To Charm a Naughty Countess (11 page)

Kettleburn had left the side of his lady wife and was now elbowing his way through the mass of imbibing men. The baron was red-faced and jovial, though the other men ignored him as they would a servant. As the crowd peeled back, a table of refreshments and an empty crystal punch bowl were revealed.

Kettleburn waved for lemons and sugar and several bottles Michael could not identify at a distance of several yards. The baron laid out all the ingredients on the snowy linen tablecloth, then mixed and mingled the complex beverage with swift, precise movements.

It was a pleasure to watch anyone so sure of his work. Kettleburn’s quiet bustle drew even the interest of his inebriated young guests.

“Well done, Kettleburn. Well done,” Caroline murmured behind her fan. “He forces them to recall whose hospitality they have accepted. After all this fuss, I can only assume the punch is something very special.” She looked up at Michael. “Do you see the power of such conviction? He has convinced me of his skill, just as he has everyone surrounding him. He believes that his recipe is astounding, and without taking a taste, we are ready to believe it too. It is always thus with a reputation.”

“And what is your reputation, Caro?” He could not resist the question. He had no idea of the answer.

Those blue-green eyes narrowed. “Mine is what I’ve made it over the course of a lifetime. But we’re here on account of your reputation, not mine.” Her mouth stretched into a tight little curve. “You’ve made your bed, and now you find it too austere to lie in. So we’ll stuff it with bills and frame it with coin, and once the work is done, you shall sleep soundly for the remainder of your days.”

Stung, he said, “I suppose I asked for honesty. You think me a wastrel, then?”

“No. Not that.” She sighed. “No, I spoke too harshly. Please, forgive me. I don’t think you a wastrel. But I’ve never really known what to think of you.”

“You think of me?” This was the wrong question to ask. He cleared his throat. “That is—you ought to think of me as—as a good duke. I wish you would.”

“I do that.” Venus covered her face, then was folded up. “I most definitely do that.”

Was she happy with him, or was she not? He could not file this conversation into either category, so he could not, as yet, understand it.

Not that he needed to. But he was finding that he
wanted
to very much.

Before him, men were dipping out Lord Kettleburn’s punch for themselves and a few bold ladies. Now that the baron’s magnificent display was completed, he was shunted aside again. Lady Kettleburn sliced through the crowds in her home with chilly splendor, Caro’s warming influence apparently quite dissipated.

So it was: people always returned to the behavior they knew best, and no one could change them beyond a single moment.

If the
ton
thought Michael mad, then he could not change anyone’s mind. Not even if he stayed for a whole season of balls, dressed his finest, and danced every dance Almack’s could offer.

Which meant he would have to find someone who would marry him despite his reputation.
Despite
: it came back to that word again.

Michael wanted not to care. But the truth was, he cared very much. That was part of the reason he’d stayed away from London so long. Why choose to spend time with those who spoke ill of him? The only possible end was that he would grow to think ill of them and of himself. Neither outcome was desirable.

And neither was the idea of a trade such as Lord and Lady Kettleburn had made: a fortune for a title. A sacrifice on both sides seemed inevitably to lead to a sacrifice of all tender affections. He might have accepted that once, but Caroline had made him think. Think, of the joy of having a wife who esteemed him. Even loved him.

Think, of pleasure.

He drew her hand within the crook of his arm, hoping she would let him pull her close.

But she only smiled up at him as though he had obeyed an order. “Why,” she said, “I believe I see Miss Meredith. Shall we get on with the business of introductions?”

For two reasons, Caroline thought Augusta Meredith an excellent candidate for Michael’s hand. First, Miss Meredith had money enough to turn every sow’s ear in London into a silk purse. And second, she was an orphan.

After Michael’s calamitous encounter with the Carcel lamp, and the Carcel lamp’s calamitous encounter with the drawing room floor, Caroline thought it prudent to eliminate disapproving mothers from the courtship situation.

Yes, she might have found the future Duchess of Wyverne this time. Miss Meredith was twenty-four years old, in control of her own funds, and quite bold enough to overcome Michael’s formidable reserve.

And she was beautiful. That wouldn’t hurt matters.

So Caroline had thought in the haven of her own carriage. Pleased with herself. Quite the matchmaker. Smug, really, that at last, she would prove there was no one she couldn’t handle—not even Michael.

Now, standing next to Augusta Meredith—all dark-red hair, wide smile, white teeth, pleasant laugh—Caroline was almost struck dumb by the difference between twenty-four and her own thirty years. Between her own gown, cut to skate over her imperfect figure, and Miss Meredith’s tight-bodiced garment, which left no question that her young form was flawless.

No doubt Michael noticed. No doubt he was noticing every inch of Miss Meredith’s generous bosom, barely covered by copper moiré.

“I’m honored to make your acquaintance, Your Grace,” Miss Meredith purred into Michael’s ear. “I’ve heard the most fascinating things about you.”

Michael stiffened.

“All good, no doubt.” Caroline’s smile showed a confidence she did not feel.

“Oh, yes.” The younger woman tossed a roguish look at Caroline. “Isn’t he the talk of the
ton
, Caro? Why, Your Grace, I heard you took apart every stick of furniture in the Tallant House drawing room.” She trailed a gloved hand up Michael’s arm. “I can tell you have the strength for it.”

Michael stared at the hand on his arm.

He had said he suffered from headaches, and Caroline could see one taking hold. He squinted, and his firm mouth—
oh, he had kissed her with that mouth
—went tight.

Yet he allowed Miss Meredith to continue touching him: progress indeed. When Caroline had first flirted with him—no, no more than
touched
him—he had twisted away and barked at her as a dog would. And in turn, she had chased after him, teasing and taunting so he would play fetch with her.

Miss Meredith didn’t have to chase. She was, herself, fetching.

That lady gave Michael’s biceps a squeeze. “You must call me Augusta, Your Grace.”

“I need do nothing of the sort.”

Headache or no, that was no answer to a lady. Caroline kicked him in the heel. Not very hard, of course. Not nearly as hard as he deserved.

“But I will do so all the same,” he added. “Thank you. And you must call me… ah, Wyverne.”

Caroline kicked him again. Without another word, he took a step back, which removed him from grabbing range of one woman and kicking range of the other.

Well. No one had ever accused Michael of being stupid.

“Do tell me, Wyverne,” Augusta asked, “what do you think of the orchestra? Do you intend to dance this evening?” Closing the distance between them, she again caught his arm and began to walk her satin-gloved fingers up and down his biceps. “Or if you are weary of that pursuit, I’m sure we could think of another. Something… equally pleasant?”

Michael stared at her hand.
Glared
, more like. His head must be clanging with dismay.

Despite herself, Caroline smiled. She couldn’t blame Miss Meredith for her instant attraction to the duke. In the polished ballroom of Kettleburn House, he stood out as a little taller, a little broader, a little leaner than others. Though his dignity proclaimed him a nobleman, his physique showed him to be a man who understood work and labor. The contrast was irresistible.

And his gravitas—ah, that was the best part for Caroline. That serious face, that stern manner. The best thing about a man who worked so hard was teaching him to play.

Since he didn’t have a playful answer at the ready—when did he ever?—Caroline chimed in. “Do you have a suggestion, Augusta? I know well, you’re always full of clever ideas. And His Grace is still fairly new to London. As you can see, he needs some amusement.”

She permitted herself a cavalier wave at Michael’s granite expression, which cracked with grudging humor.

“Let me think about that.” Augusta considered. “Vauxhall Gardens might be pleasant, with all its secret paths. But for tonight…” The younger woman crossed her arms under her bosom as she mused, pushing up her impressive breasts until they came perilously close to escaping her bodice. Naturally, Michael’s eyes flicked down to them.

His face flushed beneath its tan.

Caroline guessed he had little experience with women. As reticent, yet aroused as he had been during their dance, it could be no commonplace event for him to be alone with a woman. For a man so hungry for control, passion would be a devastating loss. Even so, Caroline wanted to wake it, to take that control for herself.

But he was not hers to wake or control. He was in Augusta Meredith’s hands now, and soon Augusta might be in
his
hands.

Oh, damn. Caroline couldn’t deny it anymore: she was jealous.

Well, there was nothing to do but squelch the feeling. Michael had been quite frank about wanting Caroline’s help, but no more than that. And there was no sense in ruining his chances with another woman. Gossip and envy had been Caroline’s enemy eleven years ago. She would not befriend them now.

Instead, she took care to adopt their opposite: graciousness. The young lady wanted a moonlit garden walk with secret paths? Very well.

“My dear Augusta,” she broke the younger woman’s reverie. “His Grace has never been to Kettleburn House before. Would you show him the famous rose garden?”

Augusta looked pleased, and Caroline had all the gratification of having done a small kindness against her own will. “That’s a wonderful idea, Caro. What do you say to it, Wyverne? Shall we take a turn through the garden?”

“It would be my pleasure.” His voice sounded stiff, as though he had no idea to what he had agreed, no idea what pleasure was.

Caroline affixed her brightest smile and waggled her fan at the pair. “Have a delightful time. Do let me know, Wyverne, if you come across a coquelicot carnation in the course of your botanical fumblings.”

“Ha,” he said, and with one more hint of a smile, they had disappeared into the crowd.

So. Her work was done, and she was no longer needed. If she had chosen well, she wouldn’t need to consult with the third marriage prospect she’d identified. Perhaps even now, the future Duchess of Wyverne was strolling with her duke through the tangled roses behind Kettleburn House.

If so, they deserved each other, and that she did mean in all kindness. There was no joy in wishing people unhappiness.

She only wished she could find a little happiness for herself.

With seeming carelessness, she scanned the crowd for familiar faces, nodding whenever she locked eyes with a friend, acknowledging greetings with the perfect incline of her head, a graceful curve of lips. But no one sprang to her side to draw her into a deep conversation. No one called to her with any comment beyond a compliment on her appearance. She was surfeited with quantity yet wishing for a little more quality.

Damn Michael. He had spoiled a perfectly lovely party. He’d jolted her awry with his response to Miss Meredith, and she couldn’t regain her footing.

So it had always been with him.

A voice in her ear recalled her to her surroundings. “Caro. You look ravishing tonight.”

Reflexively, she turned in its direction. “Oh. Stratton.” Her smile vanished.

Her late husband’s great-nephew and heir looked as fashionable as always. The high points of his cravat did little to hide the weakness of his chin, though, and the scented pomade in his light brown hair only accentuated his receding hairline.

She tolerated a kiss on the hand, but it was impossible not to compare him to the man who had just left her behind. “What do you want from me, Stratton?”

The earl offered her an oily smile. “Only a dance, dear Caro. Only a dance for now.” He gestured toward the couples assembling for a country set. “Shall we join them?”

Inside, Caroline sighed. But there was little he could do to harass her in a crowded room. “Very well. But no proposals tonight, do you understand me? I simply cannot abide another.”

He pressed a manicured hand to his heart. “How you wound me.”

“I only wish I did,” she muttered. She would not soon forget how he had tried to manhandle her at the Applewood House ball. Such had ever been her fate when she floated out onto that terrace—though this time, Michael had been her savior rather than her ruin.

Perhaps Stratton had heard her, for his eyes narrowed. “Wish what you will. Do you intend to dance with me, or shall you make a spectacle in the ballroom?”

No. Not that. Dutifully, she laid her fingers on his arm and fell into step. “Very well, Stratton. Only stay in the middle of the crowd, and we’ll have a fair enough time. Shall we stand at the bottom of the set?”

“Let’s go to the top, so everyone can see us.” He beamed at her, proud as if he was already pulling gold from her pockets.

This was the way of her life, her world: through her money and manners, she left people happy. But did anyone think of her when she wasn’t around? Would anyone care for her if she had no fortune or a plain face?

She had no means of testing this hypothesis, but she suspected the answer was no.

She might as well dance with Stratton, after all. What else was left to her this evening?

***

“This is the most notorious garden in London, Your Grace,” Miss Meredith whispered to Michael. Her hand was tucked into the crook of his arm, and as they walked, she kept brushing his arm with her undeniably splendid bosom.

Michael didn’t mention it, of course. She would be embarrassed if she knew how she was displaying herself.

The Kettleburn House garden was not large by the standards of London’s mansions, but it was intricately laid out. Already Miss Meredith had led him through a maze of pitted gravel paths, past sedgy undergrowth and tangled, spindly rosebushes. An occasional torch split the night; an occasional giggle too. They were not alone in taking a moonlit stroll, then.

“What gives this place its notoriety?” Michael said.

“Ah.” Miss Meredith raised herself on her toes to murmur in his ear. “It was born in scandal.”

The full weight of her breasts plumped onto his forearm as she dropped back onto her heels. Despite his best intentions, he twitched at the contact. Caroline had prepared him to discuss the weather, not to be bombarded by breasts. He could not fathom the proper response.

So he pretended that all was normal. “A scandal? How so?”

“It used to be quite a showplace, as Lord Kettleburn had hired the best gardener in all England. But some say the gardener spent as much time cultivating her ladyship as he did his flowers, and so he was let go. No one else has been able to do a thing with the garden since.”

Michael frowned. This reminded him too much of the long-stirring rumors about himself, so often seasoned with salacious undertones. Lust or madness, the subjects were irresistible to the
beau
monde
’s gossips.

“The place looks well enough,” he contradicted. “Though the cold weather cannot be helping the roses to bloom.” His own lands looked far worse, the dead vegetation rotted in boggy lowlands and stick-dry on the windswept higher ground.

“But the scandal of it!” Miss Meredith sounded agitated. “The clandestine affair!”

“It need not concern you,” Michael said. “No guilt can come by association with a location, only with a person.”

Miss Meredith stood still for an instant, then dropped her fan from her free hand. “La! How clumsy of me.”

She bent over and began to pat the ground. “Oh, mercy, where can it have got to?”

Good God. Her round derriere was waggling in the air, and her generous bosom seemed about to spill from her bodice as she leaned over.

The curvaceous Miss Meredith was pretty, but Michael was embarrassed on her behalf: she seemed unaware of the prurient way she displayed her body. Had she enough dignity to serve as his duchess?

The headache decided to join them for this rose-garden interlude, but Michael willed it away. If Miss Meredith wished, she could roll all over the ground. She had money enough for them both, and so they might deal well together.

He tried a courtly maneuver. “Miss Meredith, do allow me.”

He shut his eyes to accustom them to complete darkness, then crouched and opened them. Right away, he saw the dim outline of the ivory fan on the gravel path, snatched it up, and slapped it into Miss Meredith’s palm as he stood.

“Oh. Ah. Thank you, Your Grace.” She looked at the fan for a long moment, then smiled up at him. It was a rather impish expression that reminded him of Caroline.

The young lady dusted off her gloves and slid her hand into the crook of Michael’s arm again, leading him further into the winding garden. Her grasp was tighter than ever, her fingers tight as unsheathed claws. If young Miss Weatherby had been a kitten, Augusta Meredith was a tigress. She seemed not to know her own strength.

After a few minutes of wordless crunching down the gravel paths, she spoke. “What brought you to London after so long away, Your Grace? I’ve lived here all my life, but I haven’t heard of you being here since… oh, I must have been a child at the time.”

A child? Michael felt suddenly out of step as they walked on. Had he been away from London for a half a generation, then?

Yes, so he had: eleven years. And if he had no one’s welfare to consider but his own, his absence would have continued indefinitely.

He looked back to the house again, almost wishing to return to its churning, glittering, crowded rooms. Though he and Miss Meredith were alone, he felt somehow more exposed than he had in the ballroom. “I returned to London because I thought it time to find a bride.”