To Charm a Naughty Countess

by Theresa Romain

  “Eh?” The man looked around blearily. “Caro?”

  “His Grace, the Duke of Wyverne,” Caroline introduced hurriedly, as Michael began to tug at her arm. She bobbed a farewell, handing off her cup to the man. “Do excuse me. I always enjoy our chats, Lord Caulfield.”

  “About utter rubbish,” Michael muttered, as he dragged Caroline after him through a crowd of people.

  He was tugging at her with more force than he’d realized. Before he could halt, he blundered into the space cleared for dancing. A reel was going on, with small groups of people stepping and interlacing and twirling as the orchestra sawed away.

  Michael froze.

  He might as well have stepped onto an opera house stage in the middle of an aria. Dancers shuffled around him, glaring at his disruption. His heart thudded, readying him for escape—but no, he couldn’t turn tail. He flailed for the memory of his waltz with Caroline, for the thrill of it, but it was stomped away by the shifting patterns of booted and slippered feet.

  His vision dimmed; his head felt light. Too much.

  Someone seized his hands, tugged. He was pulled forward; then someone pushed at his stiffened forearms until he stumbled backward.

  “That’s it,” murmured a familiar voice. “Now hey to the left and thread through the next couple.”

  Michael blinked, shook his head. The haze in his eyes and ears resolved into the brass-bright ballroom of Kettleburn House. Caroline had tugged him into the bottom of a reel and was beaming as though this fumbling dance delighted her. She nodded and laughed greetings at the other dancers, even as her hands kept a steady, guiding pressure on Michael—one hand, then two, then just a touch as the dance forced them apart.

  Years ago, Michael had learned these steps. He would not have expected his feet to remember them after all this time. Perhaps they did so only because his mind was distracted by the unlikeliness of the situation. He had been preparing a splendid rant for Caroline, and instead she had rescued him from yet another social trespass.

  She was always right, damn her. When he’d thrown a few manners at Miss Meredith, the young woman had rolled over like a puppy—more swiftly, by far, than he had expected. Now that he was stomping through a dance, the glares had turned to curious stares. Even smiles. When Caroline smiled, the world smiled back.

  Prepare them for what they ought to see and feel. Just as she had said. She was mistress of society, wholly and completely. So what need had she of Michael? Was he an experiment? A test of her skill?

  Why are you helping me? The question battered at his teeth and lips, but there were too many people around for him to ask her, the dance too shifting and swift to permit speech. And he did not want to know the answer—not to this question, not to a multitude of others. Why did you kiss me? What do you want?

  The reel scraped to an end with a spirited flourish from a trio of violins, and Caroline tugged Michael into a bow.

  “Creditable,” she said as they straightened up. “I had no idea you meant to dance tonight. Lady Halliwell will delight in telling the polite world that she heard of your intention first.”

  “I had no intention, as you know quite well,” he ground out. “Come with me. I was seeking a secluded area. I need to speak to you.”

  “In seclusion? How intriguing.” Again, they made their way through the crowd. This time Michael kept his wits about him, not wanting to blunder into another pocket of dancing or a card game or—God forbid—an assignation.

  He drew Caroline on until they reached what was usually the Kettleburn’s dining room. It made up the end of the long suite of rooms the baron had opened up for dancing, but as it held neither food nor musicians nor punch, the dark-paneled room was nearly deserted.

  Michael found a spindly chair, set it next to a large potted fern, and pressed Caroline onto the seat.

  “Are you quite well?” As usual, she sounded completely self-possessed.

  He could not nonplus her by any means he knew, but it was all too easy for her to discomfit him. All she need do was stand close enough for him to breathe in her flower-scent; all she need do was touch his hand.

  Or, of course, send him out for a garden walk with a woman who wanted a tumble more than a proposal.

  “No. I mean—yes. And I do apologize for pulling you away from your conversation with… Lord Drunken Horse.”

  “Such delightful manners, Michael.” Caroline raised a brow. “Well, it’s quite all right. In case you hadn’t noticed, you managed a dance with me and a fair bit of touching too, all without becoming agitated.”

  “I was already agitated when I reentered the house. And I became more so when I found you listening to a bundle of nonsense about chestnuts and bays, as if you hadn’t a care in the world.”

  On the wall, above Caroline’s head, hung a life-sized portrait of a hook-nosed gentleman in a powdered wig and the ruffled fashions of an earlier century. He seemed to look down his large proboscis at the two intruders. Yes, try to explain yourselves.

  “Quite correct. I hadn’t a care.” She laced her fingers together and stretched out her legs. “That is, not beyond helping Lord Caulfield have an excellent time. I owed him that much out of gratitude.”

  “How so?” Michael wished the hook-nosed gentleman in the painting would glare at Caroline instead of at him.

  “Because of Lord Stratton, as usual. My most devoted and contemptible suitor. He argued me into a dance after you went for your romantic stroll, but Caulfield retrieved me soon enough.”

  “I hardly think you were better off.”

  “I considered myself so. Lord Caulfield contents himself with talking and is pleased with very little by way of reply. Stratton is neither of those things, and so I’d rather talk to Lord Caulfield about rubbish than Stratton about the most fascinating thing in the world.”

  “And what is that?”

  She searched his face, then laughed. “Oh, a new gown, of course. What else?”

  “You’re teasing me.”

  “No, I’m teasing myself. Anyway, I’d rather speak with you than either Caulfield or Stratton, as long as it has nothing to do with Carcel—”

  “Don’t say it,” Michael threatened.

  “—lamps. Ah, too late.”

  Michael frowned. “Surely you have friends whose company you genuinely enjoy. Or is Lord Caulfield’s conversation more of your nonsense about being kind to everyone?”

  Caroline straightened up. “Lord Caulfield was the finest horseman in London in his youth. He only turned to the bottle after an unruly colt kicked him in the ankle and shattered it. It would behoove you to remember that just because someone may appear ridiculous does not mean he truly is. After all, Michael, how do you suppose the Weatherby women view you?”

  Michael was beginning to dislike Caroline’s insights intensely.

  He rolled his head on his tense neck, not caring that he was spoiling the starched folds of his cravat. Then shaking out his arms, he imagined tossing away the distasteful bits of the evening. But no, they still clung to him.

  Caroline bit her lip. “Well, we’ve already ransacked this subject quite thoroughly. No need to go over it again. Do tell me, though, Michael. What in heaven’s name has made you so frantic that you don’t even notice when you’re bumbling into the midst of a scotch reel? And what has you so determined to start an argument with me?”

  Michael’s face heated. He longed to tell her I am not, but contradiction would only support her impertinent accusation.

  He glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. Seeing no one, he dropped into a chair next to Caroline. The potted palm stretched its spindly fronds over his head, giving him an adequate assurance of privacy. No one could hear them except the bewigged, hook-nosed portrait, and as he was nothing but oil on canvas, he would keep their secrets.

  “Miss Meredith,” Michael hissed.
/>   Caroline squinted at him. “I don’t understand. Has she captured your interest?”

  “She tried to capture a great deal more than that. She’s looking for a… a male barque of frailty.”

  He looked away, jaw set, but Caroline was silent for so long that he turned back to her. She had a hand pressed against her mouth, and her eyes were swimming.

  “What?” he demanded.

  She flapped her free hand at him, then drew a deep, shuddering breath behind her palm.

  A giggle slipped out.

  Michael folded his arms. “You are amused. I should have known it was all a joke to you.”

  “No, no,” she protested in a shaky voice. “That’s not it at all. I swear to you, I never thought she’d try anything.”

  “You knew she was like this?” His sense of injury increased—and, were he fully honest, disappointment. Society life held pitfalls enough for Michael without Caroline tripping him up too. She, of all people, had vowed to lead him aright.

  Caroline swallowed one last laugh and, with a clear effort, drew in a deep breath and composed herself. “I never”—she choked—“never suspected she would be anything but quite proper with you, Michael. She got in a bit of trouble last season by acting shockingly fast while she was still in mourning for her parents.”

  “I’m not shocked, actually.”

  “Yes, well, she’s out of mourning now, but her reputation has persisted. She might never make a respectable match. Yet she wants nothing more than the pleasures in which her male counterparts regularly indulge.”

  “So you thought you’d foist this pariah off on me.” Michael wished he could fold his arms tight enough to slow his hammering heart; to wall out the sense of betrayal.

  “She’s not a pariah,” Caroline said. “She’s a lovely woman with more money than sense who flits at the edge of respectability. As you occupy the same space, and as you have more sense than money, I thought you might deal well together.”

  “She’s not interested in marriage.” Michael paused. “But I do believe she’s interested in Lord Hart.” His face heated, belying his casual tone.

  “Hart?” Caroline’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t know they were acquainted. I’ve never heard him speak of her.”

  “Do you know him so well, then, that you are familiar with his every friend?”

  Caroline’s chin drew back. “I do know him well, yes. And now that you mention the possibility, he might suit Miss Meredith admirably.”

  Michael was not sure whether this admission ought to deflate him or encourage him. She certainly seemed willing to hand off her paramour to another woman. Not that it mattered. Michael had as little claim on Caroline as she had on him.

  She looked thoughtful. “I haven’t seen Hart here tonight, but if he does stop by, Miss Meredith will find him soon enough. She’s a very determined creature.”

  “Determined,” Michael said vaguely. His skin was tingling, sensitive under his clothes, as thoughts of flirtation-lover-marriage-paramour flicked through his mind.

  He was jealous; jealous of everyone else Caroline had chosen. He wanted her damnably, and he never wanted anything damnably. And this desire was more illogical than most. He had already offered her marriage; she had already turned him down.

  Caroline started laughing again. “So she tried to seduce you in the garden? Well, I can’t blame her for that.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “I tried to do the same once upon a time, didn’t I?”

  This was the first time she had referred openly to that night. Eleven years ago, a passion that had shaken him, unmade him. He had fled the force of it, the evidence of his own madness, and transformed himself instead into Wyverne.

  It was far from the first time Michael had thought of it, though. But he’d thought of it clandestinely, as an offer forbidden him by his strictest disciplinarian: himself.

  Now Caroline brought it into the open with a curving bow of a smile that shot an arrow into Michael’s inflated resolve. When she flexed her shoulders, the swell of her bosom pressed enticingly against the red fabric of her gown. Scarlet.

  “You are nothing like Miss Meredith.” Force made his voice unsteady.

  “I know it,” Caroline sighed. “She’s like a flame, isn’t she? So bright and lovely and warm.”

  “In heat, I should rather say.”

  She gave him a wicked smile.

  “That is not the point. You are perfectly respectable.” His voice echoed oddly in his ears, the air growing hot and hazy around him. “I’ve never doubted it.”

  “I’m no better than I should be, though I’m much better than you can imagine.”

  “I’m sure I can imagine.”

  Oh, how he could imagine. He alone, out of all the men at this ball, could imagine with the fire and fervor of lust unrestrained by experience.

  Since coming to London, his imaginings crept into every unused corner of his thoughts, kept him awake at night. He was unsatisfied, hungry, and no food would sate him. No body, no woman, but her. The clean sculpture of her face, her lush form—they were so lovely that he almost forgot to breathe.

  “You don’t have to imagine, you know.” How demure she sounded.

  “I know.” His voice was no more than a croak.

  “You know.”

  “Yes,” Michael said, aware that he was agreeing to much more than a simple statement.

  She watched him. Maybe waiting for him to draw back, as he always forced himself to. But he couldn’t budge this time. A singular need had crept over him, putting in roots like ivy climbing stone. His careful control was cracked into pieces by something vibrantly alive.

  It could not go on, this slow grinding away of his regimented self. He would agree to anything, anything at all, only to be with her. To find himself at last, or to throw himself into a crucible of madness and be melted away.

  “I know,” he said again.

  Caroline nodded. “Then see me home.”

  Twelve

  The last time Michael had seen Caroline’s house, it seemed like a tooth in a chattering mouth. This time, the house stretched tall and quiet, and moonlight plated all of Albemarle Street a soft silver.

  This was London at its finest: at night, when the crowds vanished and the world was hushed and muted. It was easy to see the City’s beauty now, without the clamor of distractions to every sense. It was easier, too, to feel sensual joy when one’s senses were not overwhelmed.

  For now, there was no color in the world but what the moon granted. He rode in Caroline’s carriage in darkness and silence, with no lamps and no words. Only an awareness as heavy as touch, that the wait would be over soon.

  There was no harm in waiting a little longer to make sure everything was right.

  “Home at last.” Caroline’s words snipped open their cocoon. With a bounce of carriage springs, a footman dismounted from his perch and lowered the steps of the vehicle.

  “How lonely a silent house always seems,” Caroline murmured.

  Michael stepped out and handed her down, the brush of her fingers distracting him from the thought that he held precisely the opposite opinion. Or the fact that lonely was the last word on his mind as he escorted her inside.

  They climbed a proper flight of stairs to the equally proper environment of Caroline’s drawing room. It held no suitors this time, only the flowers they’d left behind as tribute to their favorite. Michael had never given a gift to Caroline.

  Yet.

  Now that they were alone in her house, he felt a fizzing anticipation, the sprightly cousin of the anxiety he denied. Like anxiety, it made his fingers tingle, forced his breath to labor.

  But ah, this time there was pleasure in it. There was pleasure in watching Caroline sway about the room, straightening things that didn’t need to be straightened, trimming a lam
p wick that didn’t need trimming. Old habits came forth in times of nervousness, and Michael remembered that she had not always been a countess. She had been raised in a parsonage, and cosseted though she might be now, she was efficient and graceful in her bustle.

  And she was nervous. As nervous, maybe, as he. Pride pooled, low in his belly, that he had discovered something about Caroline that he had not known before.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She stopped fussing about, turning to look at him. “Gratitude from a duke? To what do I owe this honor?”

  “Caro.” He shook his head. “Don’t.”

  “No teasing. I forgot.” Her laugh sounded jittery.

  Michael drew a deep breath. “Thank you for…” He trailed off, not sure how to confine what he wanted to say in the small packages of words. It sounded so grandiose any way he framed it: For showing me that my limits are not what I thought. For helping me when I didn’t know I needed it.

  For being a fantasy, come to life: a friend, in the body of a goddess.

  “Thank you for welcoming me,” he finally said, and it was close enough.

  Her mouth made a shape that he supposed was a smile, though it curved down like a rainbow. “You are very welcome.”

  She sat on her long sofa and patted the upholstery next to her. “Come, sit with me.”

  Michael sat.

  He could sense her body next to him, too close and too far for comfort. His back was stick-straight, his legs tense, his hands flat on his thighs. Out of the corner of his eye, he looked at her, wondering what to do next. Should he touch her? Would she touch him?

  She sank against the back of the sofa. Then, before Michael could unbend, she turned sideways and kicked her feet up into his lap.

  Michael froze. His mouth opened, then closed again. A wooden dummy without a puppeteer. Caroline sighed and shut her eyes.

  When she didn’t move again, Michael allowed himself to lean back a bit. He stared at the feet in his lap.

  He had never seen a woman’s feet so closely before. Had never thought much about them, truth be told. Feet were useful, quite literally pedestrian. They were hardly erotic or intimate.