To Charm a Naughty Countess (21 page)

“I’m not interested in being married by a blacksmith.” Stratton tried to draw Caroline’s arm into his, and Michael felt a sudden urge to trip him with that glossy cane he kept dandling about.

“Drat. Pebble in my boot.” Caroline crouched down and began fussing with the offending footwear. “Do go on without me, Stratton.”

Stratton’s brows knit, then he turned back to Michael. “Do the peasants hereabouts speak a local dialect? It might be amusing to observe them in their primitive circumstances.”

Michael studied the shorter man’s face. Was he mean-spirited or merely arrogant?

Neither was a commendation, and Michael was not pleased by the persistence of this uninvited guest. “They might recommend that you go to ecky, Stratton.” An imp of delight danced down his spine.

“Would they? And where is Ecky? Some godforsaken place hereabouts?”

Michael wouldn’t have thought he would enjoy insulting another man to his face quite so much; it seemed unworthy of him. But then, this was Stratton, and Stratton was unworthy of Caroline. “Not at all. It’s a very popular place among the
beau
monde
,” he replied. “Quite far south of here. Much warmer. I think it would suit you very well.”

“It sounds pleasant,” Stratton agreed before turning back to Caroline again.

The saturnine form of Josiah Everett drew forward from the flock. He matched Michael’s stride and cut his dark eyes sideways. “Teaching the earl a little of the local dialect, Wyverne?”

“Merely trying to be an accommodating host.”

“My mother lived in Lancashire for a time. Had a rather salty tongue, she did.”

“Ah.”

“I think,” Everett said, “that you’ve recommended an excellent location for your unexpected guest.” And with a smile, he drew a thumb across his forehead in a mock salute.

So, at least one other person here knew that Michael had told a peer of the realm to go to hell. And that person approved.

Michael wished he had the knack for easy conversation, for this was the type of moment in which friendships were cemented. Instead, he returned the mock salute with a bob of his head that felt awkward and over-stiff, and when Everett turned to answer a young lady’s question, Michael lengthened his stride to pull away. He was thankful for the distraction of movement. Working his body, tiring it out, always lessened his tension.

He was full enough of it now—needing a wife, wanting a woman who wouldn’t marry him.

Caroline seemed happy here, didn’t she? But he had said too much when he told her she looked as though she belonged. She wouldn’t marry him; twice, she had said so. And so he couldn’t talk to her with their former ease. He couldn’t show her his deepest self again.

Damnation, she was so beautiful. It was a mistake having her here, for he would never shake his want of her as long as she was around. Even with Miss Cartwright nearby, he only wanted to follow Caroline. He wanted to unravel her pride, unwrap her from her pelisse, unbind her hair, unveil her body.

He wanted to understand her. How could she share her body with him, then act as though nothing had changed? As though he had never touched her at all?

He shivered, chilly spasms that had nothing to do with the temperature. In fact, his head felt as hot and sandy as though he had a fever. Still his feet moved down the road, his head nodded in response to the words he heard only dimly. Every speck of his attention went to pushing himself down the road.

Eventually he would reach journey’s end, a place where everything felt like home again. Eventually.

They reached Preston without much more conversation, and Michael turned the party loose on Fishergate Street. One of the city’s main thoroughfares, it was well paved and bustling, with rows of stocky, neatly painted shops crammed together like tea sandwiches on a tray. For a city of middling size, it had more than its share of prosperous citizens, and pride twinged through Michael to see even Lord Stratton’s eyes widen at the stretching street of ceaseless traffic.

The ladies of the party took their leave in pairs and trios, searching for milliners and drapers, while the gentlemen hunted booksellers and gunsmiths. Preston was, it seemed, the ideal size for Londoners: large enough that they could amuse themselves without boredom, yet small enough that they could remain confident in their own city’s superiority.

Best of all, for this brief window of time, the guests were not Michael’s responsibility. He could relax, catch his breath for the first time since Caroline had happened upon him that morning.

Well. Maybe. Just then, Caroline headed down Fishergate with her friend, Lady Tallant, leaving Michael with a parting nod of significance that he could not interpret.
Don’t botch this
, perhaps.

In another second, he understood why, for a voice sounded at his side. “It is noticeably warmer here than at your home, Wyverne.”

He turned to see Miss Cartwright standing next to him. They were in an oasis of calm at one end of roiling Fishergate, standing at the edge of cobbled Winckley Street. The gardens of the city’s wealthiest residents formed a lush, manicured boundary behind them.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “We are closer to water here, and that moderates the chill, I believe.”

She fixed her cool eyes on him and nodded her understanding. Quickly as that, the subject of the weather was disposed of.

As she seemed content simply to watch him, waiting for further explanation, Michael began to feel distinctly twitchy. He settled his feet, but within his boots, his toes tapped out their desire to begin pacing. “Ah… do you not care to shop, Miss Cartwright?”

“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.