“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 im
agine 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.
So she did hold the earl in disfavor. Michael felt as gratified as if he’d done something far more heroic for her than stand under a lantern and allow her to grab his arm. “The peace offering declined,” he murmured.
“Indeed,” Everett said, equally low. “The villain, such as he is, vanquished. Poor fellow.”
Michael’s mouth twitched. Everett was turning out to be amusing company, especially when he directed his observations away from Michael.
This desire to observe seemed to be what had split Everett from the remainder of the callers—whether by his doing or theirs, Michael knew not. But it made sense to Michael to do the same. He could search for clues about Caroline: why she had offered to help him; what she thought of him.
His eyes needed training in the subtle rules of society, just as they had once learned to interpret an engineer’s mechanical drawings. Already, Michael had forgotten an essential component: a bouquet. And the fact that one ought not to flip the furniture upside down.
But people had fewer moving parts than the simplest of machines. It should be possible to understand them, inscrutable though they seemed now. Trevithick’s steam engines had seemed mysterious too, until Michael familiarized himself with their inner workings.
“Gracious,” said Caroline as Stratton began to nudge himself onto her settee. “Can it really be quarter of four?”
A dozen hands reached for fobs, drew out pocket watches. Unnecessary. A mantel clock squatted within sight.
“Yes, it can be,” Michael said. “As of five minutes ago, it was forty past the hour.”
Caroline shot him a look, though he thought she smiled faintly. Then she began a flurry of graceful fidgeting, nudging dainty embroidered cushions, and smoothing her gown. “I am dreadfully sorry, you dear men, but I’ve an appointment I simply can’t miss. I do hate to end our time together.”
Her mouth was not a pout, but something much better. It showed not childish disappointment, but regret. And promise.
Michael had not known a mouth could say so much without uttering a word.
The other men obeyed the command to depart, bowing, babbling their promises of invitation, jostling one another as they tried for one last look at their queen.
Michael waited, and when the eddy of departing callers began to trickle away, he aimed a bow in Caroline’s direction and trod toward the door. Wondering why he had come only to lie about a foolishly named flower, then make a fool of himself in turn. He understood no more about Caroline’s offer than when he’d come.
Whap. Something heavy and soft struck him between the shoulder blades.
Michael turned. Caroline smiled at him and tossed a small embroidered cushion from hand to hand. Its twin lay on the floor at Michael’s feet.
“So sorry, Wyverne,” she said. “It must have slipped from my grasp. Do stay and I shall have a maid brush your coat.”
To Michael’s right, the last of the candied callers was thundering down the stairs to the ground floor.
He was left alone with Caro, then. “You did that on purpose.”
“Of course I did. Don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to hit a duke with a pillow.”
He considered. The only other duke he had known well was his father. “Not with a pillow, no.”
Caroline retrieved her embroidered missile from the floor, then pounded it into place among a litter of similar cushions on her long settee. “Did you enjoy mingling with society again, Wyverne? I am honored—or maybe you should be honored—to have you encounter the cream of London’s bachelor society in my drawing room.”
“They remind me of tame animals, actually. Puppies.” Michael wanted to pace and shake out his feet. Instead, he lifted each booted heel and planted them firmly on the patterned carpet.
Rather than look insulted, Caroline grinned. “There is nothing at all wrong in playing with puppies.” Michael snorted, and Caroline laughed. “You’re not the first to call them puppies. The other was my cousin and companion, on whose judgment I always relied.”
“Past tense?”
“Not exactly. I still love her dearly, but she married and ran off to a quiet little town outside London. It is the one decision she made that I could ever fault—not her marriage, which was wonderful, but her decision to leave the City.” A rueful expression crossed her face. “Anyway, it’s strange that you should use the same word for my callers. If I am not careful, I may find myself asking you for advice, as I did Frances.”
Michael’s mind tumbled with silks and slippers and lacy unmentionables. “It would hardly be appropriate for me to advise you as your lady’s companion did.”
“Honestly, Wyverne. I wouldn’t ask you which bonnet went best with a certain frock, as I did my dear cousin. But if I wanted to know which shipping company was the most likely to guarantee me a return on my investment—”
“East India has locked up the trade in tea for the time being. The company is England’s most certain investment right now, outside of the Funds.” He blinked. “Oh. Is that what you meant? The manly sort of advice?”
“Well said. Yes. No one expects you to know how a woman lives in a man’s world, Wyverne, only how a man lives. Knowledge such as yours could make you a leader in society if you wished.”
“God forbid.”
“It needn’t go that far. But if you don’t know the answer to a question, you can always act offended that the question was put to you in the first place. No one will think less of a duke for having a poker up his backside. In fact, it’s almost expected.”
Michael’s head reared back. “I beg your pardon.”
“Perfect.” Caroline looked delighted. “That is exactly the tone of voice I meant. Now, if you could contrive to look down your nose slightly?”
Michael tilted his chin up thirty degrees. His eyes crossing over the bridge of his nose, he located Caroline’s smiling face. It was hard not to smile back, to keep
his voice chilly as he repeated, “I beg your pardon.”
She shrugged. “Fair, fair. It’ll take practice. It’s only a shield, anyway. One of those things to say when you can’t think of anything to say.”
“Do you have such shields too?”
She considered. “I’m as delighted as ever to see you?”
The words she had used to greet Stratton. How had she greeted Michael himself? He couldn’t remember right now. Nor was he sure why she had offered to help him, or kept him after her other callers departed—or when they might talk about his impending marriage.
So he barked, as he always did when his thoughts began to spiral fruitlessly. “What, pray tell, is a coquelicot carnation? Is it some joke upon me?”
“It is not a joke, but an excuse,” Caroline said. “So that my callers would envy your foresight, rather than feeling superior to you for its lack.”
“Do you require blooms as payment for your company? What is the significance of a gift if it is required?”
Caroline’s eyes went glass-hard. “I require nothing, Wyverne. What flowers my callers choose to bring are just that: their choice. But there is an unspoken rule in society that a gentleman brings a gift when he calls on a lady. If you dislike the idea of flowers, sweetmeats are also acceptable.” She paused, then softened. “Such gifts are for the sake of appearances, like changing one’s clothing before dinner. In themselves, these acts may have little meaning, but they prove that one knows the rules of society.”
Ah. Those unspoken rules. They had been beaten into him throughout his youth, but they wouldn’t stay. His mind sieved them out like tiny herrings, holding fast to the meatier subjects of engineering, accounting, agriculture.
She did not deserve his harshness; she was only following the rules. And he should too, until he had captured a wife. “I will bring a gift next time I call.”
Caroline waved a careless hand. “There is no need, Wyverne. Simply tell everyone how well your coquelicot carnation is growing and postpone its delivery date, and I believe you will skate by on its uniqueness.”
To Charm a Naughty Countess Page 4
