Proof by Seduction (Carhart #1)(17)

But it did.

Her fingers tightened on Lord Blakely’s elbow.

“Don’t fear, Mrs. Barnard,” he said coldly. “We’ll get you married off in no time.”

It took Jenny a heartbeat to remember she was supposed to be Mrs. Barnard. “What?”

“Isn’t that why we’ve brought you here? What think you, Ned? Are we bringing our distant cousin here in search of a new husband? We must agree on some fiction before we are set upon and introductions are demanded.”

“Nonsense,” Jenny said. “My husband died only a year ago. I’m uninterested in remarriage, but you’ve kindly decided to cheer me up.”

“Kind?” said Ned. “Blakely? At least pick a tale the ton will believe.”

Jenny smiled at Ned and transferred her hand to his elbow. “It must have been your idea, my dear.”

Lord Blakely scrubbed at the crook of his arm, as if to erase her touch. “Notice, Ned, how easily she lies.”

Jenny took a deep breath. Just because she felt like a cow wallowing among swans didn’t mean she had to let Lord Blakely intimidate her.

“Oh, Lord Blakely,” Jenny said. “You’re not smiling. Whatever can we do to increase your enjoyment of this event?”

He opened his mouth, but Jenny cut off whatever he’d planned to say with a delighted clap of her hands. “I know!” she said. “Just the thing to lift your spirits. Shall we check the time?”

Lord Blakely glanced at the clock on the wall, but she shook her head.

“Your fob watch.”

After a pause, he pulled a heavy gold watch from his pocket. He flicked it open and contemplated its face. “Well, Mrs. Barnard. Do your worst. It’s thirty-eight minutes after ten.”

HEADY ANTICIPATION WASHED THROUGH Ned as his cousin looked up from his watch. Only one minute left? Finally, Ned was going to watch his cousin fall in love. Then Blakely would get married and produce heirs. He’d have other people to treat as his inferiors, to inflict with his cold ways and perfect demeanor. Most importantly, Madame Esmerelda—and Ned himself—would be vindicated.

Had a minute passed yet? Ned checked his impulse to reach for his own timepiece. Madame Esmerelda had said to go by Blakely’s watch—and so Blakely’s it must be.

But the blasted man had started to flick it back in his pocket. In one swift movement, Ned reached out and tugged the gold disc from Blakely’s fingers. It resisted his pull.

Blakely grimaced in annoyance. “Ned, the chain is attached, as you may recall.”

How could the man be so bloody calm?

Ned set his jaw. “Apologies,” he muttered, giving the chain an unapologetic jerk. When Blakely made no move to relinquish control of his watch, Ned added, “Can you unhook that thing? We need it over here.”

“My pleasure,” Blakely said sarcastically. He made a tremendous fuss and bother of undoing the hook from his buttonhole and lifting the gold chain from his pocket. But all that dithering didn’t matter, because the time was—

Still thirty-eight minutes after ten. Ned sighed. Well, little enough time had passed. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that it hadn’t been a minute yet.

But just to be sure, Ned checked again.

Indeed. It was still thirty-eight minutes after. Ned sighed in frustration and looked up, scanning the crowd. He wondered which of the ladies he saw was intended for his cousin. None seemed particularly interesting.

“Ned,” murmured Madame Esmerelda. “Do you recall what I told you about patience?”

“I am being patient,” Ned muttered.

She cleared her throat. “Your foot.”

Ned blinked, looking down. His damned foot was tapping in frustration. He willed it to stop, and then, because at least two seconds had elapsed, he allowed himself to look down again.

“Still thirty-eight after? Blakely, is the damned thing broken?”

Before his cousin could answer, it happened. The minute hand shivered, like a cat preparing to stretch. It trembled. And then…It ticked. A shiver shot through Ned’s spine, and he glanced up at Madame Esmerelda.

“The thirty-ninth minute is upon us,” Madame Esmerelda intoned.

“And woe betide us, every man.” It was a mystery, how Blakely maintained that bored appearance with his future hanging in the balance.

But Madame Esmerelda would handle everything that mattered. Ned turned expectantly to her.

She was scanning the throng. “There,” she finally said, pointing one long finger at an exceptionally thick portion of the crowd. “That’s her. In the blue. By the wall.”

Ned followed the line of her finger. He goggled. Then he gasped, choking on the impossibility of it all.

“Are you perhaps referring to the lady wearing the delightful feathers?” Blakely did not betray so much as a flicker of horror. “She’s lovely. I think I’m falling in love already.”

“She—I—that—” Ned turned to Madame Esmerelda, his hands aquiver. The incoherent stream of syllables from his mouth refused to resolve into anything so cogent as a complaint. He’d felt doubt before, looking into her wise and knowing face. But all those times, he’d doubted himself. He’d doubted he would escape the darkness that periodically captured him.

For one timeless second, though, the cold fingers of uncertainty touched the back of his neck, and Ned doubted her. If she’d pointed to a pig, he’d have believed it under an enchanted spell. One that could be broken with a kiss. But she’d picked the one woman who simply could not marry Blakely.