To Charm a Naughty Countess (12 page)

“Ah.” Miss Meredith’s hand relaxed its grip by approximately twenty-five percent. When she spoke again, her soft coo had been replaced by clear, clipped tones. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I didn’t know. It seems I’ve led you down the garden path.”

He looked at the scrambled plants behind them, the shuffled pebbles of the path, the guttering torches that left them only half-enlightened. “Yes, of course you have. That was the purpose of our walk, after all.”

“No, I mean…” Miss Meredith tugged her hand from his arm and wrapped it, like its twin, around the sticks of her fan. “I had a different purpose in inviting you outside.”

Bewildered, Michael asked, “How so?”

Miss Meredith shuffled her feet. She studied her fan and shrugged.

She was reluctant to admit the truth, then? He ran through possible reasons. “Did you intend that I should compromise you? There is no need for such machinations. I am quite ready to propose at any time.”

Miss Meredith laughed shakily. With her back to a torch, her face was thrown into unreadable shadow. “They warned me you were mad.”

Michael ears rang as though she’d slapped him. “I
beg
your pardon.”

“I intended quite the opposite of a proposal, Your Grace. I thought you might… oblige me.”

“Oblige you in what manner? I have no money to—oh.
Oh
.”

“Yes. Exactly. Oh.”

“I— That is— You can’t possibly mean—” Every sentence Michael tried was impossible. He shook his head, hoping the world would rattle back into place.

“Unmarried women don’t enjoy the pleasures men do,” she said. “But I want to. That is all.”

“You could marry.” Michael squinted at her silhouette. “You could enjoy fleshly pleasures in a respectable way.”

“If I married, I would lose control of my money.” She shook her head. “I can’t have that. I simply want to be… obliged.”

“And why did you choose me for this singular honor?” He could not keep the ice from his voice. He had never
obliged
anyone in his life, and he was damn well not going to begin with a gaudy stranger in the outdoors.

“Because you are an eccentric, Your Grace. It is well known that you care little for the rules of society. If anyone is willing to cast off propriety, it is surely someone like you. And you are quite a fine figure of a man, you know.”

“I am most gratified to hear it,” Michael replied stiffly.

She seemed at last to comprehend his displeasure, for she fell silent. Her arms folded in front of her body, then dropped to her side, then refolded.

If she felt anything like he did, she had no idea what to say or do now. Surely they had plumbed the very depths of embarrassment. Nothing Caroline had taught him had prepared him for a situation such as this: a woman rejecting his respectable proposal and making him an indecent one.

He didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh until the buttons popped off his waistcoat, or to sit and let his headache take full possession of his senses.

So he did neither. Instead, he said the only thing he knew was always appropriate. “Deuced cold, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Miss Meredith said with admirable calm, stepping out of the torch’s shadow. “Shall we return to the house? I don’t suppose there’s any purpose to our remaining out here any longer.”

Michael held out his arm to her. After a long pause, she took it. They retraced their steps in silence—on her side, maybe chastened or embarrassed. Michael could destroy her reputation if he wished to.

Of course he would not. A reputation was a fragile thing; he would never damage a lady’s simply because she had the verve to admit what she wanted.

In fact, he had a marvelous idea. One that might help this lascivious maiden and achieve a small victory of his own at the same time.

“Miss Meredith,” he broke the taut silence. “Have you ever made the acquaintance of Lord Hart?”

“N-no,” the young woman faltered.

“I have been thinking of your stated aim, and I believe he’ll answer your purposes admirably. Shall we see if he is in attendance tonight?”

She halted. “Is this a jest?”

“Not at all. You have done me the honor of entrusting me with your confidence. I would like to assist you, though I cannot do so—ah, directly.”

Help. Simply help. This was how Caroline had repaid his own clumsy proposal. He could do the same for her friend.

And perhaps distract Caroline’s preferred admirer from her side too.

Miss Meredith turned toward Kettleburn House, then nodded. “Very well. Thank you. I should be glad to make his acquaintance. But you need not concern yourself in the matter; I’ll ask our hostess to perform the introduction.”

They resumed walking. For the first time this evening, the drumbeat in his head relaxed. Michael was not what Miss Meredith wanted, but he had made amends for that. And so her hand on his arm was simply a matter of courtesy; there was no further expectation that he would flirt and no chance that she might accept his hand.

And that was all right. She was not who he wanted either. Though it was not her place to make amends for that.

No, that was Caroline’s fault, and Caroline would answer for it.

By unspoken agreement, they strode quickly back to the beaming house. Before they climbed the steps up to the stone terrace, Miss Meredith stopped Michael again. Light from the ballroom filtered down the steps, gilding her bright hair and pale skin.

She was a vision; she just wasn’t
his
vision.

“You’re quite kind, Your Grace.”

“I am most gratified to hear it.” This time, he could speak the words with a smile.

“I hope you find the lady you’re looking for.”

“I hope you achieve your goal as well.” He bowed over her hand, then led her up to the terrace. With a curtsy of farewell, she returned to the house.

Enjoying the slight breeze, Michael leaned against the balustrade and soaked in the quiet. The sense that he had done right by Miss Meredith was a small triumph.

The sense that Caroline had not done right by him? That was thornier.

He often felt as though society spoke a foreign language. In recent days, Caroline had served as his translator, putting the proper words in his mouth when he had none of his own. All in pursuit of a goal: a wealthy wife.

So why had she chosen to introduce him to Miss Meredith? Surely she had known about the young woman’s proclivities. She certainly knew of his own preferences, his reluctance to be touched or to trust anyone. Yet he had touched Caroline, kissed her, trusted her.

Splat.

A fat, cold raindrop slapped him on the cheek. He wiped it off, but another spattered his still-raised hand at once. With a suddenness familiar to all Englanders, rain began to pitter over the terrace, darkening the buff-colored stone in blotchy circles.

It was refreshingly cold, damping the air’s acrid heaviness. But much as Michael wanted to stay and let it wash away his thoughts and clean his skin, he could not. He wore linen and wool and fine knit, and his elegant clothing would be ruined by the rain.

How he had changed since he had come to London not quite three weeks ago. He was protective of his clothing. He was conscious enough of propriety to turn down an
affaire
. Maybe he really was mad.

He actually managed a smile at the idea.

He strode to the French doors and shoved them open. At once, the chilly drizzle was exchanged for the humid, close air of the Kettleburns’ ballroom.

No matter. He would clear the air soon enough.

Michael found Caroline sipping at a cup of punch, listening to an overweight gentleman of indeterminate years and liquor-red face holding forth about horses.

“Y’see”—the man squelched a hiccup—“a chestnut has no get-up-an’-go. Everyone knows that. If it’s a fine trotter y’want, choose a bay every time.”

“How fascinating. I had no inkling,” Caroline said over the edge of her cup. “I know it’s important to have a matched pair, but that’s the limit of my insight.”

“A matched pair of
bays
.” The man hitched at his waistband and braces. “You’ll never go wrong with a bay. Deep through the chest, they are.” He leered at Caroline’s bosom as he spoke the final word.

Michael had enough of this nonsense. “Pardon me, I need to borrow Lady Stratton. There is something particular I need to discuss with her.”

“Eh?” The man looked around blearily. “Caro?”

“His Grace, the Duke of Wyverne,” Caroline introduced hurriedly, as Michael began to tug at her arm. She bobbed a farewell, handing off her cup to the man. “Do excuse me. I always enjoy our chats, Lord Caulfield.”

“About utter rubbish,” Michael muttered, as he dragged Caroline after him through a crowd of people.

He was tugging at her with more force than he’d realized. Before he could halt, he blundered into the space cleared for dancing. A reel was going on, with small groups of people stepping and interlacing and twirling as the orchestra sawed away.

Michael froze.

He might as well have stepped onto an opera house stage in the middle of an aria. Dancers shuffled around him, glaring at his disruption. His heart thudded, readying him for escape—but no, he couldn’t turn tail. He flailed for the memory of his waltz with Caroline, for the thrill of it, but it was stomped away by the shifting patterns of booted and slippered feet.

His vision dimmed; his head felt light.
Too
much
.

Someone seized his hands, tugged. He was pulled forward; then someone pushed at his stiffened forearms until he stumbled backward.

“That’s it,” murmured a familiar voice. “Now hey to the left and thread through the next couple.”

Michael blinked, shook his head. The haze in his eyes and ears resolved into the brass-bright ballroom of Kettleburn House. Caroline had tugged him into the bottom of a reel and was beaming as though this fumbling dance delighted her. She nodded and laughed greetings at the other dancers, even as her hands kept a steady, guiding pressure on Michael—one hand, then two, then just a touch as the dance forced them apart.

Years ago, Michael had learned these steps. He would not have expected his feet to remember them after all this time. Perhaps they did so only because his mind was distracted by the unlikeliness of the situation. He had been preparing a splendid rant for Caroline, and instead she had rescued him from yet another social trespass.

She was always right, damn her. When he’d thrown a few manners at Miss Meredith, the young woman had rolled over like a puppy—more swiftly, by far, than he had expected. Now that he was stomping through a dance, the glares had turned to curious stares. Even smiles. When Caroline smiled, the world smiled back.

Prepare
them
for
what
they
ought
to
see
and
feel.
Just as she had said. She was mistress of society, wholly and completely. So what need had she of Michael? Was he an experiment? A test of her skill?

Why
are
you
helping
me?
The question battered at his teeth and lips, but there were too many people around for him to ask her, the dance too shifting and swift to permit speech. And he did not want to know the answer—not to this question, not to a multitude of others.
Why
did
you
kiss
me? What do you want?

The reel scraped to an end with a spirited flourish from a trio of violins, and Caroline tugged Michael into a bow.

“Creditable,” she said as they straightened up. “I had no idea you meant to dance tonight. Lady Halliwell will delight in telling the polite world that she heard of your intention first.”

“I had no intention, as you know quite well,” he ground out. “Come with me. I was seeking a secluded area. I need to speak to you.”

“In seclusion? How intriguing.” Again, they made their way through the crowd. This time Michael kept his wits about him, not wanting to blunder into another pocket of dancing or a card game or—God forbid—an assignation.

He drew Caroline on until they reached what was usually the Kettleburn’s dining room. It made up the end of the long suite of rooms the baron had opened up for dancing, but as it held neither food nor musicians nor punch, the dark-paneled room was nearly deserted.

Michael found a spindly chair, set it next to a large potted fern, and pressed Caroline onto the seat.

“Are you quite well?” As usual, she sounded completely self-possessed.

He could not nonplus her by any means he knew, but it was all too easy for her to discomfit him. All she need do was stand close enough for him to breathe in her flower-scent; all she need do was touch his hand.

Or, of course, send him out for a garden walk with a woman who wanted a tumble more than a proposal.

“No. I mean—yes. And I do apologize for pulling you away from your conversation with… Lord Drunken Horse.”

“Such delightful manners, Michael.” Caroline raised a brow. “Well, it’s quite all right. In case you hadn’t noticed, you managed a dance with me and a fair bit of touching too, all without becoming agitated.”

“I was already
agitated
when I reentered the house. And I became more so when I found you listening to a bundle of nonsense about chestnuts and bays, as if you hadn’t a care in the world.”

On the wall, above Caroline’s head, hung a life-sized portrait of a hook-nosed gentleman in a powdered wig and the ruffled fashions of an earlier century. He seemed to look down his large proboscis at the two intruders.
Yes, try to explain yourselves.

“Quite correct. I hadn’t a care.” She laced her fingers together and stretched out her legs. “That is, not beyond helping Lord Caulfield have an excellent time. I owed him that much out of gratitude.”

“How so?” Michael wished the hook-nosed gentleman in the painting would glare at Caroline instead of at him.

“Because of Lord Stratton, as usual. My most devoted and contemptible suitor. He argued me into a dance after you went for your romantic stroll, but Caulfield retrieved me soon enough.”

“I hardly think you were better off.”

“I considered myself so. Lord Caulfield contents himself with talking and is pleased with very little by way of reply. Stratton is neither of those things, and so I’d rather talk to Lord Caulfield about rubbish than Stratton about the most fascinating thing in the world.”

“And what is that?”

She searched his face, then laughed. “Oh, a new gown, of course. What else?”

“You’re teasing me.”

“No, I’m teasing myself. Anyway, I’d rather speak with you than either Caulfield or Stratton, as long as it has nothing to do with Carcel—”

“Don’t say it,” Michael threatened.

“—lamps. Ah, too late.”

Michael frowned. “Surely you have friends whose company you genuinely enjoy. Or is Lord Caulfield’s conversation more of your nonsense about being kind to everyone?”

Caroline straightened up. “Lord Caulfield was the finest horseman in London in his youth. He only turned to the bottle after an unruly colt kicked him in the ankle and shattered it. It would behoove you to remember that just because someone may
appear
ridiculous does not mean he truly
is
. After all, Michael, how do you suppose the Weatherby women view you?”

Michael was beginning to dislike Caroline’s insights intensely.

He rolled his head on his tense neck, not caring that he was spoiling the starched folds of his cravat. Then shaking out his arms, he imagined tossing away the distasteful bits of the evening. But no, they still clung to him.

Caroline bit her lip. “Well, we’ve already ransacked this subject quite thoroughly. No need to go over it again. Do tell me, though, Michael. What in heaven’s name has made you so frantic that you don’t even notice when you’re bumbling into the midst of a scotch reel? And what has you so determined to start an argument with me?”

Michael’s face heated. He longed to tell her
I
am
not
, but contradiction would only support her impertinent accusation.

He glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. Seeing no one, he dropped into a chair next to Caroline. The potted palm stretched its spindly fronds over his head, giving him an adequate assurance of privacy. No one could hear them except the bewigged, hook-nosed portrait, and as he was nothing but oil on canvas, he would keep their secrets.

“Miss Meredith,” Michael hissed.

Caroline squinted at him. “I don’t understand. Has she captured your interest?”

“She tried to capture a great deal more than that. She’s looking for a… a male barque of frailty.”

He looked away, jaw set, but Caroline was silent for so long that he turned back to her. She had a hand pressed against her mouth, and her eyes were swimming.

“What?” he demanded.

She flapped her free hand at him, then drew a deep, shuddering breath behind her palm.

A giggle slipped out.

Michael folded his arms. “You are amused. I should have known it was all a joke to you.”

“No, no,” she protested in a shaky voice. “That’s not it at all. I swear to you, I never thought she’d try anything.”

“You
knew
she was like this?” His sense of injury increased—and, were he fully honest, disappointment. Society life held pitfalls enough for Michael without Caroline tripping him up too. She, of all people, had vowed to lead him aright.

Caroline swallowed one last laugh and, with a clear effort, drew in a deep breath and composed herself. “I never”—she choked—“never suspected she would be anything but quite proper with you, Michael. She got in a bit of trouble last season by acting shockingly fast while she was still in mourning for her parents.”

“I’m not shocked, actually.”

“Yes, well, she’s out of mourning now, but her reputation has persisted. She might never make a respectable match. Yet she wants nothing more than the pleasures in which her male counterparts regularly indulge.”

“So you thought you’d foist this pariah off on me.” Michael wished he could fold his arms tight enough to slow his hammering heart; to wall out the sense of betrayal.

“She’s not a pariah,” Caroline said. “She’s a lovely woman with more money than sense who flits at the edge of respectability. As you occupy the same space, and as you have more sense than money, I thought you might deal well together.”

“She’s not interested in marriage.” Michael paused. “But I do believe she’s interested in Lord Hart.” His face heated, belying his casual tone.

“Hart?” Caroline’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t know they were acquainted. I’ve never heard him speak of her.”

“Do you know him so well, then, that you are familiar with his every friend?”

Caroline’s chin drew back. “I do know him well, yes. And now that you mention the possibility, he might suit Miss Meredith admirably.”

Michael was not sure whether this admission ought to deflate him or encourage him. She certainly seemed willing to hand off her paramour to another woman. Not that it mattered. Michael had as little claim on Caroline as she had on him.

She looked thoughtful. “I haven’t seen Hart here tonight, but if he does stop by, Miss Meredith will find him soon enough. She’s a very determined creature.”

“Determined,” Michael said vaguely. His skin was tingling, sensitive under his clothes, as thoughts of
flirtation-lover-marriage-paramour
flicked through his mind.

He was jealous; jealous of everyone else Caroline had chosen. He wanted her damnably, and he never wanted anything damnably. And this desire was more illogical than most. He had already offered her marriage; she had already turned him down.

Caroline started laughing again. “So she tried to seduce you in the garden? Well, I can’t blame her for that.”

“I
beg
your pardon.”

“I tried to do the same once upon a time, didn’t I?”

This was the first time she had referred openly to that night. Eleven years ago, a passion that had shaken him, unmade him. He had fled the force of it, the evidence of his own madness, and transformed himself instead into Wyverne.

It was far from the first time Michael had thought of it, though. But he’d thought of it clandestinely, as an offer forbidden him by his strictest disciplinarian: himself.

Now Caroline brought it into the open with a curving bow of a smile that shot an arrow into Michael’s inflated resolve. When she flexed her shoulders, the swell of her bosom pressed enticingly against the red fabric of her gown.
Scarlet.

“You are nothing like Miss Meredith.” Force made his voice unsteady.

“I know it,” Caroline sighed. “She’s like a flame, isn’t she? So bright and lovely and warm.”

“
In
heat,
I should rather say.”

She gave him a wicked smile.

“That is not the point. You are perfectly respectable.” His voice echoed oddly in his ears, the air growing hot and hazy around him. “I’ve never doubted it.”

“I’m no better than I should be, though I’m much better than you can imagine.”

“I’m sure I can imagine.”

Oh, how he could imagine. He alone, out of all the men at this ball, could imagine with the fire and fervor of lust unrestrained by experience.

Since coming to London, his imaginings crept into every unused corner of his thoughts, kept him awake at night. He was unsatisfied, hungry, and no food would sate him. No body, no woman, but
her
. The clean sculpture of her face, her lush form—they were so lovely that he almost forgot to breathe.