Proof by Seduction

by Courtney Milan

  No. The fifteen pounds she collected from the sale of this dress would be a temporary solution only. Quarterly rent on these rooms. Fifteen pounds would give her time to investigate her loss at the bank more closely, to see if anything could be done to recover her savings. She would be able to think through her options carefully, rationally. Find some position, somewhere, without need for panic. It would see her through the three coming months of summer. Three months of his touch…She could honestly expect no more. Dung beetles, not dogs.

  At the end, there would be enough left to take her away from London, if that’s what she decided.

  It wasn’t what she’d hoped for in her most secret dreams. But there was, after all, a reason she kept those foolish desires secret.

  FOUR DAYS of Jenny’s precious week elapsed. Three nights of Gareth’s touch. Four days spent walking the city. Reading advertisements. Trying to find some possibility for her future.

  She’d spent four days hoping without reason, and she still had no answer to the question that burned inside her: how could she stay Gareth’s lover without becoming his mistress?

  Her question was finally answered on the fourth evening. Gareth came to her rooms as he always did, at the point when the sun tinged the streets with red. He was dressed formally: black trousers and jacket, crisp white shirt and a yellow striped waistcoat with a silk cravat.

  “Are you going somewhere tonight?” she asked.

  He shrugged, more somber than usual. “Here. That’s all.”

  “And do you plan to attend the opera in these rooms?”

  “See here,” he said. “Just shut your eyes.”

  She did, and lifted her face, expecting a kiss. Instead, his hands brushed wisps of hair off her shoulders. He reached behind her. And then heavy, cold orbs tumbled against her collarbones.

  Her eyes snapped open as he hooked the clasp around her neck. She couldn’t see what he’d given her until she pulled the heavy stones away from her chest. Big sapphires, as thick as her thumb, linked together with intricately worked gold. The largest stone at the bottom twinkled a dark, clear blue where it hung in the valley between her breasts. The necklace dragged around her shoulders.

  The piece must have cost thousands of pounds.

  It felt like it weighed thousands of pounds.

  She fumbled at the clasp behind her neck. The hook eluded her.

  “Take it off me,” she said. She was trembling, unable to think.

  “You don’t like it.” He enunciated each word carefully, tasting them as if ascertaining that the wine had truly gone to vinegar.

  “Of course I like it. It’s beautiful.”

  But the neckline of her blouse was fraying. Against those gray threads, the sparkle of the stones seemed incongruous. She finally managed to unhook the necklace from about her neck. She dropped the messy tangle of jewels into his coat pocket. “I like it. But. Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  How could she explain? Don’t cheapen this. Don’t turn this into money.

  “Don’t pay me,” she finally whispered.

  Perhaps what she meant was don’t tempt me. Because she never again wanted to be the kept mistress of any man, let alone this one. The stones choked her, silently screaming that she was his purchased thing, to be discarded at the very moment she became inconvenient.

  He looked away. “It’s not money,” he finally said. “It’s jewels. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do in a circumstance like this? Buy you jewels?” His voice rumbled through her, dark and forbidding.

  “What kind of a circumstance do you think this is? I don’t want things.”

  A corner of his mouth turned down. “Damn. It’s all wrong again. I knew I should have asked White.” He looked at her. “Very well. I can’t give you furniture. I can’t give you jewels. Tell me, what am I allowed to give you?”

  If things were simple between them, she would take his coin and his necklace. But what then? It was a trap. As soon as she took them, he would begin to despise her. It would put him in a superior position. And what could she hope for then?

  Only that he continued to desire her even after he’d conquered. And that she could respect herself, when she’d let him reduce her to a pocketful of polished minerals.

  He tipped her chin up. “What do you want, Jenny?”

  She wanted him, arrogant, awkward creature that he was. But that wasn’t all.

  His eyes seared hers and Jenny thought of all the things she yearned for. Respect won for her own achievements. Independence. His love, free of entanglements. None of the answers seemed right as she tried them on the tip of her tongue.

  The word Jenny was looking for, she realized, was marriage. Oh, she didn’t mean the ecclesiastical joining of man and wife in Anglican ceremony; that would have been too much to hope for. But she wanted a union. The kind that ebbed and flowed with the ups and downs of life. One where gifts were intended as kindness, not as financial shackles, forcing one party to her knees in stultifying dependence.

  “Gareth.” Jenny choked on his name. “I’m not sure what I want. But I don’t want the kind of partnership where you buy my participation with cold stones.”

  “Is there another sort?” he asked quietly.

  “The sort where…” she started slowly, and then stopped.

  She wanted his respect. She wanted him to never look down on her again. She wanted him to cast those cold stones away, and she wanted this gulf between them—his title, her penury—to vanish like so much smoke into windy air. But the thought of depending on him shook her. She couldn’t depend on him, because he would leave.

  And that was how Jenny discovered the answer to her question. How could she remain Gareth’s lover without becoming his mistress?

  She couldn’t.

  The only question was whether this affair would end in three months or three days.

  ONE MORE DAY was half over before it was interrupted.

  “Madame Esmerelda?”

  Jenny looked up. Spring sunshine streamed in through the door she’d left open to air out her quarters. The light tangled with dust motes, spangling the air before her. It lit the sandy-brown hair of the woman before her into a glorious mass, almost white with energy. Jenny jumped, and her pulse raced in recognition.

  “Feathers!” Jenny exclaimed. “I mean…it’s Miss Edmonton, isn’t it? Whatever are you doing here?”

  Gareth’s sister was attired in a smart walking dress, all black-and-white stripes, wide starched cuffs and collar framing her face and wrists. She clutched a beaded reticule in white-gloved fists.

  “I have a question for you.”

  Jenny winced, and imagined Gareth’s reaction if he found his sister conversing with the woman he was bedding.

  “Miss Edmonton,” Jenny said, “I should tell you I am not a fortune-teller, no matter what Ned says. It was all invention.”

  Miss Edmonton raised her hand to her mouth in polite dismay.

  “My name,” Jenny said, “is Jenny Keeble.” And your brother once promised if I interfered with you, he would destroy me.

  Miss Edmonton’s shoulders sagged. “I don’t—that is to say, I have nobody else to talk with. And I desperately need advice.”

  “Nobody else?” Jenny ran through everything she knew of Gareth’s family in her mind. It was surprisingly little. Mother—dead. Grandparents—dead. Miss Edmonton’s father was not dead, but according to Gareth, he was not particularly intelligent. Then again, that was according to Gareth. A similarly scathing indictment would likely have been forthcoming no matter who he’d discussed.

  “Surely your brother, your father…Either seems a more appropriate choice than I would be.”

  Gareth’s sister shook her head. “Madame—I mean, Mrs. Keeble, it’s a woman’s problem.” She wrung her hands around the tiny reticule in her hands. “I can’t talk to my brother about it. You see, I have no mother. I am to be married in a few months, at the end of the Season. And I just had this talk with—well,
with my aunt Edmonton.”

  “That talk?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Keeble. That talk.”

  Jenny shut her eyes. “I really must tell you. It’s Miss Keeble.”

  Miss Edmonton grimaced. “Really? Drat. I was hoping the part about your being a widow was true. So you don’t know what happens on the night of—”

  “Actually,” Jenny interrupted, “I do. And that is precisely why you should find somebody else to talk with. It’s not proper for you to talk with me.”

  A bright blush splotched Miss Edmonton’s cheeks. She lifted a dainty hand to cover her mouth. Jenny waited for the woman to turn away in a swish of starched skirts.

  But what the lady said instead was: “Excellent. I need improper. Will you answer my questions?”

  Jenny thought about what Gareth would say if he found his sister in her rooms, asking improper questions. He’d be furious. And she could hardly blame him. A gently bred young lady should never spend time alone with a woman like her. Voices from her past surrounded her, mocking. That Jenny Keeble, they whispered. You never can trust her.

  Jenny was weary of reacting to those memories. Whatever she achieved for herself in this life, those harsh words would never help. She touched the pouch at her waistband, briefly. Her three pounds had blossomed into sixteen and change with the sale of the dress. She had not yet chosen whether it was three days or three months she had left. If Gareth found out, his reaction would make her decision simple indeed.

  “That depends,” Jenny said. “Will you take tea with me?”

  Ten minutes later, they sat ensconced around Jenny’s kitchen table. Miss Edmonton watched solemnly as Jenny poured the tea into cups. Then the lady picked up her tea and took a delicate sip. “I don’t even know where to start. It’s too horrifying to even speak of.”

  “Nonsense,” said Jenny. “Let’s start with the basics. What did your aunt tell you?”

  Miss Edmonton blushed again. “My aunt said that my husband will come into my room and pull my skirt up. And then he’ll put himself inside of me. She said it hurts. She suggested I hold my tongue and pretend I am somewhere else until he is done.”

  Jenny stared at her. “Yes. I should think it would hurt if you did it that way. Good heavens.”

  “Whatever do you mean? Are there less painful ways to do it?”

  “Suppose you are on the second floor of a house. How would you rather descend? By leaping over a railing? Or by walking down a staircase?”

  Miss Edmonton looked at her. “The staircase. Are you trying to say my husband won’t have to put himself inside?”

  Jenny blushed. “That part’s necessary. But if he does it slowly, and if he cares about whether you’re ready for it, it won’t hurt after the first time. And maybe not even then.”

  Jenny could hear voices and footsteps from the street. Even back here, in the room farthest from the street, a draft filtered through. She’d left her front door ajar, and a good thing, too. Both she and Miss Edmonton could use the breeze.

  There was a light sheen of sweat on the other woman’s forehead, one that could not be absorbed by any quantity of delicate rice powder. “But—that thing he puts in me—is it big?”

  “If you’re lucky,” Jenny promised.

  “And he’ll make me do it every night? Sometimes more than once?”

  Jenny tried not to think of Miss Edmonton’s older brother. “If you’re lucky.”

  “And he’ll want me to do all sorts of wicked things with my mouth?”

  If you’re lucky, he’ll do them back.

  Jenny squeezed her eyes shut. “Miss Edmonton,” she said, “these things are all so individual. They will depend on your husband and on your own predilections. Almost anything your husband wants you to do can be enjoyable, if you like and respect him. You just have to let yourself relax. If he’s kind to you, and if you are kind to him, you’ll find that most marital relations are quite enjoyable.”

  There was a long pause. Jenny wondered what the other woman could possibly be thinking.

  “Is it true,” Miss Edmonton finally said in a whisper, “that if I don’t do as he says, he’ll beat me?”

  “No,” said a dark, raspy voice. “Because if he does, you’ll tell me straight away, and I’ll kill him.”

  Miss Edmonton gave a little shriek, and Jenny opened her eyes. Gareth stood back, shrouded in the shadows cast by the short hall between her two rooms. When he stepped toward them, Jenny saw a grimace on his face. She wanted to shut her eyes again, to obliterate that fierce expression from her mind. Could she have done anything worse than tell his virgin sister about the sexual act?

  He avoided her gaze, and her heart pounded.

  “Come, Laura,” Gareth said. “Enough of these questions. I had better take you home.”

  If he was going to hate her, Jenny decided, she’d give him real reason to do so. “No, Laura,” she said. Her own voice sounded a little deeper to her own ears, perhaps a bit more mysterious. It was almost as if she were Madame Esmerelda again. But she was not. This time, Jenny Keeble did all the talking.

  “Listen to me.” She dropped her voice, and Laura leaned close. “And ignore him for now. Do not ever make the mistake of believing that as a woman, you must submit to men’s rules—that if your husband beats you, your choice is either to submit, or to find a man to intervene on your behalf. Because when the moment comes, and he raises his hand to strike, there will be no man there to save you. Not in that moment, maybe not for days. Men leave. It’s in their nature. If that time ever comes, you will save yourself.”

  “Legally, though—”

  “A pox on legalities. If you know what you want, you’ll find a way to get it. Men, or no men. And no husband or brother or—” she chanced a look at Gareth, who watched stonily “—lover will ever stop you. And that’s the truth.”

  “You told me you couldn’t see the future.”

  “I can’t. But I can see the present.” Jenny laid her hand on the other woman’s shoulder. “What you did—coming to me, today, and asking these questions—was deeply courageous. Courage is stronger than physical strength. Remember that. Today, I see a powerful woman.”

  Laura blushed, deep red. “I don’t know—”

  “Maybe your brother could save you. But if you ever have need, you will save yourself.”

  Laura’s hands clenched at her sides.

  “Enough,” Gareth said. His teeth gritted together. He didn’t look at Jenny—he didn’t even look at his sister. “More than enough. Come, Laura.”

  “Blakely,” Miss Edmonton said, “I only wanted to—”

  He inhaled. “You can argue your onlys on the way home.”

  He walked from the room without a backward glance.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE BEST Gareth could manage for his sister was a hired hack. The seats were sticky—with what, he dared not guess. The interior smelled like mold and vinegar. He spread his handkerchief on the seat, a flimsy barrier between Laura and the rest of the world.

  The thin white cloth seemed so inadequate. She was vibrant and unsullied. She was scared of marriage. The weight of her fears settled in his chest.

  “Blakely,” she said. “Are you angry at me?”

  Angry at her? He didn’t know how to answer. He was angry at himself. He’d negotiated the settlements and had her fiancé investigated. He’d gruffly told her the man would do, but in his heart of hearts he had harbored doubts.

  He would have harbored doubts no matter who the man was, so he’d swallowed his complaints. No man was good enough for Laura.

  He regarded her. “I remember when you were born. I was at Harrow, of course, and living with Grandfather in the meantime. I didn’t see you until you were six months old. And you grabbed my hair and smiled at me.”

  “I’m not six months old any longer.”

  “No,” Gareth said. “You’re not pulling my hair, either.”

  He sounded cold even to himself. He slouched against the cushio
ns.

  “It wasn’t her fault,” Laura was saying. “Miss Keeble’s. She said you wouldn’t be happy if I talked to her. But I insisted. I was just so scared, and I had nobody to talk with, and—”

  “Laura,” Gareth heard himself say. His voice sounded like icicles. Steel bands encircled his chest. But he didn’t know how to change. When it came to Laura, he’d never been able to warm up. “You have me.”

  She was silent. Too silent. When he looked up at her, her lashes were wet. Gareth swore inside.

  “Have I?” she said, shakily. “How? Every time I try, you brush me off. You make one of those horrible cutting comments. You make me feel so stupid.”

  God. He had no idea what to do. None at all. She was frightened. She was actually shaking. And the hell of it was, she was scared of him.

  When his mother had remarried, Gareth’s time with her had dwindled to a few days snatched between school terms. Learning to become Lord Blakely at his grandfather’s estate had taken up his summers. Laura had worshipped him, almost painfully, on the days when he appeared. But she’d treated him as an Old Testament God—and one who would smite her at the first sign of perfidy.

  “And now,” Laura said, angrily swiping at a tear, “you’re going to call off the wedding.”

  “How could I? I’ve signed the settlements, and I have no legal hold over you.”

  “You could convince Papa.”

  A fiercely protective part of him growled in agreement. If she feared this marriage so much, she’d be best off not marrying the man. He tested the waters tentatively. “And is it so important to marry him, then?”

  “Not important at all.” She turned her head. “I j-just love him, that’s all.”

  “Oh.” It was all Gareth could think to say. He’d expected her to list silly, inconsequential reasons for going forward with the ceremony. But he was too shocked to do anything but repeat himself. “Oh.”

  “And that’s the problem.” Tears were openly streaming down her face. “I love you, and that’s never done me one bit of good. I’m never going to be good enough.”