“Deuced cold, isn’t it, Your Grace?”
Lord Kettleburn clapped Michael on the shoulder and grinned at him. With a fluffy crown of white hair and a fleshy nose webbed with burst capillaries, the elderly baron was as inelegant as he was jovial.
“Deuced cold,” Michael agreed. At his side, Caroline coughed so much that he suspected her of covering a laugh.
The Kettleburns made an unlikely pair: he, a rough-spoken pukka sahib who had made a fortune in shipping; she, a viscount’s daughter several decades his junior, whom he had purchased shortly after receiving his barony for economic services to the Crown.
In other words, Kettleburn had started with money and used it to gild his way to a position in society. Precisely the reverse of what Michael intended to do.
He only hoped his union proved more harmonious than the Kettleburns’. The baron’s money might have bought lobster patties and a large orchestra, but as far as Michael could tell, no one particularly wanted to talk with him.
Except Caroline, who was clasping the old rogue’s hand. “I adore your new chandeliers, Lord Kettleburn. Such beautiful crystal. Are they Venetian prisms?”
The baron cleared his throat. “Can’t say, honestly. M’wife’s picked out all the fripperies and furnishings. She does the choosing, and I do the paying. Suits us both, what?”
The young baroness smiled tightly. Several inches taller than her husband, she reminded Michael of an icicle: thin and brittle in a frost-silver gown, with pale hair pulled back tightly from austere features.
By contrast, Caroline was all warmth. Her gown was dark red, so velvety looking that it seemed to invite touch. In the candlelight, her upswept hair appeared as golden as a sodium flame—though somehow he had thought it prudent not to blurt out this comparison.
“I admire your selections, Lady Kettleburn.” Caroline turned her smile to the young baroness. “And I congratulate you on your fortunate household arrangements. Not many women of my acquaintance enjoy such husbandly trust and indulgence.”
The young woman relaxed visibly, and Caroline turned to their host again. “My lord, the punch is your own concoction, is it not? I’ve heard it’s the perfect complement to an evening of dancing and merriment. Wyverne, you must try it.”
The baron blinked hazily. “Er… yes. I’d be honored, Your Grace. May I show you to the refreshments?”
“No need, my lord.” Caroline waved him off. “Your other guests would miss the pleasure of your greeting. I’ll steer Wyverne in the right direction.”
With a flurry of nods and smiles all around, they moved into the arcade of rooms their hosts had opened up for dancing.
“Truly, I have no idea in which direction you are steering me,” Michael muttered. Like his own London residence, Kettleburn House was a stretching home in an elegant but not modish part of London. But as quiet and dim as Wyverne House was, this one was tumultuous, full of winking candles and babbling voices, the heavy scent of meats cooked in butter and lard, the bleat of oboes and thrum of strings. Already his head pounded in time with the country dancing; already he was tense from holding himself out of Caroline’s reach, from reminding himself not to reach for her.
Tonight, he had another chance to show the world who the Duke of Wyverne was. And by God, he’d better not cock it up again.
Caroline nodded at a gaggle of richly dressed women then waggled her fan at another group. “I am steering you into society,” she said. “Is it not obvious? Lord Kettleburn is now convinced that you are keen to try his punch, than which he can imagine no greater honor. And his lady wife is of better cheer knowing that her domestic arrangements are admired rather than scorned.”
She turned to Michael, lovely as a wicked angel. “This is how we shall proceed. All you have to do is say ‘Deuced cold’ when the moment is right and think of something kind to say whenever you can. Just as we practiced last Saturday.”
“Why need we waste such efforts on people such as the Kettleburns?” Michael asked. “They have money but no influence, no daughter for me to pursue. Surely our time would be better spent courting the favor of someone else.” Unkind, perhaps, but his reserves were finite. He already felt like a spring over-tightened, tense beyond bearing.
“Spoken with a duke’s hauteur. Why waste your favor on your inferiors?”
“That’s not what I meant.” The rhythmic headache added a brutal glissando. “I speak of time being limited, not favor. I am only conscious of the need for haste.”
“Ah. So you wish to focus your attention on the best people.”
“I—”
“Aristocrats, you mean. Dukes such as yourself.”
He wondered whether she was being deliberately obtuse. “If they have money and unmarried daughters.”
Caroline snapped her fan closed. “Someone such as the fifth Duke of Devonshire, you mean? He was blessed with both daughters and deep pockets. A prince among men, to be sure. He made his wife’s life a hell by taking up with her closest friend under his own roof, yet when the duchess strayed, he had her exiled to France.”
“I don’t mean—” Michael tried to break in, but Caroline continued ruthlessly.
“Or do you mean to confine your definition of the best to royalty? Perhaps our Prince Regent, who has a wife yet not a wife in the abandoned Mrs. Fitzherbert? Or whose cousin bore him such a disgust that, once they were married, she left him after the wedding night?”
“No.” Michael pressed a hand to his temple, but he could not silence her voice.
“Or best of all, the king, who speaks in tongues and froths at the mouth?”
“Quiet, woman!” Michael barked.
Caroline went still. “You refer to me as woman?”
Michael let his hand fall. “It’s biologically accurate. And I also said ‘quiet.’ You have willfully misunderstood me. You are attributing great snobbery to me when I only stated my desire to focus my limited attention on finding a wife. I cannot become friends with everyone in London. I do not possess your skill.”
Caroline blinked several times. Then she flicked her fan open again and continued walking as though there had been no outburst. “I am friends with only some of them. But I am courteous to all. The nobility, as you know, deserves respect by virtue of their blue blood. The happiest accident of birth.”
“Yes.” Michael hesitated. “Well, that is the way of the world.”
“It is, and I neither disagree with it nor dispute it,” Caroline said. “The world must have its ways. But I save my highest regard for those who make the best of the gifts they have been given, whether that is a title or a fat purse or—”
“A beautiful face?” Michael gazed down at hers.
“Yes, that is a woman’s greatest currency. If she gambles well, she can parlay it into a title and a fortune.” Her smile looked fragile.
Deuced cold.
Then it melted away. “Do not think I criticize you, Michael. To the contrary, I admire the way you care for your dukedom. I know that’s why you now seek a wealthy wife, no matter how distasteful you find the task.”
“I don’t—”
“But you never know who might help you or Wyverne. My opinions need not be yours, naturally, and maybe you won’t care for some of the people to whom I introduce you. But I aim to help you. And therefore, I ask you not to dismiss anyone out of hand.”
“Of course I won’t,” Michael said, insulted. “I am no schoolboy who needs a drilling in manners.”
“Is that courteous, then?” Caroline leveled a finger at him. Michael realized he was looming over her with arms crossed, shoulders square, and chin high, as if he could use his size to intimidate her into silence.
Not that it would work. He could never silence this woman; not even if he were the size of an elephant. And to be fair, he shouldn’t. She had said nothing so radical, only urged him to mind his manners, so to speak, for one never knew who might do him good.
For all that it appeared selfless and sentimental, such courtesy was quite logical. Still, he felt the tension of an unfulfilled goal, of too little time and too much uncertainty.
Maybe she saw this, because she relented. “It can never be bad to spend a minute setting someone at ease, Michael. To put it in the economic terms you favor: for a small investment of time, you will yield a great return of esteem. Observe.”
She turned to a plump woman brushing past them. “What a fetching gown, Lady Halliwell. I’ve never seen anyone look so well in peach as you do.”
The woman halted. “Darling Caro! You’re a vision, as always.” She looked curiously at Michael. “A new escort for you tonight?”
“His Grace, the Duke of Wyverne. I am but a chance companion this evening. He’s honoring us this season due to…” She winked. “His desire to embark upon a certain state.”
Michael straightened his shoulders and tried to look eager and soppy.
He must have done well enough, for the round Lady Halliwell beamed at him. “Are you? How delightful. I had rather heard… well, never mind. If you’re looking for a… well, then obviously you are… That is… how lovely! I wish you good fortune. Ah… do you intend to dance tonight, Your Grace?”
“I…” Michael trailed off. His dance with Caroline had prepared him for nothing; it had only taught him the meager limits of his own control. Would it be the same if he danced with someone else? Would he make a spectacle of himself in Kettleburn House, smothering every young lady with kisses if she dared draw near him?
But no… she kissed me first, he realized. Caroline had begun it all.
This realization was hardly conducive to his self-possession.
“Yes, His Grace is eager to dance tonight,” Caroline trilled, causing her peach-clad acquaintance to pat plump hands together in ecstasy. “But we’ve promised our host to sip some of his excellent punch first. Did you know he concocts it himself?”
“Does he?” Lady Halliwell looked interested. “I heard some young bucks talking of it earlier. Scandalously strong, is it not?”
“I hope so.” Caroline grinned.
Lady Halliwell laughed and turned to resume her path through the crowded room. “An honor to meet you, Your Grace. I shall see if I can send some lovely young ladies your way, shall I?” Her round face dimpled, and Michael found himself returning what was really a rather pleasant smile.
“The lovelier, the better,” Caroline said, and both women laughed again before Lady Halliwell moved on with a parting wave of her fan.
“Do you see what I mean?” Caroline said quietly as she and Michael pressed in what must be the direction of the much-discussed punch. “With the right word in her ear, Lady Halliwell was perfectly willing to be charmed by you. Now she will tell everyone what a delightful man you are. And she’ll help circulate the news that you’re looking for a wife, which could help your cause with creditors as well as wealthy young ladies.”
This sounded less appealing to Michael than it ought. “I said nothing more to that woman than a single syllable. How could she find me charming under such circumstances?”
Caroline tapped her chin with her folded fan. “I believe it’s something like agriculture.”
“I beg your pardon.”
Caroline chuckled. “Your ducal phrase, always upon the tip of your tongue. What I mean is, it’s much easier for a seed to grow when the soil is prepared carefully. Correct? So it is with people too. If you prepare them for what they ought to see and feel, they are more apt to see and feel it. I acted as if I found you charming, and so Lady Halliwell was charmed.”
“You only acted?” Michael knew the question was irrelevant. Whether or not Caroline found him charming had nothing to do with his purpose in London.
Except… when they had waltzed, he’d felt himself come alive. He had craved her touch, yearned for that closeness. His body had become an essential part of his being, rather than a dull weight on his mind.
In a way, she had made him feel whole. And that meant he hadn’t been whole before, which was as terrifying as the feeling of wholeness was exhilarating. But it was exhilarating. And he could not bear to think it was all an act when for him it was so painfully real.
“I act every day, Michael,” she said. “All day, every day. But that does not mean what I say and do is a lie. I may sweeten my true feelings with kind words, but I will not play myself false.”
Her eyes went hard; her face, stern. Michael knew sternness well, because it sat so often on his own features. Sternness was effective at covering other feelings. Fear. Worry. Longing.
This type of acting, Michael did not mind. Some emotions were too private to share.
“I can accept that,” he replied. “But I do not wish you to sweeten anything you say to me. You cannot offend me as long as you are honest.”
“I wonder.” She swooped behind him and nudged the tails of his coat. Straightening, she said, “Michael, you have a remarkably fine arse.”
It was not dignified for a grown man to redden. Of course, it was also not dignified for a gently bred woman to compliment a man on his… posterior.
So Michael and Caroline both cast off dignity. He glared down at her with a flaming face, and she gloated. “Are you shocked, Your Grace? And I thought you could not be offended by the truth.”
“By the truth I cannot, but by mockery I can. I have asked you for the favor of your honesty, and instead you seek to discomfit me.”
“I have given you a greater favor than you know.” With a sharp flick of the wrist, she snapped her fan open again. The painted semicircle was deliberately provocative, showing a nude Venus reclining on a tussle of draperies. It covered Caroline’s mouth and nose, made a shaded mystery of her eyes. When fronted by Venus, none could fail to make the association: Caro sought desire as her due.
Oh, she had it, little though it meant to her. Like a bouquet, presented and received out of obligation.
“We ought to make our way to the punch bowl,” Michael said.
“I could use some strong spirits myself.” Caroline lowered her fan to the level of her bosom. “Come. I believe we’ll find Lord Kettleburn’s concoction at the center of that group of raucous young men.”
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?”