Proof by Seduction. Courtney Milan

couldn’t wait to foil her plan.

      IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG for Gareth to regret his eagerness. He hadn’t realized finding Madame Esmerelda appropriate attire would turn into an ordeal. But Ned had thought it necessary to take the woman to the modiste himself. And Gareth knew if Ned had a moment alone with the charlatan, she would find a way to turn his head inside out. Again.

      Which is how Gareth found himself in his closed carriage the next afternoon, accompanied by his chattering cousin, a fraud and a growing headache.

      “So,” Ned babbled, “we’re going to the ball next Thursday, and then we’ll meet Blakely’s wife. I should like to see him fall in love. I’m rather looking forward to it.”

      Madame Esmerelda adjusted the kerchief on her head—red, this time—and slanted a careful look at Gareth. “Identify.”

      “Identify?” Ned repeated. “What do you mean, identify?”

      “We are going to identify the woman in question. I never said your cousin would meet her that day. In fact, the time for their meeting is not yet here.”

      Gareth inhaled in trepidation. “Not yet here? How long will this take?”

      The smile touched her eyes, if not her lips. “Oh, I couldn’t say. The time is not measured by years, but by tasks. Three of them.”

      “Tasks?” repeated Ned, incredulously.

      “Tasks?” Gareth said sharply. “You said nothing of tasks.”

      “Oh? What did I say, I wonder?” She looked up at the roof of the carriage, innocently.

      Gareth drew out his notebook and fumbled for the page. “At precisely ten o’clock and thirty-nine minutes, you will see the woman you are to marry if only you approach her in …” He faltered, and looked up.

      That innocence had faded from her eyes. She’d known what she’d said. Baited him into this, no doubt, to make him look foolish.

      “If only I approach her in the manner you prescribe,” he finished dully.

      “Ah, yes. The manner I prescribe.” She smiled. “And I prescribe tasks.”

      He’d thought himself so clever, trapping her into making an easily disprovable statement. All he had to do, he’d thought, was not marry a girl. He’d succeeded at not marrying women all his life. He’d been too confident, too sure he’d backed her into a corner.

      He’d underestimated her. He’d been so intent on winning, on disproving her statement, that he’d not seen the exit she planned for herself.

      He could walk away at any moment. But if he did, he’d leave her influence over Ned unabated.

      “I never got tasks,” mumbled an aggrieved Ned.

      “Of course not,” Madame Esmerelda soothed. “But you must think how monumental an undertaking it will be for your cousin to convince a woman to care for him. If I didn’t set him tasks, he’d use logic instead, and just think how that would work out. You don’t need tasks. Everyone likes you already.”

      Gareth clenched his hand in suppressed fury and pushed his knuckles into the leather squabs. “And what,” he snapped, “is the first task? Mucking out stables? Killing lions? Or must I chop down an entire orchard of citrus trees?”

      She tapped a finger against her lips. “It is a trifle premature to tell you. But I suppose it can’t hurt. You must carve an elephant out of a piece of ebony.”

      “An elephant?” Gareth looked up at the roof. “Why is it always elephants?”

      The coach slowed to a halt. The footman opened the door, and dust motes danced in the rays of sunshine in front of Madame Esmerelda. They made her look … well, mystical. Drat her.

      “I am,” Madame Esmerelda said, “just a poor conduit for the spirits. As you will be a mere conduit for the elephant. You will give your future wife the elephant when first you meet.”

      Her eyes danced, and she exited the conveyance. Gareth bit back a pained yelp.

      No doubt he could find a way to present such a gift in a dignified manner. If she thought to make a fool of Lord Blakely, she was vastly mistaken. But maybe she intended to fight him to an impasse. If she made those tasks onerous enough, she doubtless thought he would walk away. And with her conditions unfulfilled, he would have no proof she was a fraud—and that meant his cousin would continue to see her. Unacceptable.

      By the triumphant spring in her steps as she approached the shop, she thought so, too.

      Gareth’s thoughts boiled as he entered the little shop. He paid little mind to Ned bothering Madame Esmerelda, whining about some irrelevant trifle. Bolts of colorful fabric decorated the front waiting room; they faded to dim gray in his mind. He didn’t even notice he was pacing the floor, scarcely saw when Madame Esmerelda was whisked away to the back room. He wanted to rip the fashion plates off the walls and shred the sample cards laid demurely out on the tables.

      Gareth did not like losing. He would not be outdone by some fraud. He’d looked forward to the challenge when he thought he would vanquish her. The situation became far less entrancing when her victory was possible.

      Tasks. He couldn’t let this continue.

      He turned to Ned, who was fidgeting on the edge of his seat. “Ned,” he said.

      The boy looked up attentively.

      “Do you think Madame Esmerelda will need a shawl?”

      “I suppose—”

      “Go buy her one.” Gareth fumbled for a bank note and held it out.

      Ned frowned, his fingers closing on the paper. “Why can’t the modiste just choose one? What I know about ladies’ shawls, I could fit—”

      Gareth fixed Ned with his coldest look. “I think it would mean more to her if you chose it yourself. Don’t you?”

      Ned offered a few more halfhearted protests. Easy enough to dismantle those; soon his cousin scurried out the front door.

      The workroom door swung open, and one of the seamstresses popped out, her arms flowing with colored silks.

      Gareth took a deep breath. This charade had gone on long enough. “Is Madame in a condition to receive me?”

      She sniffed primly. “My lord. As you wish, my lord.”

      But as soon as he ducked through the doorway the servant indicated, he halted. A half-mirror stood on the otherwise empty wall, and Gareth’s lungs contracted at the profile reflected in it. Rounded hip, and a swell of breast.

      Madame Esmerelda wasn’t wearing a fashionable dress. She wasn’t wearing much of anything at all—nothing but a thin, worn chemise. The seamstress must have assumed he was the fortune-teller’s lover, or she’d never have sent him back here. His body moved of its own accord, turning toward her, like a plant tracking the path of the sun.

      Christ. Underneath the colorful skirts, now lying in a discarded heap, Madame Esmerelda had a waist. She had a bosom. She had a damned remarkable bosom. From five yards away, he could see the hazy outline of her legs through worn muslin. He could even make out the dark nubs of her nipples. The curling ends of her hair fell all the way to the small of her back.

      She wasn’t anything like the slender sylphs society favored. She was a Grecian fertility goddess, round and soft all over. And with her rosy lips frozen, half-open, she looked almost inviting.

      Not that her invitation extended to him.

      Gareth’s brain tumbled to a halt. What remained in his head was no rational thought, but simple greed. His mouth dried, and every muscle contracted in anticipation of the feast on display before him.

      She stood, rooted in place, her eyes wide in horror. If she were a lady, he would have apologized profusely and left the