To Charm a Naughty Countess Page 5

  She meant to help him. Had helped him in a tiny way. His mouth opened and closed, not wanting to grant a thank you for something as small as falsifying a flower.

  “Please call me Michael,” was what came out instead.

  She popped up from her recline. “May I? How extraordinary.”

  Michael splayed his fingers as he’d seen other gentlemen do and studied the buff on his fingernails. To the smallest detail, his valet had turned him out properly for a man of high society. Now his hands looked strangely decorative, as if they were no longer meant to be used.

  “I would not have thought you would be surprised by this type of familiarity, since you grant it so often yourself.” He tried to speak lightly. He was not successful.

  “The world has trimmed us from very different cloth. I do not expect you to tailor your behavior to mine, Michael.” A pause, as she tasted his name on her lips for the first time. He wondered if she recognized that such familiarity from him was a gift far more significant than a bouquet.

  “We might not be so different, Caro,” he replied. “We made a pact together, after all. We must want the same things.”

  “For you to find a rich wife? Truly, it has been my ambition in life this past decade.” She toyed with a silken cushion tassel, her ripe mouth curved.

  Michael frowned. “I didn’t ask for your assistance. You offered it, which you needn’t have.”

  “I did. I mustn’t tease you, Michael. I know you don’t like it.” Caroline looked contrite.

  “You may act in the manner of your choosing.”

  “Of course I may, you dratted duke. You needn’t give me permission to speak my mind in my own home. I’m trying to be gracious, that’s all.”

  He drew a chair near the settee and seated himself facing Caroline. “It is hardly gracious to call me a dratted duke, you know.”

  She grinned. “There’s that ducal voice again. Well done. And you’re right, I shouldn’t have said that. In the privacy of my own home, I do tend to, ah, relax the proprieties.”

  Michael could not imagine why her cheeks flushed, but the effect was lovely against her golden hair and the grass-green of her gown. Heat shuddered through his body, and he folded his arms tightly against it.

  “To return to the matter at hand,” Caroline said, “propriety is exactly what we are concerned with. Namely, finding you a wife. A respectable one with pots of money. Need she be pretty as well?”

  Michael only stared at fair hair, translucent skin, the curve of pink lips.

  His mouth felt dry, his throat scratchy. A warning tap began in his head: answer. But he didn’t know the answer. His hands fell to his sides, then found the frail arms of his chair and clasped at them as if they were oars on a lifeboat.

  Caroline spoke on. “We can but try for it. I’ve thought of three possibilities. None of them titled, of course.”

  “Why of course?”

  Caroline dropped the silk tassel she had been marring. “Because the ton thinks you mad. Despite the lure of your title, they’ll be reluctant to ally their blue-blooded daughters to a line that might be tainted. You will do better seeking a wife in a family that wants to move up in the polite world. They’re more willing to overlook eccentricity.”

  “Of course,” Michael echoed.

  So, it was just as Sanders had warned him. As his own father had predicted so long ago. Now he must find a wife who would marry him despite.

  Caro tapped his arm. “Michael, I don’t mean to offend you.”

  “You have not.” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “I know that you are quite right.”

  “Money is what you need, not blue blood. If blood alone would answer your creditors’ demands, you could tap yours and sell it by the tablespoon.”

  “That is gruesome.”

  “Merely practical,” Caroline said. “I know you’re here for the sake of your dukedom and your tenants. And I am guessing you would rather bleed yourself dry than fritter about London unnecessarily.”

  “Perhaps not entirely dry.” He tried to smile. To his surprise, he was successful.

  “I believe by the time your courtship is completed, no one will think you anything but sane. More than sane, even. Brilliant. There’s a fine line between genius and madness, you know, and the line can be easily bridged by coin.”

  The same notion had once occurred to him. “You think I can buy my sanity, then?”

  “I have no doubt that you have always had it. The polite world has simply misinterpreted it. Having a full purse will encourage the ton to reevaluate you more generously. It made all the difference for me.”

  He huffed. “You were never scorned by society.”

  “As you have been away for eleven years, you cannot know what my life has been.” She gave him a cool smile. “Now, are you ready to hear about the young women I have identified?”

  Again, Michael’s grip on the arms of his chair tightened. If Caroline’s voice had taken on the slightest tinge of pity or relish as she referred to his speckled character, he would have left her house at once. But she simply shrugged it off, as though a reputation for madness mattered little more than a reputation for overspending one’s quarterly allowance. She thought him sane; she offered her aid; she was confident of success.

  She did not view him as someone damaged, after all.

  The realization was freeing: he felt light and grounded at once, ready to do what was required of him not only as a duty, but with pleasure.

  Though his duty and his pleasure had nothing to do with flaxen hair, with scandalous offers and floral figments. This was a matter of business.

  The idea of trusting anyone, especially Caroline, was… unprecedented. But Michael was not averse to the unprecedented. If he had been, he would not have dredged his money into canals and boiled it away with steam power. And she certainly knew the business of society much better than he. It was quite logical to consult an expert.

  His hands relaxed. “Very well. I would be grateful for your help. When shall we start?”

  Her cool smile turned warm. “As soon as possible, Michael. Tonight.”

  Five

  Michael soon learned that Caroline was as good as her word. That evening, she spirited him off to a small dinner party at the home of her friends, the Earl and Countess of Tallant.

  In Tallant House’s gilt-papered drawing room, Caroline made the introductions. Their young hostess beamed at Michael. “I’ve been eager to make your acquaintance, Your Grace. Though we’ve never met, Caroline has mentioned you many times.”

  This was interesting information. “Has she? What has she said?”

  Lady Tallant laughed. A woman of about Michael’s and Caroline’s age, she had warm auburn hair, a lovely face, and a mischievous smile. “I probably ought not to have said that. Now you’ll be miffed with me—or with Caroline. Oh, do choose her, because no one is ever offended by her.”

  “I find that hard to believe.” Michael shook his head. “No. Pardon. I mean, I find that easy to believe.”

  Lady Tallant beamed at him. “Truth and tact? We shall get along famously.”

  Caroline pulled a face. “Emily, hush. You will make His Grace uncomfortable.”

  “Not at all.” Michael realized he sounded hideously uncomfortable.

  “Oh dear.” Lady Tallant looked penitent. “I assure you, Your Grace, I meant only to make Caroline uncomfortable. But she is the most hardheaded creature in the world. I simply cannot discomfit her.”

  “That is a marvelous gift.” Michael could not imagine the blessed buoyancy of a life in which nothing discomfited him.

  “Indeed it is,” Caroline agreed. “I endeavor to provoke Emily into shocking impropriety for my own amusement, and she tries to do the same to me.”

  “I shall never triumph,” sighed their hostess. “Tallant becomes so worried when I
am—”

  “Worrisome?” Caroline gave her friend a brilliant smile. “Speaking of impropriety, Michael, let us take on its opposite. There is someone you simply must meet.”

  Lady Tallant raised her brows. “Michael? Is this a courtesy title or a discourtesy?”

  “It is a privilege with which His Grace has honored me, and I am grateful for it. There’s no need to be such a harpy, Emily.”

  Their hostess laughed and waved them off as if harpy was the fondest of endearments—which, in Caroline’s buttery voice, it might as well be. Lord and Lady Tallant seemed to be friends of such long standing that they permitted Caroline every trespass, whether a small one like teasing them or a larger social sin such as bringing an extra gentleman to an intimate dinner party with very little notice.

  The other guests had clotted, small bunches of stares, blinks, whispers. Were they whispering about him? Or merely reluctant to have a stranger overhear their conversation?

  Michael’s throat felt parched.

  Caroline spoke low in his ear. “Tonight you’ll meet the first maiden who might suit you, a possible future Her Grace the Duchess of Wyverne. Do come and I’ll introduce you.” Instead of slipping her hand into the crook of his arm, she simply glided away. No touching.

  Thoughtful of her.

  So the mad duke’s bride hunt began. He followed Caroline to a pair of women, both of whom greeted her as though they knew her well. One was as tall as Caro herself, with steely-colored curls and a gown that seemed to have been ornamented by a lunatic, all flounces and beads and lace and pearls and spangles.

  Fortunately, his potential intended was the other lady.

  Caroline presented lunatic-gown-woman as Mrs. Weatherby and the young woman at her side as Miss Weatherby; then she stepped on Michael’s foot.

  “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Weatherby,” Michael began dutifully. “Do you enjoy London?”

  Miss Weatherby appeared to be about twenty years of age. A kitten of a maid, she was small and rounded, softly pretty, with a cloud of light brown hair and Wedgwood-blue eyes. Her little hands kneaded the golden handle of her reticule; she looked both delighted and frightened at once. “I do.”

  Even Michael, thick though he might be at reading social cues, could not miss the force with which her mother jabbed Miss Weatherby in the ribs.

  She squeaked, then looked wide-eyed at her mother. Mrs. Weatherby cleared her throat, then flashed a dazzling smile in Michael’s direction.

  “I. Um.” Miss Weatherby made another squeaking sound.

  Meow, thought Michael. He wondered if he ought to offer her a bowl of milk or a herring.

  No, that was unkind. She had already managed to speak four words to him, which was more than most women he’d encountered at Lady Applewood’s recent ball.

  He tried to look solicitous. Some sort of trick with raised eyebrows—that was what people usually did when they were interested.

  “I, um, live here the year round,” managed Miss Weatherby. “My father is a banker, so he always has business to attend to in London.”

  Weatherby. Like a gear, the name clicked in Michael’s head.

  Clever Caroline. He had not made the connection before, but Weatherby was one of the creditors who held Michael’s estate in his golden grip. He would certainly relax it if Michael married his daughter.

  What was the fair rate of exchange to transform a cit into a duchess? Was the price affected by the supposed madness of the duke?

  He rather thought it was. Mrs. Weatherby was scrutinizing him, probably wondering if he was going to gibber and froth at the mouth. Though she prodded her daughter to speak more, he still had to impress the matron of the family. He must act rigidly, predictably, undeniably sane.

  “How nice for you.” He smiled. Both Weatherby women recoiled.

  Ah. Perhaps he had displayed too many teeth. He closed his lips; Miss Weatherby still looked wary.

  For the life of him, he could not think what to say to her next. He only knew that he must not offer her a herring. It would be a disaster.

  “His Grace,” chimed in Caroline, “has not been in London for quite some years. Miss Weatherby, perhaps you might tell him of some of your favorite shops and sites to visit.”

  “I would be pleased to hear it.” Michael could not mistake a cue handed to him with such plainness.

  “Oh, you must begin with Bond Street, then,” began Miss Weatherby. Slowly at first, then with increasing breathlessness, she recited a list of milliners and modistes and mantua makers.

  Surely the girl did not really think he cared who made her dresses, but just as his jaw tightened, he caught sight of Mrs. Weatherby’s gimlet eye again.

  He must smile. Not too many teeth. No teeth; yes. And nod every few sentences to show her how interested he was.

  This choreography was sufficiently complex that he lost the thread of conversation. When the three women stared at him, he realized he was nodding into silence and had evidently missed some question.

  The too-familiar headache gave a gleeful chuckle and made itself at home.

  Michael squared his shoulders, then looked down his nose as he had at Caroline’s house. Reminding Mrs. Weatherby that he was a duke, and rumors of madness or no, he had the right to cease attending to an inane conversation if he chose to. “I beg your pardon, Miss Weatherby. What were you saying?”

  She flushed, cast her eyes down. “I asked if you intended to stay in London long, Your Grace.”

  “Yes.” His voice sounded hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yes, I imagine I’ll be here for a while. Circumstances require my presence here for the time being.”

  “Do they, Your Grace? And what are those circumstances?” Mrs. Weatherby spoke in a voice of slate: hard and flat and carefully expensive. Michael felt each word like a blow against his skull, and again he lost the thread of conversation.

  “His Grace is most dedicated to the management of his estates,” Caroline replied. “As you are no doubt aware, Mrs. Weatherby, some matters of business can best be transacted in London, which is truly the financial heart of England.”

  She beamed at Mrs. Weatherby, and the older woman’s mouth opened, closed, and then slitted open again to allow the words, “Of course, my lady,” to spill forth.

  Clever, clever Caroline. A subtle compliment at just the right time. Michael was having more difficulty than he had expected placing himself on the auction block, allowing himself to be judged and priced and judged again.

  At least he did not have to do it alone.

  Gratefully, his fingers found Caroline’s where they wrapped around the handle of her fan, and he brushed them with his. Just a slight touch. A thanks.

  She shivered, perhaps because of the wispiness of her red gown’s bodice. Not warm enough for the cool evening. Summer had passed London by, just as it had Lancashire.

  “How many estates have you, Wyverne?” Caroline asked idly, turning to him. “I know they occupy much of your time. Are there five?”

  “Six properties.” The floor seemed steadier beneath his feet at the very thought. “That is, five estates besides the house in Town. Though I spend the bulk of my time at the dukedom’s seat in Lancashire.”

  “It is beautiful in the north of England,” Caroline said. “Miss Weatherby, have you traveled much in that area?”

  “I went to, um, Cumberland as a girl,” replied the maiden. “Never Lancashire, though. What is it like?”

  A question Michael could answer, at small or great length. His aching head was soothed; his tongue unlocked, free and glib, for the first time this evening. “It is like no other part of the world that I have seen. It is quiet and stark, and a man’s living must be broken from the moorland. It’s an honor to set one’s will against the earth, then negotiate a peace with it.”

  As he spoke, Ca
roline excused herself and slipped from his side.

  Well, Michael could not reasonably hope that she would stand six inches away from him all evening. So, clearly, he was being unreasonable in his disappointment.

  For he realized: her work was done. She had built the foundation of this conversation, and now it remained only for Michael to complete the structure. She had created it in a form she knew he would like—reminding the Weatherby women of the grandeur of his title, settling on a topic of conversation he would enjoy.

  And then she had gone to the side of a tall, fashionably dressed young man. Now she was laughing, putting a hand on his arm, and he was grinning back at her with a knowing smile—the smile of a man who enjoyed touching.

  Michael could not help but remember how Caroline had rested her fingers on his arm, how the caress had tested him to distraction. Or today, how he had brushed her fingers with his, then pulled away. Such was the limit of his intimacy.

  Life would be so much easier if he were someone else. Someone who always knew what to say. How to flirt and persuade people. Who didn’t have a dukedom to take care of.

  Easier, but to what end? He was Michael John Wythe Layward, Duke of Wyverne, Marquess of Vaughan, Earl of Beaumont, Baron Lumley, responsible for the well-being of thousands. With his weighty titles came responsibilities just as heavy.

  So be it. There was only one thing to say.

  “May I see you in to dinner, Miss Weatherby?”

  ***

  By the time the men finished consuming their port and tobacco, Michael thought enough time must have passed for a journey to the moon by ox cart.

  Two courses had been served—a rich array to Michael’s eyes, since left to his own devices, he ignored mealtimes. When his stomach’s rumblings grew too distracting, he simply grabbed for whatever food was available. But Lady Tallant set forth for her guests a soup, fish, and roasted beef, then removed them for creamed vegetables and fowls. Everything was perfectly cooked, beautifully seasoned, artfully presented—and this was but a small party of friends. The effort and expense involved in larger entertainments must be staggering.