To Charm a Naughty Countess Page 10

  “Or do you mean to confine your definition of the best to royalty? Perhaps our Prince Regent, who has a wife yet not a wife in the abandoned Mrs. Fitzherbert? Or whose cousin bore him such a disgust that, once they were married, she left him after the wedding night?”

  “No.” Michael pressed a hand to his temple, but he could not silence her voice.

  “Or best of all, the king, who speaks in tongues and froths at the mouth?”

  “Quiet, woman!” Michael barked.

  Caroline went still. “You refer to me as woman?”

  Michael let his hand fall. “It’s biologically accurate. And I also said ‘quiet.’ You have willfully misunderstood me. You are attributing great snobbery to me when I only stated my desire to focus my limited attention on finding a wife. I cannot become friends with everyone in London. I do not possess your skill.”

  Caroline blinked several times. Then she flicked her fan open again and continued walking as though there had been no outburst. “I am friends with only some of them. But I am courteous to all. The nobility, as you know, deserves respect by virtue of their blue blood. The happiest accident of birth.”

  “Yes.” Michael hesitated. “Well, that is the way of the world.”

  “It is, and I neither disagree with it nor dispute it,” Caroline said. “The world must have its ways. But I save my highest regard for those who make the best of the gifts they have been given, whether that is a title or a fat purse or—”

  “A beautiful face?” Michael gazed down at hers.

  “Yes, that is a woman’s greatest currency. If she gambles well, she can parlay it into a title and a fortune.” Her smile looked fragile.

  Deuced cold.

  Then it melted away. “Do not think I criticize you, Michael. To the contrary, I admire the way you care for your dukedom. I know that’s why you now seek a wealthy wife, no matter how distasteful you find the task.”

  “I don’t—”

  “But you never know who might help you or Wyverne. My opinions need not be yours, naturally, and maybe you won’t care for some of the people to whom I introduce you. But I aim to help you. And therefore, I ask you not to dismiss anyone out of hand.”

  “Of course I won’t,” Michael said, insulted. “I am no schoolboy who needs a drilling in manners.”

  “Is that courteous, then?” Caroline leveled a finger at him. Michael realized he was looming over her with arms crossed, shoulders square, and chin high, as if he could use his size to intimidate her into silence.

  Not that it would work. He could never silence this woman; not even if he were the size of an elephant. And to be fair, he shouldn’t. She had said nothing so radical, only urged him to mind his manners, so to speak, for one never knew who might do him good.

  For all that it appeared selfless and sentimental, such courtesy was quite logical. Still, he felt the tension of an unfulfilled goal, of too little time and too much uncertainty.

  Maybe she saw this, because she relented. “It can never be bad to spend a minute setting someone at ease, Michael. To put it in the economic terms you favor: for a small investment of time, you will yield a great return of esteem. Observe.”

  She turned to a plump woman brushing past them. “What a fetching gown, Lady Halliwell. I’ve never seen anyone look so well in peach as you do.”

  The woman halted. “Darling Caro! You’re a vision, as always.” She looked curiously at Michael. “A new escort for you tonight?”

  “His Grace, the Duke of Wyverne. I am but a chance companion this evening. He’s honoring us this season due to…” She winked. “His desire to embark upon a certain state.”

  Michael straightened his shoulders and tried to look eager and soppy.

  He must have done well enough, for the round Lady Halliwell beamed at him. “Are you? How delightful. I had rather heard… well, never mind. If you’re looking for a… well, then obviously you are… That is… how lovely! I wish you good fortune. Ah… do you intend to dance tonight, Your Grace?”

  “I…” Michael trailed off. His dance with Caroline had prepared him for nothing; it had only taught him the meager limits of his own control. Would it be the same if he danced with someone else? Would he make a spectacle of himself in Kettleburn House, smothering every young lady with kisses if she dared draw near him?

  But no… she kissed me first, he realized. Caroline had begun it all.

  This realization was hardly conducive to his self-possession.

  “Yes, His Grace is eager to dance tonight,” Caroline trilled, causing her peach-clad acquaintance to pat plump hands together in ecstasy. “But we’ve promised our host to sip some of his excellent punch first. Did you know he concocts it himself?”

  “Does he?” Lady Halliwell looked interested. “I heard some young bucks talking of it earlier. Scandalously strong, is it not?”

  “I hope so.” Caroline grinned.

  Lady Halliwell laughed and turned to resume her path through the crowded room. “An honor to meet you, Your Grace. I shall see if I can send some lovely young ladies your way, shall I?” Her round face dimpled, and Michael found himself returning what was really a rather pleasant smile.

  “The lovelier, the better,” Caroline said, and both women laughed again before Lady Halliwell moved on with a parting wave of her fan.

  “Do you see what I mean?” Caroline said quietly as she and Michael pressed in what must be the direction of the much-discussed punch. “With the right word in her ear, Lady Halliwell was perfectly willing to be charmed by you. Now she will tell everyone what a delightful man you are. And she’ll help circulate the news that you’re looking for a wife, which could help your cause with creditors as well as wealthy young ladies.”

  This sounded less appealing to Michael than it ought. “I said nothing more to that woman than a single syllable. How could she find me charming under such circumstances?”

  Caroline tapped her chin with her folded fan. “I believe it’s something like agriculture.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  Caroline chuckled. “Your ducal phrase, always upon the tip of your tongue. What I mean is, it’s much easier for a seed to grow when the soil is prepared carefully. Correct? So it is with people too. If you prepare them for what they ought to see and feel, they are more apt to see and feel it. I acted as if I found you charming, and so Lady Halliwell was charmed.”

  “You only acted?” Michael knew the question was irrelevant. Whether or not Caroline found him charming had nothing to do with his purpose in London.

  Except… when they had waltzed, he’d felt himself come alive. He had craved her touch, yearned for that closeness. His body had become an essential part of his being, rather than a dull weight on his mind.

  In a way, she had made him feel whole. And that meant he hadn’t been whole before, which was as terrifying as the feeling of wholeness was exhilarating. But it was exhilarating. And he could not bear to think it was all an act when for him it was so painfully real.

  “I act every day, Michael,” she said. “All day, every day. But that does not mean what I say and do is a lie. I may sweeten my true feelings with kind words, but I will not play myself false.”

  Her eyes went hard; her face, stern. Michael knew sternness well, because it sat so often on his own features. Sternness was effective at covering other feelings. Fear. Worry. Longing.

  This type of acting, Michael did not mind. Some emotions were too private to share.

  “I can accept that,” he replied. “But I do not wish you to sweeten anything you say to me. You cannot offend me as long as you are honest.”

  “I wonder.” She swooped behind him and nudged the tails of his coat. Straightening, she said, “Michael, you have a remarkably fine arse.”

  It was not dignified for a grown man to redden. Of course, it was also not dignified for a gently bred woman to c
ompliment a man on his… posterior.

  So Michael and Caroline both cast off dignity. He glared down at her with a flaming face, and she gloated. “Are you shocked, Your Grace? And I thought you could not be offended by the truth.”

  “By the truth I cannot, but by mockery I can. I have asked you for the favor of your honesty, and instead you seek to discomfit me.”

  “I have given you a greater favor than you know.” With a sharp flick of the wrist, she snapped her fan open again. The painted semicircle was deliberately provocative, showing a nude Venus reclining on a tussle of draperies. It covered Caroline’s mouth and nose, made a shaded mystery of her eyes. When fronted by Venus, none could fail to make the association: Caro sought desire as her due.

  Oh, she had it, little though it meant to her. Like a bouquet, presented and received out of obligation.

  “We ought to make our way to the punch bowl,” Michael said.

  “I could use some strong spirits myself.” Caroline lowered her fan to the level of her bosom. “Come. I believe we’ll find Lord Kettleburn’s concoction at the center of that group of raucous young men.”

  Kettleburn had left the side of his lady wife and was now elbowing his way through the mass of imbibing men. The baron was red-faced and jovial, though the other men ignored him as they would a servant. As the crowd peeled back, a table of refreshments and an empty crystal punch bowl were revealed.

  Kettleburn waved for lemons and sugar and several bottles Michael could not identify at a distance of several yards. The baron laid out all the ingredients on the snowy linen tablecloth, then mixed and mingled the complex beverage with swift, precise movements.

  It was a pleasure to watch anyone so sure of his work. Kettleburn’s quiet bustle drew even the interest of his inebriated young guests.

  “Well done, Kettleburn. Well done,” Caroline murmured behind her fan. “He forces them to recall whose hospitality they have accepted. After all this fuss, I can only assume the punch is something very special.” She looked up at Michael. “Do you see the power of such conviction? He has convinced me of his skill, just as he has everyone surrounding him. He believes that his recipe is astounding, and without taking a taste, we are ready to believe it too. It is always thus with a reputation.”

  “And what is your reputation, Caro?” He could not resist the question. He had no idea of the answer.

  Those blue-green eyes narrowed. “Mine is what I’ve made it over the course of a lifetime. But we’re here on account of your reputation, not mine.” Her mouth stretched into a tight little curve. “You’ve made your bed, and now you find it too austere to lie in. So we’ll stuff it with bills and frame it with coin, and once the work is done, you shall sleep soundly for the remainder of your days.”

  Stung, he said, “I suppose I asked for honesty. You think me a wastrel, then?”

  “No. Not that.” She sighed. “No, I spoke too harshly. Please, forgive me. I don’t think you a wastrel. But I’ve never really known what to think of you.”

  “You think of me?” This was the wrong question to ask. He cleared his throat. “That is—you ought to think of me as—as a good duke. I wish you would.”

  “I do that.” Venus covered her face, then was folded up. “I most definitely do that.”

  Was she happy with him, or was she not? He could not file this conversation into either category, so he could not, as yet, understand it.

  Not that he needed to. But he was finding that he wanted to very much.

  Before him, men were dipping out Lord Kettleburn’s punch for themselves and a few bold ladies. Now that the baron’s magnificent display was completed, he was shunted aside again. Lady Kettleburn sliced through the crowds in her home with chilly splendor, Caro’s warming influence apparently quite dissipated.

  So it was: people always returned to the behavior they knew best, and no one could change them beyond a single moment.

  If the ton thought Michael mad, then he could not change anyone’s mind. Not even if he stayed for a whole season of balls, dressed his finest, and danced every dance Almack’s could offer.

  Which meant he would have to find someone who would marry him despite his reputation. Despite: it came back to that word again.

  Michael wanted not to care. But the truth was, he cared very much. That was part of the reason he’d stayed away from London so long. Why choose to spend time with those who spoke ill of him? The only possible end was that he would grow to think ill of them and of himself. Neither outcome was desirable.

  And neither was the idea of a trade such as Lord and Lady Kettleburn had made: a fortune for a title. A sacrifice on both sides seemed inevitably to lead to a sacrifice of all tender affections. He might have accepted that once, but Caroline had made him think. Think, of the joy of having a wife who esteemed him. Even loved him.

  Think, of pleasure.

  He drew her hand within the crook of his arm, hoping she would let him pull her close.

  But she only smiled up at him as though he had obeyed an order. “Why,” she said, “I believe I see Miss Meredith. Shall we get on with the business of introductions?”

  Ten

  For two reasons, Caroline thought Augusta Meredith an excellent candidate for Michael’s hand. First, Miss Meredith had money enough to turn every sow’s ear in London into a silk purse. And second, she was an orphan.

  After Michael’s calamitous encounter with the Carcel lamp, and the Carcel lamp’s calamitous encounter with the drawing room floor, Caroline thought it prudent to eliminate disapproving mothers from the courtship situation.

  Yes, she might have found the future Duchess of Wyverne this time. Miss Meredith was twenty-four years old, in control of her own funds, and quite bold enough to overcome Michael’s formidable reserve.

  And she was beautiful. That wouldn’t hurt matters.

  So Caroline had thought in the haven of her own carriage. Pleased with herself. Quite the matchmaker. Smug, really, that at last, she would prove there was no one she couldn’t handle—not even Michael.

  Now, standing next to Augusta Meredith—all dark-red hair, wide smile, white teeth, pleasant laugh—Caroline was almost struck dumb by the difference between twenty-four and her own thirty years. Between her own gown, cut to skate over her imperfect figure, and Miss Meredith’s tight-bodiced garment, which left no question that her young form was flawless.

  No doubt Michael noticed. No doubt he was noticing every inch of Miss Meredith’s generous bosom, barely covered by copper moiré.

  “I’m honored to make your acquaintance, Your Grace,” Miss Meredith purred into Michael’s ear. “I’ve heard the most fascinating things about you.”

  Michael stiffened.

  “All good, no doubt.” Caroline’s smile showed a confidence she did not feel.

  “Oh, yes.” The younger woman tossed a roguish look at Caroline. “Isn’t he the talk of the ton, Caro? Why, Your Grace, I heard you took apart every stick of furniture in the Tallant House drawing room.” She trailed a gloved hand up Michael’s arm. “I can tell you have the strength for it.”

  Michael stared at the hand on his arm.

  He had said he suffered from headaches, and Caroline could see one taking hold. He squinted, and his firm mouth—oh, he had kissed her with that mouth—went tight.

  Yet he allowed Miss Meredith to continue touching him: progress indeed. When Caroline had first flirted with him—no, no more than touched him—he had twisted away and barked at her as a dog would. And in turn, she had chased after him, teasing and taunting so he would play fetch with her.

  Miss Meredith didn’t have to chase. She was, herself, fetching.

  That lady gave Michael’s biceps a squeeze. “You must call me Augusta, Your Grace.”

  “I need do nothing of the sort.”

  Headache or no, that was no answer to a lady. Caroline kicked him
in the heel. Not very hard, of course. Not nearly as hard as he deserved.

  “But I will do so all the same,” he added. “Thank you. And you must call me… ah, Wyverne.”

  Caroline kicked him again. Without another word, he took a step back, which removed him from grabbing range of one woman and kicking range of the other.

  Well. No one had ever accused Michael of being stupid.

  “Do tell me, Wyverne,” Augusta asked, “what do you think of the orchestra? Do you intend to dance this evening?” Closing the distance between them, she again caught his arm and began to walk her satin-gloved fingers up and down his biceps. “Or if you are weary of that pursuit, I’m sure we could think of another. Something… equally pleasant?”

  Michael stared at her hand. Glared, more like. His head must be clanging with dismay.

  Despite herself, Caroline smiled. She couldn’t blame Miss Meredith for her instant attraction to the duke. In the polished ballroom of Kettleburn House, he stood out as a little taller, a little broader, a little leaner than others. Though his dignity proclaimed him a nobleman, his physique showed him to be a man who understood work and labor. The contrast was irresistible.

  And his gravitas—ah, that was the best part for Caroline. That serious face, that stern manner. The best thing about a man who worked so hard was teaching him to play.

  Since he didn’t have a playful answer at the ready—when did he ever?—Caroline chimed in. “Do you have a suggestion, Augusta? I know well, you’re always full of clever ideas. And His Grace is still fairly new to London. As you can see, he needs some amusement.”

  She permitted herself a cavalier wave at Michael’s granite expression, which cracked with grudging humor.

  “Let me think about that.” Augusta considered. “Vauxhall Gardens might be pleasant, with all its secret paths. But for tonight…” The younger woman crossed her arms under her bosom as she mused, pushing up her impressive breasts until they came perilously close to escaping her bodice. Naturally, Michael’s eyes flicked down to them.

  His face flushed beneath its tan.