To Charm a Naughty Countess (25 page)

Quietly, she added, “Perhaps you are chafing at being misunderstood. But it’s done, Michael. Your departure was for the best. We would have matched even more ill eleven years ago than we would now.
Don’t say it
.”

His mouth pressed shut over the inevitable
I
beg
your
pardon
.

Oh, that mouth; it was a poem, with its full swoop and determined curve. But all it could utter was prose. He had no heart, only a ledger in which he had now totted up an old equation that he could not solve.

“I do not think we match ill.” His face was grave, tired. He looked as alone as Caroline felt.

“You have no inkling,” she said. “You clearly think you mean well, but you’re only indulging yourself at the expense of others.”

“Indulging myself?” He let out a sharp sound that was not quite a laugh. “Madam, look around you. I’m hardly living in sinful comfort here.” His fragile chair creaked alarmingly as he shifted his weight.

“I’m not talking of surrounding yourself with silks and pillows and expensive brandy. I’m talking of how you do as you like, heedless of how it affects others. You’ve done that to your tenants for years; you did it to me tonight. You never consider whether the end justifies the means you employ.”

Michael stood in a whip-quick movement and began to pace the small room in short, choppy steps. He wound amidst the furniture, falling alternately into the light and shadow of the lamp.

Restless, always restless. She felt still more tired just watching him. It was like talking to a caged animal; all he knew was his own tumult, not the tumult he left behind.

“I will ignore,” he said in a voice as clipped as his stride, “your inaccurate use of the universal ‘never.’ I assure you that the
means
, as you put it, preoccupy me constantly.” He booted a puff of a footstool out of his path. “I simply do not always foresee the end. As you once said, I am not a Gypsy prognosticator.”

“Fair enough. But what I mean is that you don’t consider the cost. You simply blunder ahead with whatever it is you want to do. Perhaps you felt a twinge of guilt when Emily told you how I had been scorned over a decade ago. But did you consider nothing else? Such as the fact that referring to an old humiliation creates a new one? You eased your conscience, but now eighteen people might be whispering about my scandalous ways.”

His feet bumped up square against the edge of her chaise, and he stared down the length of it, finding her face.

At last she had his full attention, and she pressed on. “Or to draw a parallel to the land you love so much—did you never consider that if you had simply continued the methods of your father, you might never have bankrupted your dukedom? That all your planned innovation might be foolhardy? Yes, you enjoy it, but there you have it once more: it’s self-indulgent. It pleases no one but you.”

He sank slowly onto the end of the chaise, like an empty suit of clothes being dropped.

Caroline folded her legs to get them out of the way of his heedless body. He didn’t look at her or speak, and she suddenly felt a piercing guilt of her own. She had struck too hard at him, maybe, repaying a minor wound with a mortal one.

He fixed his gaze on the clear light of the lamp on the mantel. “Is that what you truly think of me? That I never consider the cost?”

She took a breath. “How can I think anything else after the carelessness with which you have treated me? Or Wyverne? All the polite world knows your family used to be wealthy, and now you are not. The problems cannot all have begun with the terrible winter this year. They have no doubt been burgeoning for years.”

“They have.” His voice was quite calm, almost spiritless.

She forced down a treacherous urge to clasp his hand, to take it all back. He wanted the truth from her, and he deserved it. For reasons good and ill. “Let us leave the subject of your dukedom. It’s none of my affair. But I must make you understand, Michael, how I have built my life.”

The room felt cold and dark around her, and she struggled to muster her thoughts into a neat structure. “I chose to make myself a countess, even though I knew what it would cost. I took the gifts I had been granted—youth and beauty and a fair amount of wit—and I sold them as dearly as I could. Even before I met you, I never expected to marry for love. I wanted a different sort of life, and I considered that above all.”

Mostly, she had—until heedless Michael had caught her eye. Her lips. Her heart. She had not even thought about his title, only about him.

“When you left London without a word, I set such foolishness behind me and returned to the business of catching a husband. Yes, the matter had become urgent due to the rumors that swirled about my loose morals. But fortunately—maybe due to those very rumors—I caught Stratton’s eye almost at once. I traded my youth for his coin, and in return, we were kind to one other.”

Kind
. As good a word as any for the nine years she’d spent nursemaiding, housekeeping, opening her legs. Whatever her husband required so that his final years would be pleasant. In his final decline, she spoon-fed him and read to him. She had comforted him, and in return, perhaps he had even loved her. Perhaps, had forty years not separated their ages, she might have come to love him too.

“He left me a life settlement and a house in London,” she added. “Under the terms of our marriage settlement, the money stays with me, not the Stratton earldom, even if I remarry. Thus the constant attention of the puppies.” A thought struck her. “Maybe you and I are not so different, after all, both selling ourselves in marriage. But I’ve already sold myself once, Michael. I won’t do it again. I have earned the right to live for my own pleasure at last. And you insult me by offering an apology for the life I have built.”

As he had promised, he did not look offended. After a long moment of scrutiny, he said, “I do understand what you are saying.”

She blinked. “Truly?”

“Yes. But what I am not sure of is why.”

“Why what?”

His dark brows knit. “Why do you value a life in high society? What is the purpose of it all? You have criticized me for finding little pleasure in life, but that is because of the demands of my dukedom. You’ve called me self-indulgent for submerging myself in those same demands, for meeting them as I judge best. You, though—you have constructed your life solely to fulfill your own desires. Yet I do not believe you find much enjoyment in it.”

He might as well have smacked her across the face. Caroline felt his words as a blow, nauseating and swift, and she wadded herself more tightly against the arm of the chaise.

He leaned against the low back of the chaise. His long hands fidgeted as he formulated his next thought. “I know you want to be needed. And I know you do not particularly care for the attentions of your suitors. So I wonder why you criticize me for burdening myself with obligations that prevent my own happiness when you are doing the same. They merely take a different form.”

He turned his head to look her in the eye, and she was fully aware of him not as a man, but a duke: powerful and cold and inexorable. “What is the purpose of this independence you’re so determined to protect? What good is it if you use it only to spend time you don’t enjoy with people you don’t care for? How is that different from the years of your marriage?” Leaning closer, he brushed her cheek with a questing fingertip. “What do you really want, Caroline? Do you know?”

The air grew heavy, her breathing shallow. She was folded into the corner of the chaise, with nowhere to escape as he caged her with questions, with the span of his hand. Her legs trembled, and she was glad she was seated. These questions were too weighty to be borne.

Oh, she could tell he was affected too. His pupils were wide in the low light, his lips parted. His fingertip whispered over her face like a butterfly learning the shape of a new flower. Even now, she could slip into his arms and drug him with the passionate response of his own body.

She felt suddenly as if she were nineteen years old again, young and brash, being offered what she thought she wanted. But she had learned better with the passage of time. At nineteen, she had known that her fondest childhood wish—all the ices she could eat—would only sicken her. Now, at thirty, she knew that Michael was no better for her than too many desserts.

“I don’t want this,” she lied, satisfied when he pulled away from her in an instant.

He stood calmly, smoothing his clothes. His face was inscrutable as he made a bow to her. “If you figure out your answers, my lady, do tell me. But until then, I shall be looking for a wife.”

He had already turned toward the door before she could unlock her tongue for a reply. “You won’t be looking anywhere near me. I’ll begin my journey home tomorrow.”

Petulant, maybe. But who would care?

Slowly, he turned on the heel of his boot, then folded his hands behind his back. “
I
beg
your
pardon
,” he said with deliberate clarity. “We have three days left on our contract. I had not thought you unreliable.”

“Of course you did. Everyone does,” she said. “And it was only a verbal pact; it was hardly the Ten Commandments. I’ve organized a house party for you, and I’ve spent a night with you. Surely that’s more than an adequate commitment of time.”

He lifted a hand to his temple.

“And please,” she added in a voice of chilly splendor, “do not think to come after me. I don’t imagine we have anything more to say to each other, do you? Not after all this time.”

He wouldn’t follow; she knew that. He never did. She only hoped to hurt a bit less if she could pretend he stayed away at her wish, not his.

He let his hand fall to his side. “You once insisted I not gainsay a lady’s request. Therefore, my lady, I shall leave you to your plans. If you require any assistance, you need only to ask.” He turned to leave. With his hand on the door handle, he paused. “I wish you a safe journey home, Caro.”

The door closed behind him far too quietly considering the finality of what had passed.

She had got her way, as always. She had chastised him, cut the tie between them, gathered all her dignity about her in preparation for a splendid exit.

So why did she feel like an empty shell? Her life was lovely on the outside, but there was nothing of substance within.

He was right, wasn’t he? Damn the man.

Caroline was not left alone very long.

Only a minute after Michael left her, she heard footsteps and the
crick
of the stubborn door handle. She sat up straight, smoothed her hair and gown. He was going to apologize? Fine, she would consider it.

It wasn’t Michael who entered, though. It was Stratton.

She gaped at him for an instant. “Damnation, Stratton, what are you doing here? I thought you on your way to London by now.”

“But we have unfinished business, Caro.” He took a step toward her, promptly tripping over the leg of a fussy little marquetry table.

She was not too proud to enjoy the sight. “No, we do not. I cannot be clearer, Stratton, that I will not marry you.” She shook her head. “How did you even get into the house? And why?”

He dropped into the tottery chair Michael had abandoned. It groaned and wobbled gratifyingly under his weight. “I came through a window in some deserted room full of tatty old furniture, then started checking each room for you. When I heard your voice in this one, I waited outside until the duke huffed out.”

“Huffed?” Caroline wanted to sigh. “Stratton, that doesn’t matter. Look, you cannot keep coming to a house to which you have not been invited. This is not sane behavior.”

“Yes, it is. You wouldn’t talk to me any other way, and you must hear me out. I have a proposition for you.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

He looked smug. “I think you do, for it involves that duke you’re so fascinated with.”

Her fingers went cold. He couldn’t have overheard, could he? About her night with Michael? Their supposed contract?

He might have. Stratton would do anything to get her money—even, it seemed, cross the country and commit multiple acts of trespass.

“I’ll hear you out,” she granted, “though I may yet have you thrown out the window you came in through.”

“Very well.” He looked far too pleased for a man threatened with defenestration. “It’s a simple proposition. I know you’re helping Mad Michael find a wife, and it’s not going well. There’s talk about you.”

“You have no idea,” she murmured. Evidently, Stratton had missed the lovely little scene in which Michael rehumiliated her in front of her friends.

“It wouldn’t take much to whip up the scandal rags further. Not only caricatures, but stories. Poems. Bawdy songs. The press needs someone to mock, and it might as well be Wyverne. What do you think his chances of finding a wife would be then? Why, he’d be fortunate if anyone would even speak to him. And what would be the effect on you for hitching your wagon to a madman?”

She refrained from telling him she’d had the same concern. “Your point?”

He shrugged his sloping shoulders; the chair groaned again. “I have plenty of influence with the newspapers. For my wife, I would keep out any items that might affect her or her friends. For someone who is only a relation by marriage, however…”

Why, the rat. She could cheerfully poison him.

“Publish and be damned,” Caroline said. “I shan’t marry you to prevent you blackmailing me. Wyverne and I have both dealt with rumors before.”

“My point exactly.” He smiled. “This is not the first time Wyverne duped you, made a fool of you. That doesn’t speak well for your judgment, does it? Or for your importance. If he wants nothing to do with you—
again
—perhaps there’s no reason anyone else should either.” He reached for her sleeve, running his finger inside the cap of fabric. “Besides the obvious. I suppose even a madman such as Wyverne can appreciate your physical charms.”

She slapped his fingers away. “How vulgar you are, Stratton. Not even a title can give you the air of a gentleman.”

“Nor does yours make you a lady.”

“It made me wealthy,” she said, “which is more than you can say.”

He recoiled at that hit, and she used his silence to think. The most distasteful bit of Stratton’s plan—if she could choose only one—was his willingness to attack and blight Michael’s good name only to punish Caroline. This could not be permitted.

Kicking her feet up onto the end of the chaise that Michael had recently vacated, she felt as though he’d left some of his logic behind. Her thoughts snicked into order, like a box full of magic lantern slides. Just as clearly, she saw what to do next.

She slipped a cool smile over her features. “Here’s something else you cannot say, Stratton: that the young women of London care for your opinion. You may hold the papers, but I still hold sway over fashion. If you and I both try to lead, the women of London are much more likely to follow me than they are to attend to trash printed by a jumped-up cit of a journalist.” Leaning back, she folded her arms behind her head in utter unconcern. “In fact, if you threaten me or propose to me again,
I
shall turn all the young women of society against
you
. No more shall I excuse your behavior for the sake of avoiding scandal.”

“You are the one who will be embroiled in—”

“Bosh,” she cut him off. “If you attack my reputation, or Wyverne’s, I shall starve you in your hunger after money.”

Stratton’s smile crystallized.

In truth, she was not sure whether she had such influence. She had seen the power of the scandal rags to hurt Michael’s reputation, the wariness with which even the fringes of society had once regarded him. And she had not forgotten the faces once turned away from her, or the chill of being pushed to the edge of society.

But she had once told Michael the importance of showing someone how to respond. So with a sweet smile, with an imperious lift of her chin borrowed from His Grace, the Duke of Wyverne, she displayed a confidence she did not feel. “If you play this game, Stratton, you will not win. No wealthy young woman will speak to you, much less consider placing her dowry in your hands. The more you try to ruin me, the less likely it is that you shall get what you want.”

The earl jerked to his feet. “You’d like to think so.”

“I would indeed. And I do.”

His eyes flicked around as though hunting inspiration for a reply. “You think you’ve finished with me, but I know your weaknesses.”

Yes, you do
. “I doubt it.”

Glaring, he said, “I shall think on this matter and speak more to you of it later.”

She sat up again and inclined her head with regal disdain. “You may do that, Stratton. But mind you, come when I’m at home to callers. If I ever see you coming in through a window of my London house, I might be so startled that I cry for the Watch to come cuff you. And who do you think would be caricatured in the scandal rags then?”

With admirable grace, Stratton spun on one patent-shoed foot and exited the room. Caroline wondered for a moment how he would get out of the house without being discovered, then decided she didn’t care. Soon enough, he would develop a repulsive new plan to entrap her, and she would be required to dwell on his schemes them.

For now, she had many things to think on besides the dubious escape strategy of her idiotic relative. First, she had staked her reputation to help Michael.
Again.
She had once told Michael that if he persisted in his social eccentricity, he could drag her down by association. Today, he might have done just that, in the small segment of polite society that currently whispered in his drawing room.

Surely, though, there would be no lasting damage from this night. Surely she would be able to salvage something of her reputation for charm, for appeal, for desirability. Some of her devoted puppies were here, after all, along with her loyal friends Lord and Lady Tallant.

Even so, the idea of remaining in Michael’s home another day sickened her. Because she had defended him to Stratton—would always defend him to anyone—and now she knew why.

Oh, she wouldn’t dare call it love. With all her fortune, she couldn’t afford love. But it leaned that way, precariously close. She could accept flowers or jewels from a man without being touched at all, but seldom did men offer her vulnerability. Never had one given her his virginity.

She prized those gifts, prized him. And she wanted so badly to believe he prized her in return. But he wasn’t giving her anything else. His honesty came coupled with too much disdain for her way of life; his vulnerability, with no love.

Since she could not bear to be without that, it was better that she return to London. She had settled Stratton well enough; Michael and Miss Cartwright seemed sure to reach an understanding soon. No one needed Caroline anymore.

In the morning, she would make her excuses to the party. Possibly she could say she needed to visit her cousin, Frances Middlebrook, who lived just outside London.

Yes, that was a good idea. She would say she’d had word from Frances, and she must depart at once. Whether Emily assumed the hostess role or the house party dissolved, Caroline didn’t care much.

She didn’t have to care about anything, did she? She was accustomed to doing what she wanted to.

Even if she didn’t know what that was anymore.