To Charm a Naughty Countess (4 page)

To Michael’s eye, Caroline’s house was a tall stucco tooth in the chattering mouth of Albemarle Street. Feet, hooves, and wheels trekked back and forth before it in a constant clatter and tumult. Bright flowers tumbled and spilled from window boxes, heedless of the unusual snap in the summer weather. The effect was, Michael supposed, convivial and lovely.

It was entirely wasted on him.

Oh, not because of scorn for its appearance. His own London seat, Wyverne House, was a drafty, squat structure that resembled a giant snuffbox. But Wyverne House had the advantage of quiet and order. It swallowed noise and drank light. Albemarle Street was overfull of both.

Michael’s back began to knot as he marched up the steps to her front door. Caroline was a surprise, and surprises often made him tense.

Not because of her persistent beauty. No, it was her unshakable confidence. Her certainty that he wasn’t mad—yet she offered to help him, as if she recalled their last, disastrous meeting with pity. As if determined to fix something that was broken.

Michael was used to being the one who fixed; he did
not
intend to be seen as broken. He had come today to prove her impression wrong.

But once admitted to the house, Michael found himself blinking amidst a blast of sparkle and color. There was too
much
. The walls were a vivid blue; the polished brass chandeliers, gilt picture frames, and glossy marble floors winked and shone in the slanted sunlight. From inside the drawing room, Michael could hear a dozen voices raised in babble and laughter.

Too much—much too much. Yet entirely normal for the
ton
. Michael gritted his teeth and hoped the expression resembled a smile, then trudged upstairs to the drawing room.

He eased open the door and saw at once that the room was crammed full of men. A riot of dark wool, glossy boots, nasally voices. And vases, too—bunches of flowers, riotous in their color, covered every surface that wasn’t draped with male callers.

Too late, Michael realized he should have brought some sort of nosegay with him. But he couldn’t back out and return with flowers; already everyone in the room had swiveled toward the doorway to regard the new arrival. Their expressions held all the suspicion of schoolboys scrutinizing a student who arrived in the middle of term.

Michael was fairly certain his would-be smile had turned into a grimace. “Good afternoon,” he said.

At the center of the room sat Caroline, fair and tranquil amidst the sordid jostlings of her callers. “Wyverne!” she called out. “How good of you to come. And I’m glad you remembered what I said about the flowers.”

“Hmm,” he replied noncommittally, having no idea to what she referred.

“You aren’t getting tired of flowers, are you?” A young man turned dark, worried eyes to Caroline. “I didn’t know.”

“Not at all, Bart.” Caroline spoon-fed the youthful swain a bright smile. “I adore daisies. So cheery, aren’t they?”

She drew a fingertip over a thin, white petal; as the flower bounced back, pollen scattered across her lacquer-topped table. “His Grace has promised me a special bloom that grows only in Lancashire. He brought the seeds with him to London, and if they blossom, I shall have the only coquelicot carnation in the entire City.”

She dimpled in her delight, and the so-called
Bart
who had looked pleased about his daisies now appeared crestfallen.

“Will you, now?” One of a pair of identically dressed dandies raised his brows and shot a cautious look at Michael. His thumb dandled a snuffbox, tracing its enameled top. “I should like to see it once it’s in flower. I hope it will do you justice, Caro.”

Since he had just been transformed into a botanist, Michael felt as though he ought to contribute something to the conversation. “It will not.”

His voice rang like a slap through the room, and the dandy—his shirt points starched so high he could hardly turn his head—allowed an amused smile to creep over his features.

Michael lifted his chin, ignoring the pressure at his temples, and tried for one of those Galahad comments. “There is no bloom that could do justice to Lady Stratton.”

Wait. That didn’t help. He had just dismissed the elaborate offerings brought by all the callers, hadn’t he? Indeed, the other men shifted in their chairs. If Michael were a ship captain, he would have a mutiny on his hands soon.

“Though these are very nice.” He nodded at a random vase in a random part of the room.

Caroline looked as though she was trying not to smile. “I did allow you to call me Caro, if you’ll recall. And thank you for the compliment, Wyverne. I’ve no doubt that anything you turn your hand to will come to fruition, or in this case, to blossom. Why,” she addressed the other callers, “he’s making the very moors bloom. Did you know that?”

The two dandies turned to Michael, blinking at him like cravat-choked bookends. “Yes, of course,” faltered the one who had not yet spoken. “In Yorkshire, isn’t it?”

“Lancashire,” Michael corrected. Dimly, he wondered why Caroline knew so much about his determination to stretch rich fingertips of farmland onto the stark moors of his dukedom.

A fourth caller spoke up now, a man with a thin, dark face and plainly tailored clothing. “I’ve never heard of such a flower. Is it a new cross-breeding?” To Michael, his question seemed to hold more satirical disbelief than polite interest.

Michael nodded. “Indeed. It is a very recent creation.”
Two
minutes
ago.

“Do sit, please, Wyverne.” Caroline indicated a chair several feet away from the other callers. “Draw that seat wherever you wish. There’s tea if you’d care for some refreshment.”

She reached for a silver bell, but Michael forestalled her with a shake of his head. He was willing to stand aside until these foolish callers melted away, taking their fuss and noise with them. Until then, there was no sense in the infliction of compulsory niceties.

He sat down in the inconspicuous chair, not far from the dark-faced man. “Wyverne,” Michael said by way of introduction.

“So I gathered.” Again, the man wore a damnable look of humor, as if everything was altogether too amusing for words. “It is an honor to meet you, Your Grace. I am Josiah Everett. Just plain mister.”

Michael inclined his head. At this slight shift in posture, his chair creaked.

Hmm. A creak? He wasn’t
that
heavy. He gave the thin, gilded arms a shake, and one of them pulled loose from the seat.

It might be as simple as a peg that had come unseated, or it might need a few nails. The drawing room was littered with chairs like this one; Caro would undoubtedly wish to have it repaired to preserve the set.

Michael slid from the seat, knelt on the floor, and laid the chair on its back facing him. Ah, there was the problem; the carefully fitted pegs holding the arm in place had pulled loose. No doubt the old wood had dried and shrunk.

“Another casualty of the endless winter,” he muttered. “Even the chairs feel the cold in their bones.” More loudly, he said, “Everett, please get me a nail or two. Long enough to pass through this piece of wood. Do you see? And a small hammer.”

When Everett didn’t reply at once, Michael looked up at him, impatient. “Come now. It’ll only take a moment to set this chair to rights.”

Then he noticed that Everett’s face had lost its look of humor; instead, he appeared bemused. And
then
Michael noticed that the room had gone quiet.

So quiet that he dimly heard Caro tell a servant, “Please fetch whatever His Grace requires.” And then the whispering began, as nearly a dozen men felt the need to communicate their opinions at once.

Oh, damn. He shouldn’t have tried to repair the chair, should he? At least, not with other callers here. Though it seemed senseless not to take care of a minor repair as soon as one saw the need.

He hoisted himself from the carpeted floor and stood behind the prone chair. Keeping his gaze lofty, high above the heads of the other callers, he ignored them, though their stares made his skin prickle, and their voices rang in his ears.

When a footman returned with a hammer and a handful of assorted nails, Michael explained the necessary repair, then permitted the man to exchange the rickety chair for a more solid one.

Did the footman know which was the right size of nail to use? Would he bother to fix the chair at all? Michael’s fingers itched to take the hammer from him, to perform the repair himself. He’d know it was done right then, and he wouldn’t have to think about it anymore.

But he wasn’t in Lancashire, amidst his holdings; he was in London. And it was Caro’s business whether her chairs were solid or falling to pieces.

A headache tapped at his temples, a warning pressure as of tiny nails being driven into wood. Michael sank into the new seat at Everett’s side. “I beg your pardon.”

“No need.” Everett’s look of humor had returned. “You’ve given them something to talk about besides their own clothing. And you’ve left your mark on this house in a way that none who brings a bunch of posies does.”

“Ah, but I shall bring a coquelicot carnation too.” Michael would have rolled his eyes if it would not have given away the deception. Between Caro’s deception and his own blunder, he would have all London convinced of his eccentricity before the day was out.

Everett grinned, quite undeceived. “An offering that clearly holds great value to Caro.”

Though their lowered voices could not possibly have reached Caroline, she turned her head in their direction and shot Everett a wink. A
wink
.

Michael might as well be a Bow Street runner, trying to sort out a tangle of motives from an uncooperative mob. He always felt thus in society. “Mr. Everett, I have no idea what our hostess values.”

Certainly not a lofty title or the stretching lands of a dukedom. Perhaps nothing more nor less than the hearts of the male half of the
beau
monde
. If so, no single man could possibly please her.

“If anyone could divine that, she would be snapped up again in marriage.” Everett gave an elaborate sigh. “Alas, a mere mister such as I has no chance at her hand. I must work for my bread and can spare only an hour here or there to visit this foreign world. It is as entertaining as an evening at the theater and far more economical.” He turned his head, lifting his chin. “Shall I aspire to fashion? Do you think I could achieve collar points like our dear dress-alikes?”

“Perhaps if you used a wire framework.” Michael’s answering smile felt strained. “Though you are incorrect in your assumption about Lady Str—Caro. She doesn’t care about rank.”

“Only because she has a fair degree of it already,” replied Everett. “It’s easy to scorn that which one possesses. But it doesn’t mean one doesn’t wish to continue possessing it.” He looked aslant at Michael. “For example. You wouldn’t wish to join me among the ranks of the mere misters, would you? As a man of business to a baron who hardly admits I am his cousin?”

“Naturally not, though I do not mean to offend you. But I have never scorned my title. I am accustomed to a life in which people rely on me.”

His headache tightened like a vise; only then did Michael realize it had relaxed for a few moments.

“If you were a mere mister,” said Everett, “no one would rely on you, though. Except your landlady on rent day. And your tailor, such as he is.” He pulled a face, tugging at his simple neckcloth.

“And your employer.”

Everett shrugged. “I haven’t yet managed to convince him of that fact.”

“I cannot imagine living such a different sort of life,” Michael replied.

“A pity,” sighed Everett. “You won’t trade positions with me, then? I rather fancy a duke’s life.”

“It’s not all luxury.” Michael regarded his own dark blue superfine coat dubiously. His name still carried enough weight with tradesmen that he had been able to kit himself out in style, though the fashionable garb seemed overly elaborate. He would much rather clad himself in something rough, warm, and comfortable for striding around his lands, inspecting the progress of improvements.

He realized Everett was scrutinizing him again. “What?”

“I’ve heard much about you. It’s interesting to meet you, Your Grace.”

“I can only imagine what you’ve heard. Rest assured, nothing but the most pressing of business would have brought me to London.”

“And to Caro’s drawing room?”

Michael hesitated. “Also business.” Everett was prying, but Michael didn’t mind his questions. The man managed curiosity without animosity, a welcome combination.

“I wish you good fortune,” the dark young man said. “Though I think we all hope for a bit of good fortune when we come to Caro’s drawing room. Her beauty brings all of society together.”

Caro
again. It still struck Michael as strange that she allowed this familiarity to so many—and that Everett spoke of her with admiration, yet not the smallest expectation. She made herself accessible yet unreachable, all at once.

Yes, she was a surprise.

“I don’t care about her beauty.”
Liar
. “That is, I am not in attendance because of her appearance.”

Just then, the Earl of Stratton—that presumptuous fellow who had pestered Caroline the night before—bowed his way into the room, half hidden by a bundle of flowers as lush as flesh, their fragrance so heady Michael wondered if the earl had doused them with perfume.

If the man wanted for money, he could certainly have economized by not bringing such an extravagant bouquet.

Michael watched Caroline for her reaction. Did she still hold a grudge against the earl for harassing her at the Applewood ball?

“Stratton,” she said. “Welcome. I’m as delighted as ever to see you.”

“These are for you.” Stratton tumbled his heavy burden into Caroline’s lap. A spike of gladiolus slapped her cheek.

“How lovely.” She craned her neck over the lapful of flowers. “Hambleton, if you would ring for a maid? I think these must go in one of the great urns in the corridor.”

Obligingly, one of the bookend dandies jangled the silver bell, and Caroline handed the armful to a wide-eyed maid. Stratton frowned as his flowers were marched out of the room.