Proof by Seduction (Carhart #1)(29)

As a general rule, a good time did not include starched ladies whose voluminous gowns rejected the notion that women existed below the waist. Especially if one of those ladies was the cold and lovely Lady Kathleen.

Lady Kathleen sat as far from Ned as she could get in the ordered rows, and behind him, so that he had to turn his head to even get a glance at her.

Ned had neither the need nor the desire to look at her regularly. She was destined for Blakely.

Still, Lady Kathleen drew his eyes. Perhaps it was the confidence in her carriage, the assurance in her every movement. Perhaps it was the way her eyes snapped to his when he turned in her direction.

Perhaps it was just that there were not so many other people worth ogling. For instance, there was the stiff baroness who served as the hostess for this horrible event, standing to announce the next performance. She looked as if she’d turned into fossil before ankles were even invented. Ned suspected if he lifted her skirts, he’d find nothing but layers of lace and petticoats.

Ned sighed. At least looking was better than listening. Ned had no ear for music. He shifted impatiently in his chair.

“Next,” warbled the hostess, “we are in for a special treat.”

Yes, yes. The opera singer. Hired to give a professional performance, and somehow convince all these people to sit through the amateurs. Why Blakely had insisted Ned come to this event was a mystery. Perhaps, Ned thought longingly, Blakely had heard that Lady Kathleen would attend. That had to be it. After all, Blakely had come with Madame Esmerelda in tow—and she’d come dressed in London finery, making her a surprisingly pretty lady. Why else had Blakely come here, if not to impress his future wife?

Perhaps his interest in her had sparked. He would marry her, and Madame Esmerelda would be proven right.

“Lord Blakely,” continued the baroness, her Chinese-screened fan fluttering in her hand, “will honor us with a performance.”

Shocked, Ned remembered that Blakely had promised to deliver an ode to a crowd. Surely he didn’t intend to sing in this crowded venue? But Blakely stood up, calmly as ever, and made his way to the front.

The baroness’s fan fluttered at an increased rate. And no wonder. What a coup this must be for her. The reclusive Marquess of Blakely had not only come to her musical evening, but—for the first time ever—he’d also offered a public performance.

The hostess was not the only one beaming in obvious interest. Around him, he saw women lean forward. A hush fell, and so when Blakely paused by the baroness, everyone in the room heard their exchange.

“My lord,” she twittered, “will you need any accompaniment?”

Blakely cocked his head to the side, as if considering. It was one of his affectations, Ned knew—meant to make him look intelligent. Not that it didn’t work; just that he hardly needed to pretend.

“The work I intend to perform,” he eventually said, “is of my own composition. And it is in a style that, were it performed in Brazil, where I have visited, would likely be called terrivel.”

“Oh, my!” The baroness almost dropped her fan in excitement. “Brazil! How exotic!”

Blakely could not have looked more bored with her enthusiastic response. He looked away, across the room. “Which is to say, it could not possibly be improved by accompaniment.”

She looked shocked. “The style of—uh—ta heevil? No. Of course not. I understand completely.”

Blakely nodded, high-handed dismissal writ across his face, and continued to the front of the room. He faced the crowd. His gaze swept over the gathered throng as if it were a mass of lepers. Then he clasped his hands behind his back, and sang.

A frog croaking a tuneless, off-key baritone would have handily beaten Blakely in a singing competition. Ned’s expectations had risen as high as the soles of his shoes. They’d been too high.

This wasn’t an ode. It was carnage.

Ned put his hand in his mouth and bit down. It didn’t do much good. His shoulders still shook with laughter.

And then there were the words. Dear God. How long had it taken him to come up with them?

“One thing about Ned that will never spoil,” Blakely sang, “Is that he is indefatigably loyal/No matter the troubles in which they’re embroiled/He will not from his friends recoil.”

Ned bit harder. Teeth pierced glove and ground into flesh. He chanced a look around him. The faces nearest his were very guarded in response. Everyone’s, that is, except Madame Esmerelda’s. Her eyes were lit by a mischievous joy.

Happily, Blakely was not yet finished. “Ever jolly is Ned’s disposition/For this much, at least, he deserves recognition/He would make a fine politician/If ever he stood for a good proposition.”

Ned wasn’t sure whether that worked out to a compliment. “Ever jolly” certainly bore no resemblance to the truth. He chanced a look behind him. Unlike the rest of the crowd, Lady Kathleen was not watching with pretended interest. She looked carefully from side to side, her fingers cinched around the arm of her chair. As if the details of the room were of greater interest than the spectacle Blakely presented.

Blakely continued. “Ned is worthy of great esteem/For he is precisely as he seems/He has no plots or deceitful schemes/Unlike the one I intend to make—”

Blakely drew out that last note—if you could call that low, cracking tone by so innocent a name. He was looking directly at Madame Esmerelda, and Ned tried to fill in the rhyme to come. Make dream? Steam? Scream?