To Charm a Naughty Countess

by Theresa Romain

  No. She did not see that or anything else: she kept her eyes shut. But in her head, she screamed, Why?

  She did not want an explanation of his reasons for proposing. She wanted to know why he had broken the spell.

  She opened her eyes, saw him staring down at her. He looked patient but sure, as though waiting for his ship to come in so he could see to the unloading of its cargo. He did not look as if he’d just had a transcendent sexual experience.

  Caroline sat up. “You support your proposal with many arguments.”

  “You agree, then.”

  “No. I can’t. Everything you say—Michael, it doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

  “Nonsense. It has everything to do with you. I just described all the reasons I wish for you to be my duchess.”

  “Those reasons could apply to many women. Why me in particular?”

  His brows yanked together, as though her question made no sense to him. “Well, I feel comfortable with you. And I like you the most. Obviously.”

  She ignored this reference to their spent passion. “My fortune has nothing to do with your proposal, then?”

  He paused before answering. Wise of him. “It is far from my only motivation. But you know quite well I could not offer marriage to someone without money.”

  Unwise of him.

  And unwise of her too. “I do know that quite well,” she murmured.

  It had been nothing but a fantasy to think that he wanted her for her own sake. In reality, nothing had changed since the ball at Applewood House a week ago, or eleven years ago. So important were his goals that he could not abandon them for an instant. Not even in the bedchamber.

  And so his proposal had turned their intimacy into a transaction.

  “So, you propose because I suit your requirements, then. Oh—and I am ‘comfortable’ too? How convenient.”

  “‘Convenient’ isn’t the right word, exactly.”

  Caroline felt all the cold of her nudity now. She clutched for the rumpled bed sheet and tugged it free, pulling it over and around her body like a Grecian robe. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up unsteadily, still boneless from their lovemaking.

  Never mind that. It was over. Done. She held the sheet to her breastbone, shielding her body from his scrutiny.

  Even now, she was aware of the effect in the back of her mind—how the sheet would outline her body with tantalizing elegance. But Michael was not tantalized. He seemed to take this as a cue to wrap himself in bedcovers too, and he wadded the heavy, green damask coverlet into a fabric washtub around his waist.

  Efficient yet graceless. If that didn’t typify him, nothing did.

  “How inconvenient, then, that I must refuse again.”

  His brows were still a dark vee. “I do not see why.”

  “I wanted you tonight,” she admitted. “I’ve wanted you for a long time. But I can’t be the wife you need.”

  “Of course you can.” He looked puzzled, as though she’d misunderstood a simple command. Pass the salt. Be my wife. “I just told you that you could. Besides this, you ought to marry me now that we’ve—well.”

  “What, you think you’ve ruined me?” She dug her fingernails into her sheet as passionately as she’d clutched for his body a few minutes before.

  “‘Ruined’ isn’t the right word, exactly.” Those damnable eyes of his. They were so sharp but missed so much.

  “Perhaps eventually I shall hit upon the right word for something. Until then, I thank you for your concern for my reputation. Or honor. Or whatever the right word might be. But as you’re not the first man who has come to my bed since my widowhood, the responsibility for my ruination is not yours.”

  He looked as stunned as if she had clouted him. His lips parted, then closed again.

  Damnable lips. Damnable eyes. Damnable chin and nose. He was too handsome to be so callous. It was impossible to keep up an icy guard when the sight of his face, so austere and yet so vulnerable, always melted her.

  She hadn’t cried since the death of her elderly husband, a kind man who had doted on her and bequeathed her the cachet and money to remake her life. She could cry now, though, for the death of another fancy as improbable as the clergyman’s daughter marrying an earl. She might admire Michael for his honor, his dedication to duty, but he could offer her no more than this—not with his clockwork heart.

  To help him save his dukedom, he needed a woman much like himself, a business partner who signed her name to a marriage license as she would any other contract, and who would be content never to be loved. Caroline could not be that person. Her heart was not clockwork, but human enough for two; twice tried and deeply bruised. She could only be ashamed that she had given herself away so cheaply, when she’d meant never again to give away anything at all.

  Carefully, she measured her words. “I’m sorry, Michael. But I cannot marry you. You mean no more to me now than you did the first time we met, eleven years ago.”

  This was true, though he couldn’t know what she admitted. The first time she’d seen him, she had tumbled for him with all the fascination of the young faced with the unfamiliar. Not even she knew how much of a soaring leap her feelings would require to exceed her early passion.

  Just as he was fascinated by a damned Carcel lamp, so had she always been enthralled by him. She wanted to take him apart and master him, to ensure that she still understood the world.

  Yet when Michael had taken apart a lamp, he had broken it. And in grasping for Michael’s core, she had broken something too. She was not sure whether it was something in him or in her, or whether she had shattered something built between them.

  Michael watched her with surprising dignity for a man sitting on a bed, wrapped in a wagon wheel of damask. “It meant nothing, then? Our trust?”

  “I value your trust. But at the root, Michael, we do not want the same things.” She attempted a smile. “Business before pleasure, isn’t that your way? Yet it is not mine. I’m sorry, Michael, for both our sakes. I cannot marry you.”

  Michael’s mouth opened as if to reply.

  But no words came out; he only swallowed, his throat flexing visibly with the effort. Air fled his lungs in a rush, then did not return. His bare chest sunk, emptied, and he folded onto the bed.

  Caroline blinked. “Michael?”

  Was this a trick? He was not the type for tricks, but she had never seen anyone behave in such a manner before.

  “Michael, are you all right?”

  Now curled on his side, his lower half still smothered in covers, Michael’s chest snapped back to heaving life. He swallowed again, gasping, as though every hitching breath was a torment.

  “Michael? Can you speak?” What could she do for this distress? She reached out a hand as if her touch could pluck away whatever was smothering him—but there was nothing there.

  He swatted her hand away, arms shuddering. His breath came quick and shallow now, his eyes unfocused, darting around. An unhealthy dew of perspiration broke out on his forehead, in the hollow of his throat.

  Caroline’s own limbs took on the creeping numbness of fear. “What is the matter? Are you having an apoplexy? Let me call for a doctor.”

  He shook his head mutely. His whole body was shuddering now.

  Caroline reached out again to touch him, pulled her hands back. He was flying apart, suddenly, and for no reason she could imagine.

  “Is this the falling sickness?” She reached for a bolster. She had heard of this, though never seen it. She thought she was to keep him calm, make sure he didn’t tumble off the bed and injure himself. How to calm him, though, she could not imagine. She feared even to touch him, lest she distress him further.

  His face was ruddy and damp. “No,” he managed through heaving breaths. “Water.”

  Caroline darted to the ewer and basin kept in
her bedchamber. How much water did he need? She hefted the ewer and carried it back to the bed, thrust it at him, but his shaking hands only scrabbled at the porcelain surface. She tipped it toward his mouth, but he gagged and turned his head away. Water splashed on him, dampening his clammy face and the mattress beneath him.

  “I’m fine,” he said in a strangled voice. His face was the sickly yellow of half-churned milk.

  To hear him speak was a relief, though he looked very ill. “Nonsense.” Caroline tried to sound brisk and authoritative, as physicians always seemed to. She found such certainty comforting. “You need—”

  She had no idea, no idea what he needed. She laid a hand on his chest and felt his heart thundering.

  “I’m fine.” He pushed her hand away, heaving himself up onto an elbow. He pulled in a breath through his mouth, slow and deep. Then he pushed himself up to a sitting position and held his long body perfectly still, eyes closed. “I’m fine.”

  Caroline watched him, balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to dart off for anything she might need. The crisis, whatever it had been, seemed to be ebbing. But it had begun so suddenly, she could not be certain yet that it was over.

  So still, he held himself. This coiled tension looked dangerous; it sent fear chasing down her spine. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she murmured stupidly. “It’s all right. You’re all right.”

  “So I said. I regret my—loss of control.” He sounded raspy, and his eyes were still closed. “Will you give me a moment alone?”

  Caroline studied him. His breathing sounded more normal; his face had lost its ashy tint. But he had not recovered his usual mien, the unconcern that came either from confidence or complete lack of awareness. No, his eyes were not closed gently but squinted tight. He did not want to look at her.

  Half-moon indentations still marked his shoulders where her nails had gripped him, tugged him closer. His body had been used and loved as never before.

  Yet now he wanted her gone. Was he ashamed of himself? Or of her?

  Since they were both already alone, Caroline could do him the courtesy of leaving the room.

  “Certainly,” she said blandly. The long habit of politeness forbade her from lashing out at one already injured, though he was hurting her too.

  She turned her back on him and dropped her bed sheet, then crossed over to her mahogany wardrobe and yanked it open. She found a red silk banyan within—a man’s dressing gown. She had bought it for herself, preferring its luxurious weight to the filmy garments meant for women. There was something decadent and erotic, she had once thought, in wearing a man’s garment that covered her so well, knowing she could shed it in an instant and be all woman.

  Right now, she wanted to wrap herself in its warmth. And as she crossed to her door and let herself out into the corridor, she hoped Michael would open his eyes, see her leave, and wonder whose garment she wore. One last mystery, one last wound.

  She already knew he would never come to her again.

  She was more than a canal to be dredged, more than one of his projects to tinker with. Yet he had treated her no differently. If she could not help him fulfill his next purpose—finding a wife—then he bade her leave him. He would abandon her as just another unsuccessful venture, ruined by the ungodly winter of 1816.

  Her toes curled into the corridor’s carpet. Savonnerie, Axminster, whatever it was—she had asked her cousin and companion, Frances Whittier, to choose it in accordance with the latest and most expensive fashion the year before. But Frances had married and left her behind, when Caroline had always thought to lead.

  And now she was alone in the corridor outside her bedchamber, while a dream that had taunted her for more than a decade was destroyed by disappointing reality.

  He used her, then sent her away. Michael was just like everyone else.

  ***

  Except he wasn’t, was he?

  After fifteen minutes, Michael had emerged from her bedchamber, fully clothed but for his coat, which was slung over one arm. He looked pale, but his jaw was set.

  “You are all right?”

  “Quite well. Thank you, Lady Stratton.”

  Caroline winced at the distance but managed a cool reply. “I am glad of it, Your Grace. Do you—wish for tea?”

  She felt as fluttery as a bride, and as nervous. Courtesy was her only refuge when confronted with this wall of stern, cold duke.

  “No, I require nothing. Thank you. Will you ring for my carriage?”

  The heavy silk of her robe weighed heavily on sensitive breasts. What if she opened her robe? Would the warm light come back into his eyes as he gazed on her? He had called her perfect. He had called himself fortunate. “What happened to you, Michael?”

  He looked down his nose at her, the perfect angle she had taught him so recently. “A regrettable episode.”

  “Has it happened before?”

  He looked away, and his taut posture sagged. “Once. Only once.” His eyes caught hers for just a flicker; in the lamplit dim, his gaze was all shadow. “I must trouble you for the carriage. Please.”

  Her fingers reached for him; she clenched them into a fist, stuffing it into the deep pocket of her banyan. “Yes, if you wish, Mi—Your Grace.”

  She didn’t dare ask any more questions. She didn’t want to know the answers.

  When the carriage rolled up before the door, she shook his hand good night. His fingers were cold; did he never wear gloves?

  It was not up to her to ask or to care about such things.

  She watched him stride down the steps; he did not look back. Dratted duke. He had given her his virginity, yet he took more than he gave. He took her ease, her sense of purpose, her desire for him; he caged them tightly and would permit her none. None, unless she would be his duchess.

  In return, he did admit that he liked her better than a few others.

  Her smile hurt.

  Caroline stayed wrapped in her banyan for hours afterward, watching the silent street through her bedchamber window.

  ***

  The next day, she parsed the situation to exhaustion, and she thought she might have misjudged him. His sudden, wild attack of panic or whatever it had been—surely that could not be entirely motivated by the disappointment of a thwarted bargain. Surely he had felt some emotion beyond the fear of poverty.

  Caroline was, as Michael would say, forming a hypothesis: that his iron will covered the same desires as other men. He was only better than most at hiding them, more determined than most to master and control them.

  Yet the deeper she delved into Michael, and into herself, the farther she was from answering her questions. Why? What did it all mean so long ago? And what does it mean now?

  She wanted to ask him. Needed to.

  But try as she might, over the next week she could not talk to him or meet him or see him. Her notes went unanswered, and he seemed never to be at home to callers. She heard of him only by proxy. No one had seen him at any ton events, but everyone had a story to tell—and the more outrageous, the more they repeated it.

  Mad Michael had set fire to a pile of invitations on the front steps of Wyverne House.

  He had been heard shouting in his garden in the wee hours of the morning.

  He had galloped down Rotten Row and nearly overturned the Duchess of Winterberry’s landau.

  He had ordered six dozen Carcel lamps from a shop on Bond Street.

  Of all these rumors, Caroline credited only the last. But they caused her to wonder: was it worth it to try to rehabilitate Mad Michael by using her influence with her friends? The Weatherbys? Miss Meredith? Everything she’d done to reintroduce him to the polite world, he was throwing away with his impolite withdrawal from society. Only a madman would throw away something so hard earned as his reputation.

  But anyone would throw away something he considered
of no value, her devilish inner voice replied. Perhaps he cares nothing for your efforts.

  Perhaps he did not. But he cared for his dukedom. And he hadn’t yet left London.

  For lack of a better idea, Caroline began to organize plans for the Lancashire house party she’d once mentioned as a certain means of finding him a wife. Now the house party that was to be his entrée back into the polite world would also be Caroline’s way into his.

  If she saw him in his own home, surely there she would come to understand him at last. She still had four events left on their fool’s contract, with the excuse of finding him a bride. Four events to answer her questions with the excuse of business, no emotion involved.

  She was determined that he would not leave her behind again, as he had so long ago, to stew in the humiliation of rejection. With a house party taking place in four weeks, he wouldn’t be able to shake free of her. Not again. This time she was stronger. She would leave him, and on her own terms, when she wanted to.

  Though as she laid her plans and sent her invitations, she wondered—was the right word when, or was it if?

  Fifteen

  For Michael, the fortnight following his encounter with Caroline was an agony of solitude. In the third week, he left London.

  Out of sheer stubbornness, he waited until the beginning of August so that he would not be the first to depart the City. He would not have anyone say he turned tail and left before the end of the season, much good it had done him. He still had no wife and no money. In fact, he was even more impoverished than when he’d come to London, for he had given Caroline his secrets and his trust.

  The journey back north, taken at the greatest speed Michael’s aged carriage could manage, nonetheless left him too much time to think. At first he was able to smother his worries with work, scrawling notes with a pencil stub whenever the light permitted. But dusk came early. Rather than light the lamps and look ahead to Lancashire, Michael sat in the dark of the rattling carriage and thought of London—and Caroline.

  He thought he had forgotten the feeling of sanity slipping from his grasp, of his world tipping and falling, knocking him flat and breathless. But as soon as the panic had struck, it was like meeting a lifelong enemy, ever-known, ever-despised. Eleven years was not too long between such episodes.