To Charm a Naughty Countess

by Theresa Romain

  The air grew heavy, her breathing shallow. She was folded into the corner of the chaise, with nowhere to escape as he caged her with questions, with the span of his hand. Her legs trembled, and she was glad she was seated. These questions were too weighty to be borne.

  Oh, she could tell he was affected too. His pupils were wide in the low light, his lips parted. His fingertip whispered over her face like a butterfly learning the shape of a new flower. Even now, she could slip into his arms and drug him with the passionate response of his own body.

  She felt suddenly as if she were nineteen years old again, young and brash, being offered what she thought she wanted. But she had learned better with the passage of time. At nineteen, she had known that her fondest childhood wish—all the ices she could eat—would only sicken her. Now, at thirty, she knew that Michael was no better for her than too many desserts.

  “I don’t want this,” she lied, satisfied when he pulled away from her in an instant.

  He stood calmly, smoothing his clothes. His face was inscrutable as he made a bow to her. “If you figure out your answers, my lady, do tell me. But until then, I shall be looking for a wife.”

  He had already turned toward the door before she could unlock her tongue for a reply. “You won’t be looking anywhere near me. I’ll begin my journey home tomorrow.”

  Petulant, maybe. But who would care?

  Slowly, he turned on the heel of his boot, then folded his hands behind his back. “I beg your pardon,” he said with deliberate clarity. “We have three days left on our contract. I had not thought you unreliable.”

  “Of course you did. Everyone does,” she said. “And it was only a verbal pact; it was hardly the Ten Commandments. I’ve organized a house party for you, and I’ve spent a night with you. Surely that’s more than an adequate commitment of time.”

  He lifted a hand to his temple.

  “And please,” she added in a voice of chilly splendor, “do not think to come after me. I don’t imagine we have anything more to say to each other, do you? Not after all this time.”

  He wouldn’t follow; she knew that. He never did. She only hoped to hurt a bit less if she could pretend he stayed away at her wish, not his.

  He let his hand fall to his side. “You once insisted I not gainsay a lady’s request. Therefore, my lady, I shall leave you to your plans. If you require any assistance, you need only to ask.” He turned to leave. With his hand on the door handle, he paused. “I wish you a safe journey home, Caro.”

  The door closed behind him far too quietly considering the finality of what had passed.

  She had got her way, as always. She had chastised him, cut the tie between them, gathered all her dignity about her in preparation for a splendid exit.

  So why did she feel like an empty shell? Her life was lovely on the outside, but there was nothing of substance within.

  He was right, wasn’t he? Damn the man.

  Twenty-four

  Caroline was not left alone very long.

  Only a minute after Michael left her, she heard footsteps and the crick of the stubborn door handle. She sat up straight, smoothed her hair and gown. He was going to apologize? Fine, she would consider it.

  It wasn’t Michael who entered, though. It was Stratton.

  She gaped at him for an instant. “Damnation, Stratton, what are you doing here? I thought you on your way to London by now.”

  “But we have unfinished business, Caro.” He took a step toward her, promptly tripping over the leg of a fussy little marquetry table.

  She was not too proud to enjoy the sight. “No, we do not. I cannot be clearer, Stratton, that I will not marry you.” She shook her head. “How did you even get into the house? And why?”

  He dropped into the tottery chair Michael had abandoned. It groaned and wobbled gratifyingly under his weight. “I came through a window in some deserted room full of tatty old furniture, then started checking each room for you. When I heard your voice in this one, I waited outside until the duke huffed out.”

  “Huffed?” Caroline wanted to sigh. “Stratton, that doesn’t matter. Look, you cannot keep coming to a house to which you have not been invited. This is not sane behavior.”

  “Yes, it is. You wouldn’t talk to me any other way, and you must hear me out. I have a proposition for you.”

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  He looked smug. “I think you do, for it involves that duke you’re so fascinated with.”

  Her fingers went cold. He couldn’t have overheard, could he? About her night with Michael? Their supposed contract?

  He might have. Stratton would do anything to get her money—even, it seemed, cross the country and commit multiple acts of trespass.

  “I’ll hear you out,” she granted, “though I may yet have you thrown out the window you came in through.”

  “Very well.” He looked far too pleased for a man threatened with defenestration. “It’s a simple proposition. I know you’re helping Mad Michael find a wife, and it’s not going well. There’s talk about you.”

  “You have no idea,” she murmured. Evidently, Stratton had missed the lovely little scene in which Michael rehumiliated her in front of her friends.

  “It wouldn’t take much to whip up the scandal rags further. Not only caricatures, but stories. Poems. Bawdy songs. The press needs someone to mock, and it might as well be Wyverne. What do you think his chances of finding a wife would be then? Why, he’d be fortunate if anyone would even speak to him. And what would be the effect on you for hitching your wagon to a madman?”

  She refrained from telling him she’d had the same concern. “Your point?”

  He shrugged his sloping shoulders; the chair groaned again. “I have plenty of influence with the newspapers. For my wife, I would keep out any items that might affect her or her friends. For someone who is only a relation by marriage, however…”

  Why, the rat. She could cheerfully poison him.

  “Publish and be damned,” Caroline said. “I shan’t marry you to prevent you blackmailing me. Wyverne and I have both dealt with rumors before.”

  “My point exactly.” He smiled. “This is not the first time Wyverne duped you, made a fool of you. That doesn’t speak well for your judgment, does it? Or for your importance. If he wants nothing to do with you—again—perhaps there’s no reason anyone else should either.” He reached for her sleeve, running his finger inside the cap of fabric. “Besides the obvious. I suppose even a madman such as Wyverne can appreciate your physical charms.”

  She slapped his fingers away. “How vulgar you are, Stratton. Not even a title can give you the air of a gentleman.”

  “Nor does yours make you a lady.”

  “It made me wealthy,” she said, “which is more than you can say.”

  He recoiled at that hit, and she used his silence to think. The most distasteful bit of Stratton’s plan—if she could choose only one—was his willingness to attack and blight Michael’s good name only to punish Caroline. This could not be permitted.

  Kicking her feet up onto the end of the chaise that Michael had recently vacated, she felt as though he’d left some of his logic behind. Her thoughts snicked into order, like a box full of magic lantern slides. Just as clearly, she saw what to do next.

  She slipped a cool smile over her features. “Here’s something else you cannot say, Stratton: that the young women of London care for your opinion. You may hold the papers, but I still hold sway over fashion. If you and I both try to lead, the women of London are much more likely to follow me than they are to attend to trash printed by a jumped-up cit of a journalist.” Leaning back, she folded her arms behind her head in utter unconcern. “In fact, if you threaten me or propose to me again, I shall turn all the young women of society against you. No more shall I excuse your behavior for the sake of avoiding scandal.”

 
; “You are the one who will be embroiled in—”

  “Bosh,” she cut him off. “If you attack my reputation, or Wyverne’s, I shall starve you in your hunger after money.”

  Stratton’s smile crystallized.

  In truth, she was not sure whether she had such influence. She had seen the power of the scandal rags to hurt Michael’s reputation, the wariness with which even the fringes of society had once regarded him. And she had not forgotten the faces once turned away from her, or the chill of being pushed to the edge of society.

  But she had once told Michael the importance of showing someone how to respond. So with a sweet smile, with an imperious lift of her chin borrowed from His Grace, the Duke of Wyverne, she displayed a confidence she did not feel. “If you play this game, Stratton, you will not win. No wealthy young woman will speak to you, much less consider placing her dowry in your hands. The more you try to ruin me, the less likely it is that you shall get what you want.”

  The earl jerked to his feet. “You’d like to think so.”

  “I would indeed. And I do.”

  His eyes flicked around as though hunting inspiration for a reply. “You think you’ve finished with me, but I know your weaknesses.”

  Yes, you do. “I doubt it.”

  Glaring, he said, “I shall think on this matter and speak more to you of it later.”

  She sat up again and inclined her head with regal disdain. “You may do that, Stratton. But mind you, come when I’m at home to callers. If I ever see you coming in through a window of my London house, I might be so startled that I cry for the Watch to come cuff you. And who do you think would be caricatured in the scandal rags then?”

  With admirable grace, Stratton spun on one patent-shoed foot and exited the room. Caroline wondered for a moment how he would get out of the house without being discovered, then decided she didn’t care. Soon enough, he would develop a repulsive new plan to entrap her, and she would be required to dwell on his schemes them.

  For now, she had many things to think on besides the dubious escape strategy of her idiotic relative. First, she had staked her reputation to help Michael. Again. She had once told Michael that if he persisted in his social eccentricity, he could drag her down by association. Today, he might have done just that, in the small segment of polite society that currently whispered in his drawing room.

  Surely, though, there would be no lasting damage from this night. Surely she would be able to salvage something of her reputation for charm, for appeal, for desirability. Some of her devoted puppies were here, after all, along with her loyal friends Lord and Lady Tallant.

  Even so, the idea of remaining in Michael’s home another day sickened her. Because she had defended him to Stratton—would always defend him to anyone—and now she knew why.

  Oh, she wouldn’t dare call it love. With all her fortune, she couldn’t afford love. But it leaned that way, precariously close. She could accept flowers or jewels from a man without being touched at all, but seldom did men offer her vulnerability. Never had one given her his virginity.

  She prized those gifts, prized him. And she wanted so badly to believe he prized her in return. But he wasn’t giving her anything else. His honesty came coupled with too much disdain for her way of life; his vulnerability, with no love.

  Since she could not bear to be without that, it was better that she return to London. She had settled Stratton well enough; Michael and Miss Cartwright seemed sure to reach an understanding soon. No one needed Caroline anymore.

  In the morning, she would make her excuses to the party. Possibly she could say she needed to visit her cousin, Frances Middlebrook, who lived just outside London.

  Yes, that was a good idea. She would say she’d had word from Frances, and she must depart at once. Whether Emily assumed the hostess role or the house party dissolved, Caroline didn’t care much.

  She didn’t have to care about anything, did she? She was accustomed to doing what she wanted to.

  Even if she didn’t know what that was anymore.

  Twenty-five

  London was never at its best in autumn. Much as Caroline loved the City, she was willing to admit that.

  Four weeks had passed since she left Lancashire, narrow weeks of vivid silks cloaking bleak moods. The silks and the moods were equally of her choosing, for she had spent those weeks at the home of her dear friend and cousin Frances and Frances’s husband, Henry. Henry was an artist by training, and he and Frances took students together. Consequently, their cottage was always full of bright paintings, some lovely, some lamentable.

  It had been a comforting visit, friendly and familial. Caroline admired the life her old friend had built. But there was nothing so cozy waiting for Caroline herself. The man who had offered her the chance to be needed… well, he needed nothing from her except her money. Since Miss Cartwright would do as well in that regard, he might even be married to her already.

  She wished them well. Somewhat.

  As Caroline’s carriage rolled up to her narrow Albemarle Street house, she saw no color in the world but gray. The sky dropped cold drizzle, ruffling and spraying behind the wheels as they rolled down muddy streets. Her stuccoed house appeared the dull color of an old bone.

  A footman let down the carriage steps for her, then helped her hop down under the cover of an umbrella held by her watchful butler, Pollitt. She could not help but remember the time she rode home with Michael, when she had much, much more to look forward to than a solitary evening in a poorly lit house.

  Her heart didn’t seem to beat in time with the City’s tonight. Maybe because she had been gone for so long, or maybe because she’d left her heart behind her.

  Such reflections were not helping her mood either.

  Under Pollitt’s sheltering umbrella, she bustled up her front steps and inside the house. Once in her entry hall, things seemed a bit more cheerful. Her chandelier—not Venetian glass like Lady Kettleburn’s, but lovely all the same—cast its hot little lights down on her, brightening the tiles of the floor and the plaster and paper on the walls.

  She looked around as though she were a purchaser seeing it for the first time. Narrow, stretching steps. Glossy marble and clean white trim. Blue plaster and dentated moldings.

  She had arranged this house to her liking, and here she would probably live out her life. Surely there was nothing so melancholy about that. She had been alone before. It was nothing she couldn’t handle.

  “I’m for bed, Pollitt,” she sighed.

  Tonight she was too tired. She would handle it in the morning.

  ***

  In the morning, Caroline awoke with renewed purpose. There was no need to be lonely just because she had fallen in love with a stubborn man who was a stranger to all feelings but honor and duty.

  She covered her face with a pillow, as though she could smother her own feelings. But it only made her recall his presence in her bed. It made her wish to breathe him in, his scent as clean and sharp as desire itself.

  Damnable man.

  He would be difficult to forget again—more difficult than ever before, because he was twined through her wholly, body and heart and mind. But forget him she would. Eventually. She just needed the right distraction.

  She tossed the pillow aside and slid from her bed, then padded across her room and retrieved her heavy red banyan from her wardrobe. She shrugged into it as she crossed to her writing desk.

  There, lined up next to her writing paper, was the penknife Michael had used to cut her corset strings.

  Caroline shook off this reminder, which brought with it an unwelcome plummet of the stomach. She rang for her maid, ordered a bracing amount of coffee and toast, and set to work.

  An hour later, the coffee and toast were gone, and she had scrawled and sealed a tidy pile of notes. She nodded her satisfaction. Now she only needed to get ready for her grand new
plan.

  ***

  At two o’clock that afternoon, Caroline Graves, the dowager Countess of Stratton, stood in her drawing room awaiting her callers. She had taken great care with her appearance. Her hair was a neatly coiled mass of honey-gold; her dress was elegant but demure, a Paris-green silk with a high waist, beaded bodice, and long sleeves trimmed with gold lace. With emeralds at her ears and around her throat, she knew she looked regal. Respectable. Ready to conquer.

  When she heard a tread on the stair, she lifted her chin and smiled her brightest, most welcoming smile.

  In the doorway appeared the fair head of Lady Kettleburn—wife to a much older baron, hostess of that fateful ball at which Michael and Caroline had discovered one another. Gowned in a silk of her favorite pale blue shade, the baroness looked as frosty as the weather. “How do you do, your ladyship?” The stiffness of her greeting was another icicle.

  “Come, none of this formality.” Caroline took the younger woman’s hand. “As you’re first to arrive, Lady Kettleburn, you must pick the best chair. I can tell you not to choose that spindly beech chair in the corner. It will positively reshape your spine.”

  The baroness permitted herself a small smile, and Caroline pressed her advantage. “I’ve heard that you are fond of a lemon tart, as am I. My cook is rather vain about her abilities with pastry. Won’t you give one a try?”

  Today Caroline had taken as much care with the room as with her own appearance. Instead of the customary hothouse blooms from her callers, every surface had been covered instead with eatables—trays of pastries, small sandwiches—all arrayed on her favorite Sheffield plate tea service. There was something very welcoming, she thought, about a groaning platter of food.