To Charm a Naughty Countess (17 page)

“Just so,” agreed the steward with a gray ghost of a smile.

Michael interlaced his fingers with great care. “Best to know the truth. Let’s have some coffee before we continue with the next ledger.”

Again, that look of glass beads between the teeth—or somewhere rather more uncomfortable. Michael broke in before Sanders could begin another flurry of obfuscation. “Do tell. No coffee?”

The servant lowered his head in seeming shame. “I took it upon myself to economize in your absence, Your Grace, including such household luxuries as—”

“Never mind,” Michael said. “That’s all right, Sanders.”

He wanted very badly to heave a sigh, gulp a hot cup of coffee, and banish the dry, grinding feeling at his temples. But he recalled that in London, Lady Tallant had not even been able to purchase the fruits she wanted, and she was a wealthy countess living in the foremost city on earth. Michael had neither money nor proximity on his side; winter had placed such everyday indulgences as coffee and hothouse fruits firmly out of his reach.

But he would have to reach them somehow. Absently, he squared papers and ledgers with the sides of his desk. “Sanders, we shall have to have coffee within the week for the house party. Beeswax candles too.”

Nothing but the finest for his guests. It was a calculated risk, to gamble his remaining funds to try to win a wealthy bride. This must be the last in the long string of gambles that he had thought would help his dukedom. He had lost the others; he could not lose this one.

Confronted with a difficulty, his brain began to shuffle options. “We had better check the conservatory. It’s too late to plant anything, but there might be some exotic foods in there to supplement what would otherwise be lacking.” He started to stand, ready to stride off to inventory the great glass addition’s holdings.

Sanders nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. I’ll see to it.”

Michael froze halfway out of his chair. He looked at Sanders. The older man was scribbling a note onto a piece of foolscap.

I’ll see to it,
Sanders had said.

It had not occurred to Michael to relax the grip in which he held Wyverne. Not once he returned and could get back to tramping through fields, climbing onto roofs, checking and rechecking to make sure everything was running as it should.

But it was not an unpleasant idea to let Sanders see to this small task. In truth, Michael was tired, and if no coffee was to be had, he was not sure how long he could stave off the weariness tugging at his eyelids.

He lowered himself into his chair again. This was a small matter in which to trust Sanders, after being required to trust him with such large matters over the past several weeks.

Sanders looked up from his notes. “Your Grace, how many guests are expected?”

“I estimate two dozen, though I didn’t get a confirmed count from Lady Stratton before leaving London.”

“Two dozen, give or take a few. Leave it to me, Your Grace. I shall work with Mrs. Candleforth to secure the food and household items necessary.”

Leave
it
to
me.
That meant the same thing as
I’ll see to it.

If Sanders had been a woman, Michael might have suspected him of playing at seduction. There was nothing more desirable in the world, and nothing less certain, than the promise of a trust fulfilled.

But Sanders had proved himself worthy during Michael’s absence, had he not? He had not done perfectly—but not even Michael had done perfectly. His penury was proof of that.

“Very well, Sanders. See to it.” Both he and the steward pretended that this exchange was everyday, rather than something more momentous. Almost as momentous as Michael going to London or dragging a passel of the
beau
monde
back to Lancashire after him.

Michael leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, tapping them against his chin. “For my part, I must contrive a way to keep my illustrious guests so well entertained that they notice no deficiencies in the weather or the Town comforts to which they are accustomed.”

The endless winter was, for once, not the most chilling thing on Michael’s mind.

If Caroline considered the numbers, Michael’s house party was not off to an auspicious beginning.

With seventeen other guests, she had spent the last four days jouncing north over rutted roads.

Two hours after their arrival, they had congregated in the Callows drawing room and prepared to head in to dinner.

But not one drop of brandy had been consumed, because no one knew where the host kept his liquor, and the host himself was nowhere in sight. And Caroline wanted a brandy like a pig wanted a truffle, because she didn’t quite know what to make of her surroundings.

The drawing room was old-fashioned and cavernous, with dark red wallpaper, a scattering of heavy furniture, and a sour-smelling peat fire that promised, with its brightness, a warmth on which it entirely failed to deliver. The whole room looked well-tended, but also well-worn, as though no one much cared about making the place cheerful or fashionable.

Which was probably the truth of it.

At last, though, the numbers grew more promising, when five minutes after the gong, their host arrived. He made no excuses for his absence; he simply appeared, looking marvelous in dark blue coat and red—or was that coquelicot?—waistcoat.

Seventy-three inches of ducal grandeur, from his sleek dark hair to his hard mouth to his broad shoulders to his careful hands.

Before Caroline saw Michael, she had been ready to freeze him with icy dignity for neglecting his guests. For making her look foolish, dragging a dozen and a half fashionable Londoners northward to an empty drawing room.

But when she saw him for the first time in weeks, her ice melted. Her skin prickled, remembering—
this
one.

Based on her past experience with rejected lovers, Caroline knew Michael might have one of several reactions upon seeing her. He might act coldly to waken her shame; he might flirt with another woman to waken her jealousy. He might even attempt to flirt with
her
, to waken her lust. None of those would sway her.

As usual, though, none of her preparations did any good where Michael was concerned. Because he didn’t act jealous or lovelorn.

He didn’t even look at her.

And now that she saw him, stern and strong and distant, she could not imagine why she had thought
him
the one rejected.
She
was the one who had offered her body, who had surrendered pieces of her heart to his absent guardianship.
She
was the one who had sent notes and invitations, planning this house party to keep herself in his sights.

He had barely acknowledged her flurry of plans. Now that the names on her carefully considered lists were enfleshed before him, she wondered if he found her judgments fitting after all. She had selected the guests with great care. The men were either married and known to be pleasant company, or they were unmarried but judged not to pose competition to the duke.

Lord and Lady Tallant, of course; the earl’s good cheer might put even Michael at ease, and Emily’s friendship was essential. Josiah Everett was always amusing, and so Caroline had pried him temporarily free from his employer. Hambleton had been invited, for he was pleasant when separated from Crisp, the cousin whose lofty cravats he so unfortunately enjoyed emulating. The party was filled out by others from the fringes of the
ton
who had no objection to meeting a supposed madman of such elevated rank.

Including the third possibility Caroline had identified for Michael’s hand, Eleanor Cartwright: lovely, wealthy, needle-sharp. She really might be perfect for him.

Michael’s eyes roved over his guests, greeting them all with a slivered nod, sharing a word here and there. But for Caroline, he had nothing.

And Caroline added another possible reaction to her mental list:
he
might
ignore
you—and waken everything
. Shame, jealousy, lust, all rolled into a spiked ball. She wished she could turn it into a mace and strike him with it.

Especially when, without meeting Caroline’s eye or speaking a word to her, he interrupted her tumbling thoughts with a curt sweep of his arm.

Time to go in to dinner. So she smiled as though she were completely at ease, and she marched in at his side. Her fingers hovered over Michael’s arm as they walked, wary of touching, of the effect it so often had on him—or might now have on her.

When she entered the Callows dining room, she forgot Michael for a few seconds; she simply dropped her hand to her side and stared. In the room’s stretching height and width, it was as sturdy and graceful as a medieval cathedral: centuries old; stone-floored and timber-beamed. Completely unornamented by tapestry or carpet, painting or glass. Only a great iron hoop of a chandelier relieved the hard angles of rock and wood.

The chairs and endless table were huge and heavy and dark, Norman in style, and nicked until their finish was no longer glossy. Not fashionable, but made of the finest quality; well-maintained, but not precisely cared for.

Rather like their owner.

The rooms she’d seen so far made quite plain that Michael did, in fact, need a wealthy bride. His house had seen none of his fortune for too long. The realization made her stomach as heavy as though she’d dined early on a course of bricks—maybe because she didn’t like to think of him rattling around alone in this Spartan house.

Or maybe because she didn’t like to think of him taking a life’s companion.

Well, it was his decision. As the nominal hostess of this party, she seated herself at the foot of the dining table and allowed Michael’s servants to fuss unobtrusively with her chair, with serving dishes and glassware.

The service was good. The guests would approve.

But when the soup was served, Caroline’s face fell. It was not the usual white soup she had expected; there were…
plants
in it. Strange little green coils such as she had never seen before.

Before she could consider this surprise further, at the head of the table, Michael raised a glass, and the guests fell silent.

“Thank you all for making the long journey north to my home,” he began, his voice tight and chilly. He took a sip of wine, caught Caroline’s eye for an instant before his wintergreen gaze flicked away.

It was the first time he had looked directly at her.

And then she understood: he had practiced a speech. He had withheld himself until the time came for a scripted greeting—with which he felt more comfortable than milling about in his drawing room asking everyone how their journey had gone.

Though that should have been easy enough.
Deuced
cold, wasn’t it?

He continued, sounding less stilted now. “I have never before hosted a house party, so this will be a time of many new experiences for us. During your time here, I hope you will come to love Lancashire as I do.”

The third and final candidate Caroline had identified for Michael’s hand, Miss Eleanor Cartwright, sat halfway down the table on Michael’s right side. Tall and fair-skinned, with dark hair and a high, intelligent brow, she was listening to His Grace’s words with all the quiet attention of a student absorbing a lecture from a favorite professor.

“This soup,” Michael said, “is the first introduction many of you will have to a Lancashire delicacy. Taste it, please.”

Eighteen spoons, including Caroline’s, lifted. Caroline caught one of the mysterious coiled plants in her spoon and took a hesitant taste.

Ah
.

The soup was a revelation, creamy and buttery and savory. The mysterious plant was slightly crunchy, with a sweet-bitter taste that cut through the fat of the broth and enlivened it.

“This is a soup of bracken fronds,” Michael explained. “I have heard them called fiddleheads. The cold weather has tinkered with our growing season here, as you can imagine, and bracken is almost the only plant growing well this year.”

Out of a lowly bracken, such food could be made? Caroline studied the soup again. Marvelous.

Down the length of the table, spoon after spoon dipped down for more. Each bite added to the skein of flavors woven by simple ingredients combined well. Michael wasn’t aping the sophistications of London; he was giving them something new, something uniquely of the land and of himself.

The evening was turning for the good, and Michael had not needed Caroline’s aid at all.

Then, down the long length of the table, he winked at her.

It wasn’t a subtle expression: he screwed up one side of his face until the eye closed. Then he grinned.

This was a reaction Caroline had never thought to prepare for: ease, humor. Her careful mask of courtesy shattered like spun candy. They were sweet, that wink and that grin, as if he shared a secret with her and they belonged together.

But they did not. Michael was so fond of the truth—so was he lying to himself, or was Caroline seeing only what she wanted to?

She couldn’t tell.

So she winked back and drank her soup.

***

The rest of dinner didn’t match the startling wonder of the bracken soup, but it was pleasant. Given enough wine, the guests were disposed to consider themselves well fed and were also prepared to be well entertained.

One awkward moment occurred when, as soon as the meal was completed, Michael requested that all his guests follow him into a drawing room they’d not yet seen. The male guests shared
we-knew-it
glances to be so denied their port and cigars by this madman, and even the women—who usually waited dully after dinner until the men rejoined them—were surprised to have the usual progression of the evening shaken up.

No more winks came from Michael; he was evidently impervious to the oddity of what he proposed. So Caroline smoothed over the situation, teasing the men about sharing their port with the ladies, speculating about the surprises Michael must have in store for them.

The room to which they were led was large and spare. At its center, atop a scarred marquetry table, squatted a black-painted metal device about the size of a lapdog. It looked like nothing so much as a tiny chimney atop a barrel.

As guests gathered around and blinked at this mysterious contraption, Hambleton gave voice to their puzzlement. “What is this, Wyverne? Some kind of tobacco pipe?”

Michael’s mouth curved. “It’s a magic lantern.”

“I see,” breathed Eleanor Cartwright. “Yes, this aperture permits the projection of an image. What is the light source? That’s not the usual Argand lamp.”

“Indeed not, Miss Cartwright,” Michael confirmed. “I’ve modified this apparatus to use a Carcel lamp instead. I believe it will provide a brighter light, and consequently a—”

“A more vivid image.” Eleanor nodded her determined chin, apparently having no qualms about interrupting a duke. “Without the shadow cast by the Argand style of lamp, all the illumination will be channeled through the glass slide. Excellent.”

Michael blinked. “Thank you.” More loudly, he added, “I hope you will all be pleased by this exhibition. Do be seated.”

Caroline sank gingerly into a severe-looking chair next to the marquetry table; around the room, other guests found seats as well. There was no pattern to the furnishings in this room; velvet-covered chaises with carved Egyptian legs were intermingled with stiff, gilded Louis Quatorze chairs, sturdy Hepplewhite, and the human-sized mousetrap on which Caroline had, unfortunately, seated herself. Costly once, but now a complete jumble. Caroline’s hands ached to tug and pull the room into order. She could make something of this place; she knew it. All the elements were here.

She slid her fingers under her thighs, reminding herself that she was not here to make any imprint on the place. She was here to cut ties. No more Michael. No more of this fascination. She would gain her greatest social success by marrying off the mad duke, and they would both have what they needed.

And they would be finished with one another.

That being the case, she should not have sat next to him. For instead of remaining indifferent, her eyes decided to follow his every movement. Watching as he retrieved a wooden box from a nearby table and slid open the top to reveal rows of glass squares and rectangles, separated by what appeared to be cloth wrappings. When Michael beckoned to a footman to snuff the lights, she couldn’t help but gulp down the sight of those long, square-tipped fingers flexing, remembering how they had played over her body.

Fortunately, the lights went out—all but the one in the magic lantern—before she could betray herself with a blush.

For a few seconds, all the guests stared at the far wall of the room, on which shone a blob of light. Then, with the clean
snick
of glass against metal, a slide covered the light and an image shone forth on the wall.

It was Callows, sunlit and lovely, clean and golden, surrounded by a sweep of lawn so green the painter must surely have taken liberties with the choice of color.

Caroline had never seen a magic lantern show before; she had thought of them as nothing more than amusements for children. But no, this was a wonder.

“You may think yourselves in the north of England,” Michael said, unseen in the dark room. “But those of us who make their lives here think it the center of the world.”

He slotted in another slide in place of the image of Callows, this one of low, brown-gray mountains that stood out sharp against a sky the color of a bluebird’s breast.

“This is the Forest of Bowland, which you’ll see to the northeast of Callows if you approach during the daytime. I know,” he said with a touch of humor, “there’s scarcely a tree in sight, and so you’ll find if you look outside. It’s the ancient meaning of
forest
as a land that belonged to the Crown.”

And
now
to
me
, were the unspoken words. Caroline wished he had spoken them aloud, reminding his guests that he was worthy of their respect.

Though he would be even if he didn’t own a single acre.

“To the west of us is the Fylde,” Michael continued, “which looks to the uninitiated like a stretching flatland.”