To Charm a Naughty Countess (10 page)

“And unattractive ones too. Sadly.” Caroline dusted biscuit crumbs from her fingertips. “I suspect you’re not the only man in London who has qualms about dancing. It is one of the most complex of our rituals, you know. Every step heavy with meaning, every gesture holding import.”

“That is not a helpful observation.” Michael’s right leg began to bounce, agitated. “I thought dancing was intended to be diverting, but where is the diversion if every dance holds more significance than the average speech before Parliament?”

“This.” Before he understood her meaning, she rose from her seat to flatten a palm on his chest. His heart thumped for her notice, but then her head bent close to his, and he felt the warmth of her breath on his ear. “This, Michael.”

His scalp prickled; he had no idea whether his heart continued to beat. He only felt, wanted, craved as she took his hands, pulled him to his feet, then slid his hands around the curve of her waist.

His fingers flexed. “The sphere is no longer my favorite shape.”

Stupid brain.

“You have a favorite shape?” She paused. “Never mind. Of course you do. Might I hope your favorite number is three? We’re going to waltz.”

“What? Here?”

“Here. Now. One, two, three,” she murmured. Then she tugged at his shoulders, humming tunelessly.

His feet followed as they were bid, at first stumbling until he seized upon the pattern of the steps. Ticking off circle after circle, transporting him ever onward, to a place that was entirely distant from a morning room on a noisy street in London. They turned, silent and slow, deliberate as arithmetic, and there was nothing but the sum of their parts. Body and soul and the sweet feeling of Caroline in his arms.

They fit together, hands and bodies, in every way. Two gears from the same wondrous machine, made to work together.

The tuneless scratch of her hum died away, leaving them alone in a roaring silence.

He had forgotten his body for a few minutes—a blessed gift. Now that it pressed upon his notice again, it was not as usual. Every fiber of his form felt taut, but the feeling was pure and bright, like feeling the sun on his skin for the first time after a long winter.

At
long
last,
he thought as he bent his head.

She slid her hands to his face, then turned her head to breathe his name in his ear. “Michael.
This.
Let me show you the pleasure in it.”

He had never known an ear was useful for anything but hearing. Yet as she breathed in it—as he could almost feel her lips upon its sensitive folds—pleasure arrowed through his body, sudden and startling.

Surely she could feel his arousal through their clothing. Would she pull away? But no, she caught his shoulders again and pulled him closer.

His hands framed her face, then tangled in her coiled hair. Delicately, he brushed her lips with his. So soft. So heated. She gave a little sigh and slid her arms down to encircle him.

Why—she was
embracing
him.

He had not been embraced since the last time he surrendered himself to her touch.

Of reflex, he waited for the gut punch of chilly tension, the intrusive pounding of his headache. But she tugged his head downward, and her hot tongue found the rim of his ear, and his every rivet simply popped. He was steam, mindless and formless and boiling, and dimly he heard himself moan as she gently nipped his earlobe.

He caught her mouth again, smothering it with his own, wanting to consume their every sound of need. This was a power both unprecedented and exhilarating: to please a woman with his body. He had never done such a thing before, never been so close or so passionate.

But his own flesh understood things darker and deeper and hotter than anything Michael had ever studied in a book. He knew just how to press back when Caroline rubbed against him. He knew how to match her mouth with his, how to invite the delicious torment of her tongue. The taste of her was indefinable, like heat itself, and he sipped at it to understand it more fully. There was no understanding it, though, none at all. It was wildness for its own sake, and it was marvelous.

His hands had their own will, stroking her back and pulling her more firmly against his body. He wanted her inside him; he wanted to be inside her. The touch of her was magical, more intoxicating than brandy could possibly be.

No wonder he had resisted such closeness. It was unmaking him. He was drunk on it, and the realization made him shudder with thrilling force. This,
this
was why people danced and loved, and why they offered one another night after night of pleasure.

But pleasure would not save Wyverne.

The thought was as heavy and painful as hitting his thumb with a hammer.

There was no reason to dance with Caroline, or to kiss her. The solution to his problems was the prosaic circle of a guinea, not the sinuous curve of the woman in his arms.

He let his arms sink to his sides. They felt as weighty as if all the burdens of the world had been placed on them.

Which was a ludicrous overstatement. It wasn’t the world. It was merely eighty thousand acres of it, scattered far away and sere, needing him more than he could ever need anything or anyone.

“I…” He began, but had nothing to say next.

That single syllable was enough, though. He could almost hear the fragile intimacy shatter as Caroline stepped away from him.

“I can do without pleasure,” he made himself say. “It is not a requirement. Only money is a requirement.”

“I am sorry to hear you say that.” She was still too close to him, close enough to touch, yet she did not touch him again. “For I think an appreciation of pleasure would help you greatly in your cause. Without feeling it, you can never give it.”

“I said I felt pleasure in taking apart the lamp.”

She gave a dismissive wave. “Purely intellectual. That type of pleasure is cold and solitary. Instead, I’m talking of the pleasure of the flesh and of the soul.”

Michael felt himself on unsteady ground. “This cannot be relevant to my search for a wife.”

“It is relevant to everything,” Caroline insisted. Now it was her turn to pace the room. With her hands tucked behind her back, the beaded bodice of her gown pulled tight over her rounded breasts. Michael knotted his fingers again, reminding them that they were not to touch. “Surely you want your wife to admire you, and one day even love you.”

His mouth had gone dry. “That would be ideal, though it is not necessary.”

She pivoted, faced him. “No? It should be. How much better would your inevitable marriage be if your wife smiled when she saw you each morning? If she caressed you because she loved the feel of your skin and knew that you loved her touch? How much better if you had someone to talk to who accepted everything odd that you said, because she admired the workings of your mind and trusted your judgment?”

He stared at her. The idea of such a wife, such a life, was like riding the
Catch
Me
Who
Can
locomotive across the Channel from Dover to Calais. In a word: impossible.

“No one has such a marriage,” he said. This was not, he knew, a statement of fact. It was a theory that could be disproven by a single counterexample.

“You’re wrong,” Caroline replied, “though that doesn’t matter. What matters is whether you want that for yourself, or whether you only want to discharge your debts and carry on as you have for the last eleven years.”

“Business before pleasure,” he murmured. There was always business. There was never any time for pleasure.

That was Michael’s choice. If he had wished, he could have hired himself an army of servants, left his estates in their charge, and gallivanted around London, whoring, drinking, gambling. Living as his father’s son, allowing his land to dwindle irretrievably into poverty.

But he would not; he was not built to slough his responsibilities onto others. Such pastimes were meaningless and therefore worthless. Instead, Michael chose their opposite: the business of his dukedom. He devoted his considerable intellect and energy toward improving finances and land matters, and each year—until this one—had seen progress.

Wyverne was his responsibility. And discharging his responsibilities fully and well held pleasures of its own.

“Business before pleasure,” he repeated, catching Caroline’s eye. “That is the way it must be. Finding a wealthy wife is my business. If pleasure comes later, so be it.”

She watched him for a long, unblinking moment. Michael felt as though she saw through his veneer of determination to the desperate longing within.

“So be it,” she echoed. “Then we shall seek out Miss Meredith.”

After spearing him with such a look, he wished she had not accepted his answer without demur.

But why should she not? Theirs was only a tie of business, after all. No matter how pleasurable it might seem for a moment frail as crystal.

“Deuced cold, isn’t it, Your Grace?”

Lord Kettleburn clapped Michael on the shoulder and grinned at him. With a fluffy crown of white hair and a fleshy nose webbed with burst capillaries, the elderly baron was as inelegant as he was jovial.

“Deuced cold,” Michael agreed. At his side, Caroline coughed so much that he suspected her of covering a laugh.

The Kettleburns made an unlikely pair: he, a rough-spoken
pukka
sahib
who had made a fortune in shipping; she, a viscount’s daughter several decades his junior, whom he had purchased shortly after receiving his barony for economic services to the Crown.

In other words, Kettleburn had started with money and used it to gild his way to a position in society. Precisely the reverse of what Michael intended to do.

He only hoped his union proved more harmonious than the Kettleburns’. The baron’s money might have bought lobster patties and a large orchestra, but as far as Michael could tell, no one particularly wanted to talk with him.

Except Caroline, who was clasping the old rogue’s hand. “I adore your new chandeliers, Lord Kettleburn. Such beautiful crystal. Are they Venetian prisms?”

The baron cleared his throat. “Can’t say, honestly. M’wife’s picked out all the fripperies and furnishings. She does the choosing, and I do the paying. Suits us both, what?”

The young baroness smiled tightly. Several inches taller than her husband, she reminded Michael of an icicle: thin and brittle in a frost-silver gown, with pale hair pulled back tightly from austere features.

By contrast, Caroline was all warmth. Her gown was dark red, so velvety looking that it seemed to invite touch. In the candlelight, her upswept hair appeared as golden as a sodium flame—though somehow he had thought it prudent not to blurt out this comparison.

“I admire your selections, Lady Kettleburn.” Caroline turned her smile to the young baroness. “And I congratulate you on your fortunate household arrangements. Not many women of my acquaintance enjoy such husbandly trust and indulgence.”

The young woman relaxed visibly, and Caroline turned to their host again. “My lord, the punch is your own concoction, is it not? I’ve heard it’s the perfect complement to an evening of dancing and merriment. Wyverne, you must try it.”

The baron blinked hazily. “Er… yes. I’d be honored, Your Grace. May I show you to the refreshments?”

“No need, my lord.” Caroline waved him off. “Your other guests would miss the pleasure of your greeting. I’ll steer Wyverne in the right direction.”

With a flurry of nods and smiles all around, they moved into the arcade of rooms their hosts had opened up for dancing.

“Truly, I have no idea in which direction you are steering me,” Michael muttered. Like his own London residence, Kettleburn House was a stretching home in an elegant but not modish part of London. But as quiet and dim as Wyverne House was, this one was tumultuous, full of winking candles and babbling voices, the heavy scent of meats cooked in butter and lard, the bleat of oboes and thrum of strings. Already his head pounded in time with the country dancing; already he was tense from holding himself out of Caroline’s reach, from reminding himself not to reach for her.

Tonight, he had another chance to show the world who the Duke of Wyverne was. And by God, he’d better not cock it up again.

Caroline nodded at a gaggle of richly dressed women then waggled her fan at another group. “I am steering you into society,” she said. “Is it not obvious? Lord Kettleburn is now convinced that you are keen to try his punch, than which he can imagine no greater honor. And his lady wife is of better cheer knowing that her domestic arrangements are admired rather than scorned.”

She turned to Michael, lovely as a wicked angel. “This is how we shall proceed. All you have to do is say ‘Deuced cold’ when the moment is right and think of something kind to say whenever you can. Just as we practiced last Saturday.”

“Why need we waste such efforts on people such as the Kettleburns?” Michael asked. “They have money but no influence, no daughter for me to pursue. Surely our time would be better spent courting the favor of someone else.” Unkind, perhaps, but his reserves were finite. He already felt like a spring over-tightened, tense beyond bearing.

“Spoken with a duke’s hauteur. Why waste your favor on your inferiors?”

“That’s not what I meant.” The rhythmic headache added a brutal glissando. “I speak of time being limited, not favor. I am only conscious of the need for haste.”

“Ah. So you wish to focus your attention on the best people.”

“I—”

“Aristocrats, you mean. Dukes such as yourself.”

He wondered whether she was being deliberately obtuse. “If they have money and unmarried daughters.”

Caroline snapped her fan closed. “Someone such as the fifth Duke of Devonshire, you mean? He was blessed with both daughters and deep pockets. A prince among men, to be sure. He made his wife’s life a hell by taking up with her closest friend under his own roof, yet when the duchess strayed, he had her exiled to France.”

“I don’t mean—” Michael tried to break in, but Caroline continued ruthlessly.

“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 compliment 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.”