Praise for COURTNEY MILAN and Proof by Seduction
“One of the finest historical romances I’ve read in years.
I am now officially a Courtney Milan fangirl.” —New York Times bestselling author Julia Quinn
“A brilliant debut … deeply romantic, sexy and smart.
I couldn’t put it down.” —New York Times bestselling author Eloisa James
“With a tender, passionate romance, a touch of sly humour,
and a gruff and incredibly sexy hero, Courtney Milan’s Proof by Seduction is a delicious read from the first page all the way to the very satisfying ending. If you love historical romance you must read this book!” —Elizabeth Hoyt, USA TODAY bestselling author
“An extraordinary debut. Courtney Milan is a blazing new
talent in the romantic stratosphere. I couldn’t put this sparkling, heartfelt, sizzling story down and I loved every minute of it. Warm, witty, wonderful and wise, Proof by Seduction will steal your heart away.” —Anna Campbell, multiple-award-winning author of Tempt the Devil
Dear Reader,
I’ve always loved science. But as much as I love science, “love”—of the romantic variety—and “science” don’t often go together.
Perhaps that’s why, when I wrote a historical romance, I set myself the hardest task I could imagine. I chose as my hero a rigidly logical marquess, a scientist who retreated behind scientific proof, because he couldn’t make a formula out of love.
Gareth Carhart was going to be a hard nut to crack. He needed to learn that some things—squishy, unscientific concepts like “love” and “friendship”—are not susceptible to scientific proof. But how to do this?
Then I imagined my heroine. I knew she was going to shake the foundation of his world. Jenny Keeble needed to teach Gareth how to have fun—and, despite his best efforts, he wasn’t going to be able to resist her.
I hope you’ll have as much fun reading this book as I had writing it.
Courtney Milan
COURTNEY
MILAN
Proof by Seduction
For Tessa and Amy. You believed in me. You pushed me.
You waved off every setback and squealed for joy when good things happened. And when I most needed you in a dark, dark time, you held my hand and kept me going.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Every book—especially a debut novel—owes a debt to an enormous number of people.
The is list is lengthy, but not exhaustive:
Tessa and Amy, for everything.
Franzeca Drouin saved me from innumerable errors more times than I can count. David Berry, Rupert Baker and Stephanie Clarke answered strange and nitpicky questions.
Amy Atwell, Jackie Barbosa, Anna Campbell, Lenora Bell, Darcy Burke, Diana Chung, Amanda Collins, Lacey Kaye, Lindsey Faber, Sara Lindsey, Terri Osborn, Elyssa Papa, Janice Rholetter, Erica Ridley, Maggie Robinson and Sherry Thomas all read pages at various points along the way and encouraged me. Kristin Nelson, my extraordinary agent, and Sara Megibow, her awesome assistant, made all my dreams come true, even the ones I was scared to dream.
Finally, thanks to the team at Harlequin Books, particularly my editor, Ann Leslie Tuttle, and Charles Griemsman, for believing in this book and doing such a beautiful job in launching it.
CHAPTER ONE
London, April, 1838
TWELVE YEARS SPENT PLYING HER TRADE had taught Jenny Keeble to leave no part of her carefully manufactured atmosphere to chance. The sandalwood smoke wafting from the brazier added a touch of the occult: not too cloying, yet unquestionably exotic. But it was by rote that she checked the cheap black cotton draped over her rickety table; routine alone compelled her to straighten her garishly colored wall hangings, purchased from Gypsies.
Every detail—the cobwebs she left undisturbed in the corner of the room, the gauze that draped her basement windows and filtered the sunlight into indirect haze—whispered that here magic worked and spirits conveyed sage advice.
It was precisely the effect Jenny should have desired.
So why did she wish she could abandon this costume? True, the virulently red-and-blue-striped skirt, paired with a green blouse, did nothing to flatter her looks. Layer upon heavy layer obscured her waist and puffed her out until she resembled nothing so much as a round, multihued melon. Her skin suffocated under a heavy covering of paint and kohl. But her disquiet ran deeper than the thick lacquers of cream and powder.
A sharp rat-tat-tat sounded at the door.
She’d worked twelve years for this. Twelve years of careful lies and half truths, spent cultivating clients. But there was no room for uncertainty in Jenny’s profession. She took a deep breath, and pushed Jenny Keeble’s doubts aside. In her place, she constructed the imperturbable edifice of Madame Esmerelda. A woman who could see anything. Who predicted everything. And who stopped at nothing.
With her lies firmly in place, Jenny opened the door.
Two men stood on her stoop. Ned, her favorite client, she’d expected. He was awkward and lanky, as only a youth just out of adolescence could be. A shock of light brown hair topped his young features. His lips curled in an open, welcoming smile. She would have greeted him easily, but today, another fellow stood behind Ned. The stranger was extraordinarily tall, even taller than Ned. He stood several feet back, his arms folded in stern disapproval.
“Madame Esmerelda,” Ned said. “I’m sorry I didn’t inform you I was bringing along a guest.”
Jenny peered behind Ned. The man’s coat was carelessly unbuttoned. Some tailor had poured hours into the exquisite fit of that garment. It was cut close enough to the body to show off the form, but loose enough to allow movement. His sandy-brown hair was tousled, his cravat tied in the simplest of knots. The details of his wardrobe bespoke an impatient arrogance, as if his appearance was little more than a bother, his attention reserved for weightier matters.
That attention shifted to Jenny now, and a shiver raced down her spine. With one predatorial sweep of his eyes, he took in Jenny’s costume from head to toe. She swallowed.
“Madame Esmerelda,” Ned said, “this is my cousin.”
A cold glimmer of irritation escaped the other man, and Ned expelled a feeble sigh.
“Yes, Blakely. May I present to you Madame Esmerelda.” The monotone introduction wasn’t even a question. “Madame, this is Blakely. That would be Gareth Carhart, Marquess of Blakely. Et cetera.”
A beat of apprehension pulsed through Jenny as she curtsied. Ned had spoken of his cousin before. Based on Ned’s descriptions, she’d imagined the marquess to be old and perhaps a little decrepit, obsessed with facts and figures. Ned’s cousin was supposed to be coldly distant, frighteningly uncivil, and so focused on his own scientific interests that he was unaware of the people around him.
But this man wasn’t distant; even standing a full yard away, her skin prickled in response to his presence. He wasn’t old; he was lean without being skinny, and his cheeks were shadowed by the stubble of a man in his prime. Most of all, there was nothing unfocused about