She turned, slowly, and swallowed.
She’d prefer the lion. She’d rather sharp claws rip into her than feel this pain slam inside her once again. Just looking at Gareth, she remembered what he’d said. Who would think you my equal? Those hurtful words were still embedded in her, like bits of shrapnel no surgeon could remove.
Well, he didn’t look so superior now. What he looked was miserable.
And ridiculously handsome, his sandy brown hair tousled, his cravat askew. A blue bruise decorated his jaw. And there were his eyes—that startling golden brown. He could well have been a large predator, so intent was his gaze on her. She could have been his prey, so much did she want to give in to him.
“Ned,” Jenny said. “Ned is responsible for this. I will shake him.”
He winced. “I convinced Ned to give me one last chance. I know you won’t give me one—you have every reason to despise me. But—listen—just—” He broke off and fumbled in his pockets. He pulled out a sheet of crinkled paper and handed it to her. “There.”
Jenny smoothed out the crumpled wad. “What is this?”
“Title,” he said, “to what’s inside the barn.”
“I already told you, you can’t buy me.”
His eyes raised to hers. “I know,” he said softly. “There isn’t enough money in all the world. But I’m begging you to let me—let me—” He scowled and scuffed his feet.
Jenny’s stomach turned over very slowly. Her toes curled inside her slippers.
“Just go inside,” he whispered.
She crossed the cropped grass and pulled open the heavy door. It creaked and sent a cloud of dust, woody with a hint of mold, whooshing around her. When she stepped inside, the temperature of the air dropped ten degrees. The familiar odor of clean hay met her. But there was a smell unlike anything she’d ever experienced. A whiff of acidity touched her nose, followed by a sweet, warm scent. Lions?
No.
There were no heavy iron cages. But nor was the barn divided into efficient cow-size rectangles. Instead, all the barn was open; one giant hayrick lay in the middle. And there, next to that golden pile, placidly munching hay, it stood.
Large and gray. Floppy ears wiggled in languid pleasure, as its trunk leisurely brought another bite of hay into its ivory-tusked mouth. It rolled its eyes when Jenny entered, but made no further movements.
Jenny was shocked into silence. Gareth came up behind her. Her heart was racing, a faint pitter-patter.
“What,” Jenny asked steadily, “am I going to do with an elephant?”
“I don’t know,” said Gareth. “What are you planning to do with all my points?”
Points? It took Jenny a moment to remember what he was talking about. Points, when he smiled. She turned around slowly and put her hands on her hips.
“Your points? Those are my points. I earned them. You can’t have them.”
Gareth scowled and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Bollocks. I had to smile very hard for every single one of them. And if you don’t take this elephant and marry me, I swear to God you’ll never get another point again.”
Jenny’s world froze. Outside, she could hear the clear voice of a blackbird singing. It was overwhelmed by the ringing in her ears. She turned to Gareth slowly.
“What did you say?”
“I said, you’ll never earn another point again. I haven’t smiled since you left me, and I miss it.” He kicked at the ground, his eyes tracing the dust. “I miss you.”
“No, before that.”
“Take this elephant—”
“After.”
He looked up. That feral light shone in his eyes again, but this time the wild look was a plea. A lion yearning to be freed from its cage. “Take me.” His voice was thick and husky. “Please. Jenny. I’m begging you.”
She didn’t know what to say in answer. He’d shocked the words right out of her skin. She could only stare, as some frozen expanse inside her tingled to life. It hurt to want.
“I can’t take this elephant,” she said, focusing on the one part of what he’d said that she could understand. “Do you know how miserable this poor beast will be in winter? This is cruel.”
“She’s African,” Gareth said disjointedly. “From the bush. I was thinking maybe she could go back.”
“Back? Back where? Back how?”
“Back to Southern Africa. Perhaps this winter. The trip might take six months.” His voice took on a wistful quality. “I’ve always wanted to go. It’s supposed to be a lovely place. Especially for someone with theories on bird migration…” He shook his head and cleared his throat. “But.”
“But surely Lord Blakely could not abandon his estates for so long.”
“No. Lord Blakely could not. Not unless he had someone he could trust to run his estates in his absence. And Lord Blakely…Well, Lord Blakely did not trust anyone.”
“Lord Blakely is talking about himself in the third person, past tense,” Jenny said. “It’s disturbing.”
“Then let me switch to the first person plural. What Lord Blakely could not do, we can. I would not trust anyone else to manage my estates, not for the shortest space of time, because I thought I was better than everyone else. I was wrong. You see, Jenny, I need you. I need someone who will see the strength buried deep in the hearts of men. Someone who can tap into that strength. I need someone who can look at a man and move him to become more. I can’t do it alone.”
Jenny looked at the elephant. No thinking man would ever have purchased an elephant as a wedding gift. And yet there it stood. It flicked an ear at the two of them—likely elephant language for, go on, this dramatic performance is quite interesting.
There was only one possible conclusion. Gareth had stopped thinking. For the first time in a week, Jenny allowed herself to hope. Really hope. She reached out and brushed his cheek. It was stubbly beneath her fingers. God knows when last he’d shaved. Probably before he’d obtained that bruise.
“Gareth.”
“I haven’t arrived at second person yet,” he said quietly. “You. You. Always you. I love you, Jenny. When you left me, all the warmth went out of my world. When I said those horrible things, I didn’t realize then how much I needed you—how superior you were to me.”
Jenny’s heart gave a little flip.
“This entire country suffocated me, cold and dreary and monochromatic. Then I met you. And you spread color everywhere I looked—in every aspect of my life. You put texture in a flat world. Before I knew you, I despaired of ever seeing Brazil again. I can’t think of a single reason why you should stay with me, but you’re a great deal cleverer than I, and I’m hoping you can imagine something.”
Gareth set his gloved hands on her shoulders. His golden-warm eyes were covered with a sheen that looked suspiciously like moisture. Inches from his face, she could see reddish veins throughout his cornea. The haphazard stubble on his cheeks stood out, darker brown than his hair.
“Gareth,” Jenny asked, “when was the last time you slept?”
“I don’t know. Does it matter?”
“And you call yourself a rational man.”
He didn’t argue. Instead, his fingers on her shoulders tightened their grasp just the smallest fraction.
“I can give you one thing,” he said huskily. “One thing besides myself, that is. Nobody will ever look down on you again. Not with my title, nor with my protection. My grandfather taught me to fend off those sorts of attacks. Let me put them in your service now. Let me stand beside you.”
It was in that moment that Jenny realized he would not abandon her. Not ever.
“Gareth,” Jenny said imperiously, “give me your hand.”
He froze, his head half-turned away. “What?”
She didn’t bother to repeat the question. Instead, she took his wrist and stripped off the riding glove. His breath hissed in when her thumb traced the lines of his palm.
“You’re a stubborn man,” she said. “A rational man. You’re
excessively proud, damnably responsible and all too awkward.”
He hunched miserably under her analysis. “I can change.”
Jenny peered into his palm. “No.” She dismissed this with a sad shake of her head. “You won’t. Change is not what I’m seeing in the future.”
“I can try.”
“You won’t change,” Jenny said briskly, “because I love you the way you are.”
Shock filtered through his features, but Jenny wasn’t finished.
“Do you know what I see when I look at you, Gareth?”
He shook his head.
“I see a strong man. Honest, and good. Perhaps a little inflexible—but smart enough to know his limitations. Clever enough to pick a woman who will push him to be better. I see a man who makes mistakes, but is willing to admit them and work to better them. I see a man who was willing to put aside his own pride for his cousin’s sake. And for mine, just now.”
“What else do you see?”
She pulled his hand to her and set it on her waist. He leaned in, his fingers closing about her. Tugging her next to his heart.
“I see that I’ll say yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, I’ll take you. If you’ll take me.”
When his lips met hers, she could taste the smile on his face. He pulled her against him. And when, after a long, leisurely time, he raised his head, he laughed. For one eternal instant, Jenny had no label for the swelling rightness that filled her chest, no words to describe how she felt. But then the thought came.
Ah. So this is what home feels like.
Epilogue
IF THERE WAS ONE CONSTANT in the highest echelons of London society, it was the Marquess of Blakely. For nearly two centuries, Blakelys had been a constant edifice. They stood as bulwarks against change; the old guard, reminding younger rabble of the obligation of nobility. Nine generations of cold, chilly men had been counted on to depress the pretensions of those who overreached their stations.
And so, when the ninth marquess purchased an elephant on one day and announced he was married on the next, gossip flurried. Because he had not married the expected peer’s daughter. Nor had he married an heiress, which would have been titillating enough. So who had he married?
Nobody could quite figure out.
Oh, they knew what she looked like. She was a friendly woman with striking dark hair and a pleasant figure and an extremely bright smile. And they knew her married name—Jennifer Carhart, Marchioness of Blakely—but they knew nothing of her family or her fortune. It was a puzzle, because everyone knew that a Blakely simply could not have married anyone unsuitable.
Stories flew.
At first, some insisted that Blakely’s bride was the woman who’d been called Mrs. Margaret Barnard. But that woman had been in society so little, and those who had been closest to the woman—Blakely himself, as well as his cousin, his cousin’s wife, and his sister—insisted it was not so. And besides, Mrs. Barnard had been a distant connection of the Carharts, so distant that polite society hadn’t even bothered to remember her. Blakely would never have stooped to marry her. And that put paid to that guess.
The new Marchioness of Blakely busied herself in the planning of the much larger wedding of Blakely’s sister. High society, not wishing to be left out of the hubbub entirely, busied itself spinning theories.
Someone suggested she was a foreign princess from a tiny country south of the equator.
Someone else insisted she had the look of Gallic nobility, and was thus the last remaining scion of some family that had fled the Terror.
Yet another person claimed that the marchioness had once been a fortune-teller, capable of calling spirits from the ether and lightning from the skies.
By the day of his sister’s wedding, society had divided into bitter camps on the question. When the marquess and his marchioness disembarked from their carriage, outside the church where Miss Edmonton was to marry, they were the object of intense scrutiny. His lordship was impeccably turned out in burgundy velvet. Her ladyship wore a diamond pendant and a dress of blue water-shot silk. They looked at one another a great deal, and touched an unfashionable amount.
After the ceremony, the Countess of Lockhaven pushed through the crowd of the wedding breakfast. She caught Lord Blakely’s arm just as the man found his sister.
“Lord Blakely,” she simpered. “And Lady Blakely.”
Blakely looked down at the hand on his sleeve. His gaze traveled up her arm. That cold expression—for which Blakelys had so long been known—froze Lady Lockhaven.
“Well?”
Lady Lockhaven dropped her hand. “We were wondering if—well, if you could say something about…” In the hush that fell, everyone could hear her gulp. “About your lady’s birth? And her people?”
If Lord Blakely’s face had been cold before, it turned frigid now. He looked the countess disdainfully up and down. Everyone in the crowd suddenly remembered her mother had been a soap manufacturer’s daughter, married for her thousands of pounds. They remembered her husband’s first marriage had been to a country girl he eloped with, who’d had the good grace to die before she embarrassed the family by providing an heir.
“My wife’s birth?” He drawled the words insolently, and the crowd shivered as one. “A damned sight better than your own.”
That was the last time anyone asked the marquess about his wife’s origins.
Not solely because society feared his response. Rather, his conduct directly thereafter settled the debate for once and all.
After Blakely delivered that infamous and much-repeated set down, he transferred his gaze to the new Marchioness of Blakely.
She shook her head, once. Firmly. “Gareth,” she said dryly. “It is your sister’s wedding day. Behave.”
Silence. He’d lifted his chin, in typical Blakely arrogance. The crowd waited for the blast.
And then Lord Blakely shrugged and grinned helplessly.
Grinned. Helpless. A Blakely.
“Oh,” said his sister, from where she stood near him. “Is that how it’s done? I’ll have to practice that.”
Like that, everything society knew about nine generations of Blakelys went up in smoke.
Since that day, there had been no question. Lady Blakely had been granted otherworldly powers at birth. Every smile she coaxed from him, every laugh that she surprised from his lips, stood as testament to her arcane abilities.
And those that questioned her worth still had only to see the look in his eyes when he watched her to find all the proof they required.
About Proof by Seduction
Proof by Seduction is the first full-length book in the Carhart series. There’s also a companion novella about Gareth’s secretary, William White; this book is followed by Ned and Kate’s story. The whole series is:
½. This Wicked Gift (a companion novella to Proof by Seduction: William & Lavinia’s story)
1. Proof by Seduction (this book)
2. Trial by Desire (Ned & Kate’s story)
story)
You can also purchase the Carhart series as a boxed set.
Thank you!
Thanks for reading Seductive Starts. I hope you enjoyed all three of the works in this set.
• Would you like to know when my next book is available? You can sign up for my new release e-mail list at www.courtneymilan.com, follow me on twitter at @courtneymilan, or like my Facebook page at http://facebook.com/courtneymilanauthor.
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This book is distributed by Entangled Publishing. Entangled’s Scandalous line releases new historical romances every month. Visit http://www.entangledpublishing.com/category/scandalous/ to find out more, or click here to read an excerpt from Tempting Bella, an Entangled book by Diana Quincy.
If you’d like to skip directly to the enhanced content for either Unveiled or Proof by Seduction, click here.
The Duchess War
is the next full-length book in the Brothers Sinister series. If you’d like to read an excerpt from that book, please turn the page.
Excerpt: The Duchess War
Leicester, November, 1863
ROBERT BLAISDELL, THE NINTH DUKE OF CLERMONT, was not hiding.
True, he’d retreated to the upstairs library of the old Guildhall, far enough from the crowd below that the noise of the ensemble had faded to a distant rumble. True, nobody else was about. Also true: He stood behind thick curtains of blue-gray velvet, which shielded him from view. And he’d had to move the heavy davenport of brown-buttoned leather to get there.
But he’d done all that not to hide himself, but because—and this was a key point in his rather specious train of logic—in this centuries-old structure of plaster and timberwork, only one of the panes in the windows opened, and that happened to be the one secreted behind the sofa.
So here he stood, cigarillo in hand, the smoke trailing out into the chilly autumn air. He wasn’t hiding; it was simply a matter of preserving the aging books from fumes.
He might even have believed himself, if only he smoked.
Still, through the wavy panes of aging glass, he could make out the darkened stone of the church directly across the way. Lamplight cast unmoving shadows on the pavement below. A pile of handbills had once been stacked against the doors, but an autumn breeze had picked them up and scattered them down the street, driving them into puddles.
He was making a mess. A goddamned glorious mess. He smiled and tapped the end of his untouched cigarillo against the window opening, sending ashes twirling to the paving stones below.
The quiet creak of a door opening startled him. He turned from the window at the corresponding scritch of floorboards. Someone had come up the stairs and entered the adjoining room. The footsteps were light—a woman’s, perhaps, or a child’s. They were also curiously hesitant. Most people who made their way to the library in the midst of a musicale had a reason to do so. A clandestine meeting, perhaps, or a search for a missing family member.
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