To Charm a Naughty Countess Read online

  “Indeed, no. I can shop when I return to London. Here, I have other interests.”

  Michael’s shoulders tensed. Was Miss Cartwright flirting with him?

  Certainly not. Miss Cartwright had a curious, logical mind, and she seemed as little inclined to casual flirtation as did Michael.

  He flexed his shoulders, trying to loosen them, but his tailored coat had no give. “What are your interests?”

  “The cotton mills, of course. Are they visible from here?” She craned her neck as though the extra inch gained would lay out all of Lancashire before her eyes.

  “Not from within town,” he replied. “They are right on the river Ribble, for ease of transporting raw materials and finished goods.”

  “Ah, yes, that makes sense.” She turned to face him again. “Could we tour one, do you think?”

  “I have not made arrangements, but… well, it might be possible. Are you very interested in cotton mills?”

  “Yes.” She seated herself on a nearby wrought-iron bench, situated under a gas lamp for the convenience of wealthy loiterers. “I’m interested in factories of all types. Lancashire is best suited to coal mining and cloth making, I believe, and while I am here, it only makes sense to learn as much as I can about both. For example, I hope you will enlighten me about the methods used for mining coal on your lands.”

  “I—yes, I suppose I can do that. The Wyverne lands possess several good seams of coal.”

  “And coal prices are good this year. The cold weather, you know.”

  “Yes,” Michael replied vaguely. He took a step toward the bench but decided to remain on his feet. Standing gave him more opportunities to shed tension, preventing it from collecting into a vise at his temples.

  “You might take advantage of that fact to excavate more. Even so, your tenants could make a steadier income through employment in factories.” Miss Cartwright looked up at Michael through undeniably long lashes. “Why have they not left off working the land or mines?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “Cannot or will not?” Her eyes looked suddenly hard and calculating as a stockbroker’s—an odd contrast to a rose-colored gown and a bonnet trimmed with pheasant feathers.

  “Cannot,” he said. “I can speak only to the decisions I have made. I regard my land as a legacy, entrusted to my care only temporarily. I am honored to provide a living for those who care to make their home on it.”

  She shrugged and looked away down the street. “Well, as you’re not taking particularly good care of your land, maybe it’s time to try making money in a different way.”

  Michael took a reflexive half step backward, his boot twisting on a loose stone. He felt as though Miss Cartwright had shoved him. No one had ever spoken to him in such a fashion before: not his creditors, not Sanders, not even Caroline. Who were, as far as he knew, the only people who were aware of the full extent of his financial difficulties.

  Surely Caroline had not told Miss Cartwright. Surely not. Not even to persuade her to come to the wilds of northern England and marry a madman.

  His knees threatened to buckle, and he locked them, fighting against a reeling grayness at the corners of his vision. Surely not, his head pounded. The traffic on Fishergate receded into a blur of noise, and the gardens behind him seemed to mock him with their well-tended, well-groomed industrial wealth. He was a duke, one of the highest nobles in England, yet he could not convince his land to behave as these minor magnates of cotton and coal had done.

  Miss Cartwright was looking at him in that appraising manner again, and Michael struggled to find something sensible to say. “I…” He took refuge in a chilly stare down the length of his nose. “I did what I thought best. Naturally, I am aware that not all calculated risks pay off in the desired fashion.”

  Miss Cartwright—he was not sure of her Christian name or whether so crisp a female even had one—converted her expression into a smile, though it didn’t touch her eyes. “Of course, the unseasonal cold has altered much. In a future year, you might see the yields for which you hoped.”

  The tone sounded condescending, not comforting. Michael folded his hands behind his back and inclined his head in a crisp acknowledgment.

  He ought to draw her out further, for her purse was fuller than Midas’s, her family’s touch just as golden. But he didn’t want her prying into his affairs anymore. So he shifted the subject to scientific innovation, a topic he thought they would both appreciate. “Do you note the pole behind you, Miss Cartwright?”

  She turned. “A gas lamp?” Her features looked as pristine as a porcelain doll’s as she followed the line of the tall pole up, up to its glass lantern of a top.

  “Yes,” Michael answered. “The city was lit by gas only last year. It was the first in the country, save London.” Some devil possessed him to add, “I provided political encouragement and financial backing for the process.”

  As if this near stranger deserved proof that his enlightened schemes did not all go to waste, here was nine feet of tangible accomplishment.

  Miss Cartwright looked up at him. “What good is it?”

  “It provides a steady, clean-burning illumination at night.”

  She frowned. “Yes, I know how gaslight operates, and I am in agreement that it’s a marvelous invention. But how does it benefit you? Why should you plow your own money into lighting Preston? Do you see a dividend?”

  “I haven’t yet, no.” He was annoyed at the pang of embarrassment that followed this admission.

  Miss Cartwright said, “Hmmm.” That was all. Simply hmmm. And she pivoted on the bench and ran her gloved hand up the light post, then dropped it, rubbing together her fingertips as though she’d found it dirty.

  And Michael knew she thought him mad.

  Not in the way everyone else did; oh, no. She could understand his fascination with modern improvements, for she shared it. But to the brilliant counting machine of Miss Cartwright’s mind, innovation for its own sake was madness. Innovation for the sake of profit, well, that was worthwhile.

  Michael felt as though he’d been ground under the heel of her dainty little nankeen boot.

  Then it got worse. “If we marry,” Miss Cartwright said, turning back to Michael, “I shall insist on full control of the money I bring to the marriage. There will be no point in my settling your debts if you are only to throw good money after bad.”

  Michael knew two phrases that worked in almost every social occasion. As he looked at Miss Cartwright’s lovely, severe face, he thought, Deuced cold, isn’t it?

  But he spoke the other. “I beg your pardon?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Our marriage? Lady Stratton notified me that you were interested in marrying, and I was amenable to the suggestion. I confess I was curious about where all the Wyverne money had gone, for I know the dukedom was flush with funds as recently as two generations ago.”

  Michael wished they were not having this conversation in a public setting. Or at all. “I am not required to satisfy the curiosity of those unconnected with my affairs.” He donned the armor of his chilliest demeanor. “But I have invested in improvements that will yield great results in the long term, though they may not in the short.”

  “Quite a gamble, is it not?”

  “I have never considered land a gamble.”

  She lifted her chin. “Do pardon my curiosity, Your Grace. I only seek to understand the terms of the investment I am considering.”

  There was no armor thick enough for a conversation such as this. Miss Cartwright was determined to joust, and Michael’s heart pounded as though he saw the lance approaching.

  “I understand you quite well, Miss Cartwright,” he said crisply. “I too am considering the positive and negative aspects of a potential alliance.”

  “I was not aware you were in a position to dictate the terms of your marriage.” She studied
her gloves: delicate dove-gray kid, perfectly fitted to her hands.

  “A duke is always in a position to dictate terms.” This young woman might forget with whom she spoke, but he would remind her. Not even for Wyverne would he allow this woman to look upon him as an unprofitable speculation.

  “When excessive pride becomes involved,” Miss Cartwright said, rising to her feet with long-legged grace, “I find it desirable to call a temporary halt to negotiations. If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace? Thank you for a most enlightening conversation.”

  She retrieved her abigail from several feet away and strode off down Fishergate without a backward glance.

  Michael let out a slow breath and allowed himself to sink onto the bench. He faced away from the street and focused his eyes on the gardens opposite, the tame slivers of nature that Preston’s wealthy had permitted into their purview.

  He would not turn to sift the crowds for the steadying calm of Caroline, who could read people as clearly as Michael could read the land.

  An apt comparison, for Michael had misread the land this year, and it seemed Caroline had misread the marriage prospects with which she thought to match Michael. It was like that children’s story with the three bears: Miss Weatherby had been too soft; Miss Meredith too hot. At first, Miss Cartwright had seemed just right, aiding him with the magic lantern show. But now he knew she was both too hard and too cold.

  In other words, she was too similar to himself.

  Whereas Caroline brought a spark into his life; she was the flint to his tinder. With her help, he had survived even the London season.

  Well. A few weeks of it.

  But she had turned him down twice. There was no evidence to indicate that a third offer would be more acceptable. He had nothing she wanted, nothing but debt and solitude.

  In children’s fairy tales, the princess never refused the prince, did she? So how would this story end?

  Perhaps he didn’t yet know who the princess was.

  He knew full well that for him, there might be no happily ever after. But he must ensure a happy ending for Wyverne, whatever the cost.

  Twenty-one

  After two hours in Preston, Caroline thought she had a fair idea of the life of a governess.

  It had not begun that way. She had intended to shop with Emily, wanting to buy something that would make her feel beautiful again, even next to the engraving-sharp loveliness of Eleanor Cartwright. A gold necklace, maybe, or some frivolous, silky underthings to lie next to her skin and remind her that she was still a young woman, desired and desiring.

  Though the thing she desired most was to listen to Michael’s conversation with Miss Cartwright, to understand how that lady was able to captivate someone Caroline had not thought could be captivated.

  Before she and Emily could do more than decide which shop to enter first, though, Caroline recalled her mission in relation to Lord Stratton. The man was as unwelcome as a fly in aspic, and she must remove him just as carefully so as to attract no embarrassing attention. She needed to find the earl, drag him to some sort of hotel, and see that he lodged there until he could be returned to London.

  “I’m so sorry, Em,” she sighed. “But it seems our plans to buy half the city in order to make me forget my woes must wait, for there’s a woe I must deal with at once.”

  “Do you refer to a woe the shape of a ninepin, with a padded coat, answering to a name that rhymes with flatten?”

  Caroline couldn’t help but smile. “The very one. I’d love to flatten him for coming here without an invitation. But I’ll try to be a touch more diplomatic and herd him into a hotel instead.”

  With a sorry wave, she left her friend in consultation with a milliner whose outrageous prices practically guaranteed a bustling shop.

  She found Lord Stratton quickly, for his voice carried over the winding babble of the shoppers and gawkers on Fishergate. Almost as soon as Caroline heard him, she saw him; his beloved amber-headed cane swept the pavement clear of passersby in front of him, as though he wished not to have to share space with anyone.

  When he saw Caroline approaching, he executed a neat swivel in the opposite direction.

  Caroline made a leap for him and hooked an arm around his flailing cane. “A paltry attempt to escape, Stratton,” she said through gritted teeth. “If you pretend to have forgotten our mission in Preston, I have not.”

  The next two hours were an excruciating exercise in patience and tact, as Caroline was required first, to physically maneuver a person who was both heavier than herself, most recalcitrant, and with few scruples about placing his hands on her person; second, to locate a hotel that his lordship would deign to enter, which necessitated a trudge eastward to the crossroads with a quiet street called Winckley; and third, to procure him accommodation when he refused steadfastly to speak for himself. The cursed man only folded his arms in determined silence before a succession of stiff-necked servants.

  In her ear, he murmured, “You can’t make me do anything I don’t wish to. Nor can you make me stop doing something I enjoy.”

  “Maybe I cannot,” she replied in a voice of false sweetness. “But I can make others do what I wish. And there are plenty of people in this town who are larger than both of us.”

  When a strapping manservant passed by in the lobby of the hotel, Caroline pressed a crown into his hand and asked him to assist her dear relation into the best room available, as she feared he was rather simple. “He’s out of his wits from time to time, and I shouldn’t like him to frighten any other guests. Could you ensure he remains in his room?”

  A few ruthless waves of her lashes and wiggles of her chest, and the man was happy to oblige.

  “Do have a pleasant journey back to London, Stratton,” she said with a cheerful wave as the manservant hoisted the earl up the hotel stairs by an elbow.

  He struggled, but in vain. “Not bloody likely.”

  “Now, now, you’re speaking to a lady,” grunted the manservant, restraining Stratton from another attempt at escape.

  “Not bloody likely,” the earl repeated.

  Caroline rolled her eyes. “I shall have your trunks sent here from Callows so that you may have your own things about you until the time of your departure. What’s yours is yours, isn’t it? Just as what’s mine is mine. I remember.”

  The look he shot her was pure murder. But in another second, he was dragged around the bend of the stairs.

  Caroline stood still for one second, feeling as buoyant as a governess whose least-beloved charge has finally gone away to school. Then she shook off the annoyance that Stratton always roused in her, and she stepped out of the hotel into the silver sunlight of Preston.

  She looked left and right, hoping to catch a glimpse of her friend. Emily loved to wear yellow, and as a result, she was easy to pick out in a crowd.

  But Caroline’s eyes caught first on a tall, dark-haired figure, folded up on a bench across the street from her. There was nothing unusual about his appearance, but he might as well have been dressed in cloth of gold and an ermine cape, so quickly did she notice him.

  Her feet pattered over the pavement toward him.

  “Michael,” she called once she drew within a few yards. He was leaning forward, elbows on his thighs, studying his interlaced fingers. She could see the lines of his lean muscles through his breeches. Ohhh. She wanted to touch him.

  He looked up at the sound of his name. Quickly, she wiped the lust-struck expression from her face.

  “I’ve dispatched Stratton,” she said.

  His mouth curved. “You can’t mean you’ve killed him.”

  She laughed. “Not this time, though I was tempted. I’ve installed him in a hotel under guard and made it quite clear that he was to return to London.”

  He nodded, then shifted to settle against the back of the ironwork bench. His arms spanned the top of it.
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  If she sat next to him, she would be within the span of his embrace. Practically.

  Instead, she puttered around, swinging her gaze between the quiet, well-tended gardens and homes of the wealthy, the bustle of Fishergate, and the pole that stretched high and imperious behind Michael.

  “Is that for gaslight?” No wonder he sat here. Gaslight would draw him as surely as it would a moth.

  “Indeed.” His mouth pressed into a flat line. “I have lately been informed that it is a marvelous innovation, but to be pursued only if one sees an immediate financial return.”

  “You sound distressed.”

  “I beg your pardon. I’m nothing of the sort.” He looked down his nose at her. “I might be slightly fatigued, that is all.”

  His fingers began tapping on the stern metal of the bench; Caroline suppressed a smile. His body roiled with energy; it would ever betray his true feelings. “So, what is not distressing you?”

  “Everything in the world is not distressing me, because I am not distressed.”

  “Excellent. So you find Miss Cartwright acceptable, then. Has she proposed to you yet?”

  His back went rigid. “Has she—what?”

  A gratifying reaction. “I asked you if she had proposed. Marriage, I mean, not some business affair. She knows you want a wife, and she is accustomed to making swift decisions. It’s a habit she learned at her father’s knee, I believe.”

  His mouth seemed to be getting flatter still; it allowed a single sentence to escape. “That’s not a habit I expected in a wife.”

  “Why not? It’s a trait you share.”

  His throat worked. “I am not yet certain whether I shall pursue Miss Cartwright. It may not be desirable that my life’s mate reflect all my own qualities.”

  Not yet certain. After everything Caroline had invested. He rejected her aid and her choices, the purpose of this whole house party, as though they were no more significant than a bowl of soup that was not to his taste.