sighed. Apparently, Lord Blakely’s predisposition toward dour looks was not an inherited
condition. He spread it like some unhealthy contagion.

  “Return it,” she said. “I’m not keeping it, and he’ll want to know.” She gave him a smile to soften the blow. Perhaps those could be contagious, too.

  But the boy didn’t respond with a similar expression. Instead, he gave her a brisk, businesslike nod and set off at a lope.

  It was nearly an hour before the footboy returned. His livery had lost any hint of crispness in the streets. His boots were covered in mud, clear up to his calves, and the red-and-gold coat was damp and dripping from the pervasive fog. And he was still carrying that brown package, much worse for the journey. A second note was tucked on top.

  He thrust his armload at Jenny. She took it and plucked the piece of paper from where it had been secured under the twine.

  Irrational. Unethical. Really, Madame Esmerelda, there’s no need to add “tedious” to your many sins. -B.

  Tedious? Well. If there was anything more tedious than conducting this exchange via drooping delivery boy, Jenny couldn’t think of it. She pushed the wrapped gown back at the boy, but he raised his hands and stepped back.

  “No, ma’am. I’m not to take it back. His lordship said so. He also said I was to tell you there would be no further debate, and he’ll accept your thanks along with your agreement.”

  Jenny tapped her foot. Clearly Lord Blakely thought she was engaging in recalcitrance for the sake of recalcitrance. It wasn’t a poor guess on his part; it just wasn’t true in this particular instance. Well. She was not expecting clients to come by until the next morning.

  If his servant wouldn’t tote the dress back, Jenny had little choice. Lord Blakely had no one to blame but himself.

  “Will you wait for my reply?” Jenny asked.

  He nodded, and Jenny dashed into action. She donned half boots and grabbed a heavy shawl and a bonnet. The footman bit his lip in growing trepidation.

  “Right,” Jenny said, hefting the package into her arms. “I’m ready.”

  “Um.” The boy scuffed his boots against her floor.

  “Well? Lead on.”

  “But—”

  “None of that, now. He told you to bring the reply. The reply is me. He’ll fume if he doesn’t hear what I have to say.”

  His gaze flicked up and down, from her head to toe. Even in his soiled state, he still looked grander than Jenny in her faded clothing. “He’ll fume if he does,” he finally said.

  “Yes, but he’ll fume at me.”

  That argument apparently carried the day. He shook his head, straightened his wig, and set off down the street at a brisk pace. Jenny followed. As the journey went on, the streets became cleaner and the houses larger. By the time they reached Mayfair, the rows of stolid houses rose over her head like a military encampment, heavy stone walls stretching up past the tops of the trees. Flowers bloomed. The squares were carefully curried: bushes trimmed to exacting geometric shapes, bits of lawn clipped to perfect smoothness.

  The people they passed on the streets no doubt took Jenny for some kind of a delivery girl. Their eyes slipped right past her, as if she didn’t exist. After all, she carried a heavy package, and the washed-out pattern of her unfashionable skirts proclaimed her a member of the servant class.

  Jenny felt increasingly out of place. The hem of her skirt was muddied, and her sturdy blouse was cut from heavy material designed to last for years. Its color had dulled to a nondescript gray.

  That feeling of bone-deep dinginess only intensified as the footboy darted alongside a tall mausoleum of gray-streaked stone. She ducked after him, down a set of stairs and through the servants’ entrance. They entered an unaccountably clean pantry, its shelves stocked with dry goods. Two maids in the doorway took one look at Jenny and fell to squawking. They waved their arms and directed her to a corner of the kitchen where she was instructed to remove her muddy boots. As she undid the laces, a heated conference developed in the corner. A dour-faced butler appeared. He was gesticulating at a matronly housekeeper. Neither smiled. There was talk from the butler of his high-and-mighty lordship, who must not be disturbed at any cost. The poor master was working, agreed the housekeeper, and if he didn’t take time to eat—

  They weren’t debating whether to let her upstairs to face Lord Blakely’s wrath. They were wondering whether to throw her out now, or let her clean up and warm by the fire first.

  Jenny set her muddy boots in the corner. Thankfully, it hadn’t been so wet that her stockings were damp. They were still clean and serviceable. She had nothing to be ashamed of. She drew herself up, channeling Madame Esmerelda’s outward poise. There was no reason to be intimidated by this household, caught as it was in the contagious grip of a bad case of Lord Blakely’s grims.

  Well, no reason other than the crisp starch of the scullery maids’ uniforms. And the gleam of scrubbed copper pots. And the wide, warm kitchen, larger than her rooms put together and trebled, smelling of the sort of savory things Jenny had only read about in books.

  The poor footboy had been pulled into the argument. He did not hunch; that would have been poor posture. But he did bend enough to look unhappy.

  Jenny glanced across the room and spotted a narrow servants’ staircase. Somewhere above her, Lord Blakely prowled. Her skin pricked at the thought of him pacing in some room above her head, unaware how near she was. How would he react? Badly, she supposed. How far away was he? If she knew him at all, she’d wager he had a study tucked at the back of the house, away from all the noise and bother of the street. Undoubtedly, he’d also receive men of business there. The first floor would be most convenient for that.

  Jenny sauntered carefully across the room, hugging the bulky package to her chest. If anyone asked, she would say she planned to set it on one of those wide counters. She stopped, pretending to ogle her distorted reflection in the side of one of the copper pots. Nobody paid her any mind. She was as invisible now as she’d been on the streets of Mayfair.

  Good.

  She very carefully didn’t look at the stairs until she stood at the bottom. Then, before anyone could stop her, she pounded up them and out the scullery door.

  Shouts erupted behind her.

  She threw open another door across the way before anyone could follow her.

  The hallway she entered was part of the family quarters. Landscapes hung in polished, pristine wood frames, showing idyllic scenes of a countryside Jenny had never known. Her stockinged feet sank into a rich, thick carpet. To the right lay the entry, where two additional liveried footmen turned to face her. Jenny turned left and dashed to the back of the house. She opened one door. There was a large rectangular dining table, the sort that could seat an entire legion of soldiers. She swiveled and faced one last door. Her heart pounded from exertion, and her breath burned in her lungs. It was this, or nothing.

  The handle turned smoothly.

  Jenny’s vision swam. In front of her were books. Books. Books. Books—and Blakely. Light from the fire glinted off his tawny hair. Here in his study he seemed relaxed, almost boyish. He looked very different from the cold man who’d last confronted her. The lines of his face were freed from some subtle tension and his lips were parted. Something inside her chest froze painfully at the sight. She had a sudden vision of the marquess hiding behind a solid facade of arrogance every time he went in society.

  She could not shake the feeling that this man, stripped of the cold shell that surrounded him, was the true Lord Blakely.

  He was seated at a heavy desk, paper piled in front of him. Paper on the table; on the chairs. Even stacked neatly on the floor. He scratched intently away with a dip pen. He didn’t look up at her entrance. Instead his hand moved protectively over the documents before him as they rustled in the draft of the door’s opening. She slipped inside and shut the door.

  “Well,” came that precise drawl, “did she send a reply? And what had she to say for herself?” Still he did not look up.

  Jenny stepped forward, clutching the paper package.


  “She says, I can’t wear this dress.”

  That brought his head up, his eyes widening in shock. For one instant, his mouth opened in a near welcome. Then that protective armor slammed into place. His spine stiffened.

  If she had any sense, she would have been intimidated. But he wasn’t looking through her. He didn’t see a delivery girl, no matter how faded the color of Jenny’s blouse. His lips parted, almost in welcome; his gaze took her in from muddied skirts on up. He focused on her with almost savage intensity. Intensity, Jenny could handle. It was indifference that would have sunk her. She tossed the parcel on his desk. Papers scattered.

  He grabbed for them. “You! You can’t come in here.”

  “Why not? After all, you invaded my rooms without invitation the other night.”

  “That was different. I—”

  “Oh, yes. It was different. It was different because you are six inches taller than me, three stone heavier and twice as strong. And I was all alone, whereas you are surrounded by staff who will no doubt pour through that door in a matter of seconds, ready to send me away.”

  He set his pen down.

  Jenny took off her shawl and looped it over a stack of books. His eyes dropped to her damp blouse. The garment clung to her breasts. His gaze rested there, an almost palpable touch against her hardening nipples.

  “No, my lord, when you say it is different, you mean that you are Lord Blakely and I am nobody.”

  “Quite.” Ice and steel in his tone, belied by that gaze, still fixed on her bosom. There was a hint of his former vulnerability in that look, a youthfulness that he had not managed to dispel.

  She wanted to crack the solid casing that surrounded him. And now, he’d shown her how to do it.

  Jenny lifted one foot and set her toes on the edge of a chair. The motion pulled her skirt just above her ankle, and his gaze traveled to her foot and arrested on that hint of stocking-clad limb. His mouth opened and he leaned forward.