To Michael’s eye, Caroline’s house was a tall stucco tooth in the chattering mouth of Albemarle Street. Feet, hooves, and wheels trekked back and forth before it in a constant clatter and tumult. Bright flowers tumbled and spilled from window boxes, heedless of the unusual snap in the summer weather. The effect was, Michael supposed, convivial and lovely.
It was entirely wasted on him.
Oh, not because of scorn for its appearance. His own London seat, Wyverne House, was a drafty, squat structure that resembled a giant snuffbox. But Wyverne House had the advantage of quiet and order. It swallowed noise and drank light. Albemarle Street was overfull of both.
Michael’s back began to knot as he marched up the steps to her front door. Caroline was a surprise, and surprises often made him tense.
Not because of her persistent beauty. No, it was her unshakable confidence. Her certainty that he wasn’t mad—yet she offered to help him, as if she recalled their last, disastrous meeting with pity. As if determined to fix something that was broken.
Michael was used to being the one who fixed; he did not intend to be seen as broken. He had come today to prove her impression wrong.
But once admitted to the house, Michael found himself blinking amidst a blast of sparkle and color. There was too much. The walls were a vivid blue; the polished brass chandeliers, gilt picture frames, and glossy marble floors winked and shone in the slanted sunlight. From inside the drawing room, Michael could hear a dozen voices raised in babble and laughter.
Too much—much too much. Yet entirely normal for the ton. Michael gritted his teeth and hoped the expression resembled a smile, then trudged upstairs to the drawing room.
He eased open the door and saw at once that the room was crammed full of men. A riot of dark wool, glossy boots, nasally voices. And vases, too—bunches of flowers, riotous in their color, covered every surface that wasn’t draped with male callers.
Too late, Michael realized he should have brought some sort of nosegay with him. But he couldn’t back out and return with flowers; already everyone in the room had swiveled toward the doorway to regard the new arrival. Their expressions held all the suspicion of schoolboys scrutinizing a student who arrived in the middle of term.
Michael was fairly certain his would-be smile had turned into a grimace. “Good afternoon,” he said.
At the center of the room sat Caroline, fair and tranquil amidst the sordid jostlings of her callers. “Wyverne!” she called out. “How good of you to come. And I’m glad you remembered what I said about the flowers.”
“Hmm,” he replied noncommittally, having no idea to what she referred.
“You aren’t getting tired of flowers, are you?” A young man turned dark, worried eyes to Caroline. “I didn’t know.”
“Not at all, Bart.” Caroline spoon-fed the youthful swain a bright smile. “I adore daisies. So cheery, aren’t they?”
She drew a fingertip over a thin, white petal; as the flower bounced back, pollen scattered across her lacquer-topped table. “His Grace has promised me a special bloom that grows only in Lancashire. He brought the seeds with him to London, and if they blossom, I shall have the only coquelicot carnation in the entire City.”
She dimpled in her delight, and the so-called Bart who had looked pleased about his daisies now appeared crestfallen.
“Will you, now?” One of a pair of identically dressed dandies raised his brows and shot a cautious look at Michael. His thumb dandled a snuffbox, tracing its enameled top. “I should like to see it once it’s in flower. I hope it will do you justice, Caro.”
Since he had just been transformed into a botanist, Michael felt as though he ought to contribute something to the conversation. “It will not.”
His voice rang like a slap through the room, and the dandy—his shirt points starched so high he could hardly turn his head—allowed an amused smile to creep over his features.
Michael lifted his chin, ignoring the pressure at his temples, and tried for one of those Galahad comments. “There is no bloom that could do justice to Lady Stratton.”
Wait. That didn’t help. He had just dismissed the elaborate offerings brought by all the callers, hadn’t he? Indeed, the other men shifted in their chairs. If Michael were a ship captain, he would have a mutiny on his hands soon.
“Though these are very nice.” He nodded at a random vase in a random part of the room.
Caroline looked as though she was trying not to smile. “I did allow you to call me Caro, if you’ll recall. And thank you for the compliment, Wyverne. I’ve no doubt that anything you turn your hand to will come to fruition, or in this case, to blossom. Why,” she addressed the other callers, “he’s making the very moors bloom. Did you know that?”
The two dandies turned to Michael, blinking at him like cravat-choked bookends. “Yes, of course,” faltered the one who had not yet spoken. “In Yorkshire, isn’t it?”
“Lancashire,” Michael corrected. Dimly, he wondered why Caroline knew so much about his determination to stretch rich fingertips of farmland onto the stark moors of his dukedom.
A fourth caller spoke up now, a man with a thin, dark face and plainly tailored clothing. “I’ve never heard of such a flower. Is it a new cross-breeding?” To Michael, his question seemed to hold more satirical disbelief than polite interest.
Michael nodded. “Indeed. It is a very recent creation.” Two minutes ago.
“Do sit, please, Wyverne.” Caroline indicated a chair several feet away from the other callers. “Draw that seat wherever you wish. There’s tea if you’d care for some refreshment.”
She reached for a silver bell, but Michael forestalled her with a shake of his head. He was willing to stand aside until these foolish callers melted away, taking their fuss and noise with them. Until then, there was no sense in the infliction of compulsory niceties.
He sat down in the inconspicuous chair, not far from the dark-faced man. “Wyverne,” Michael said by way of introduction.
“So I gathered.” Again, the man wore a damnable look of humor, as if everything was altogether too amusing for words. “It is an honor to meet you, Your Grace. I am Josiah Everett. Just plain mister.”
Michael inclined his head. At this slight shift in posture, his chair creaked.
Hmm. A creak? He wasn’t that heavy. He gave the thin, gilded arms a shake, and one of them pulled loose from the seat.
It might be as simple as a peg that had come unseated, or it might need a few nails. The drawing room was littered with chairs like this one; Caro would undoubtedly wish to have it repaired to preserve the set.
Michael slid from the seat, knelt on the floor, and laid the chair on its back facing him. Ah, there was the problem; the carefully fitted pegs holding the arm in place had pulled loose. No doubt the old wood had dried and shrunk.
“Another casualty of the endless winter,” he muttered. “Even the chairs feel the cold in their bones.” More loudly, he said, “Everett, please get me a nail or two. Long enough to pass through this piece of wood. Do you see? And a small hammer.”
When Everett didn’t reply at once, Michael looked up at him, impatient. “Come now. It’ll only take a moment to set this chair to rights.”
Then he noticed that Everett’s face had lost its look of humor; instead, he appeared bemused. And then Michael noticed that the room had gone quiet.
So quiet that he dimly heard Caro tell a servant, “Please fetch whatever His Grace requires.” And then the whispering began, as nearly a dozen men felt the need to communicate their opinions at once.
Oh, damn. He shouldn’t have tried to repair the chair, should he? At least, not with other callers here. Though it seemed senseless not to take care of a minor repair as soon as one saw the need.
He hoisted himself from the carpeted floor and stood behind the prone chair. Keeping his gaze lofty, high above the heads of the other callers, he ignored them, though their stares made his skin prickle, and their voices rang in his ears.
When a footman returned with a hammer and a handful of assorted nails, Michael explained the necessary repair, then permitted the man to exchange the rickety chair for a more solid one.
Did the footman know which was the right size of nail to use? Would he bother to fix the chair at all? Michael’s fingers itched to take the hammer from him, to perform the repair himself. He’d know it was done right then, and he wouldn’t have to think about it anymore.
But he wasn’t in Lancashire, amidst his holdings; he was in London. And it was Caro’s business whether her chairs were solid or falling to pieces.
A headache tapped at his temples, a warning pressure as of tiny nails being driven into wood. Michael sank into the new seat at Everett’s side. “I beg your pardon.”
“No need.” Everett’s look of humor had returned. “You’ve given them something to talk about besides their own clothing. And you’ve left your mark on this house in a way that none who brings a bunch of posies does.”
“Ah, but I shall bring a coquelicot carnation too.” Michael would have rolled his eyes if it would not have given away the deception. Between Caro’s deception and his own blunder, he would have all London convinced of his eccentricity before the day was out.
Everett grinned, quite undeceived. “An offering that clearly holds great value to Caro.”
Though their lowered voices could not possibly have reached Caroline, she turned her head in their direction and shot Everett a wink. A wink.
Michael might as well be a Bow Street runner, trying to sort out a tangle of motives from an uncooperative mob. He always felt thus in society. “Mr. Everett, I have no idea what our hostess values.”
Certainly not a lofty title or the stretching lands of a dukedom. Perhaps nothing more nor less than the hearts of the male half of the beau monde. If so, no single man could possibly please her.
“If anyone could divine that, she would be snapped up again in marriage.” Everett gave an elaborate sigh. “Alas, a mere mister such as I has no chance at her hand. I must work for my bread and can spare only an hour here or there to visit this foreign world. It is as entertaining as an evening at the theater and far more economical.” He turned his head, lifting his chin. “Shall I aspire to fashion? Do you think I could achieve collar points like our dear dress-alikes?”
“Perhaps if you used a wire framework.” Michael’s answering smile felt strained. “Though you are incorrect in your assumption about Lady Str—Caro. She doesn’t care about rank.”
“Only because she has a fair degree of it already,” replied Everett. “It’s easy to scorn that which one possesses. But it doesn’t mean one doesn’t wish to continue possessing it.” He looked aslant at Michael. “For example. You wouldn’t wish to join me among the ranks of the mere misters, would you? As a man of business to a baron who hardly admits I am his cousin?”
“Naturally not, though I do not mean to offend you. But I have never scorned my title. I am accustomed to a life in which people rely on me.”
His headache tightened like a vise; only then did Michael realize it had relaxed for a few moments.
“If you were a mere mister,” said Everett, “no one would rely on you, though. Except your landlady on rent day. And your tailor, such as he is.” He pulled a face, tugging at his simple neckcloth.
“And your employer.”
Everett shrugged. “I haven’t yet managed to convince him of that fact.”
“I cannot imagine living such a different sort of life,” Michael replied.
“A pity,” sighed Everett. “You won’t trade positions with me, then? I rather fancy a duke’s life.”
“It’s not all luxury.” Michael regarded his own dark blue superfine coat dubiously. His name still carried enough weight with tradesmen that he had been able to kit himself out in style, though the fashionable garb seemed overly elaborate. He would much rather clad himself in something rough, warm, and comfortable for striding around his lands, inspecting the progress of improvements.
He realized Everett was scrutinizing him again. “What?”
“I’ve heard much about you. It’s interesting to meet you, Your Grace.”
“I can only imagine what you’ve heard. Rest assured, nothing but the most pressing of business would have brought me to London.”
“And to Caro’s drawing room?”
Michael hesitated. “Also business.” Everett was prying, but Michael didn’t mind his questions. The man managed curiosity without animosity, a welcome combination.
“I wish you good fortune,” the dark young man said. “Though I think we all hope for a bit of good fortune when we come to Caro’s drawing room. Her beauty brings all of society together.”
Caro again. It still struck Michael as strange that she allowed this familiarity to so many—and that Everett spoke of her with admiration, yet not the smallest expectation. She made herself accessible yet unreachable, all at once.
Yes, she was a surprise.
“I don’t care about her beauty.” Liar. “That is, I am not in attendance because of her appearance.”
Just then, the Earl of Stratton—that presumptuous fellow who had pestered Caroline the night before—bowed his way into the room, half hidden by a bundle of flowers as lush as flesh, their fragrance so heady Michael wondered if the earl had doused them with perfume.
If the man wanted for money, he could certainly have economized by not bringing such an extravagant bouquet.
Michael watched Caroline for her reaction. Did she still hold a grudge against the earl for harassing her at the Applewood ball?
“Stratton,” she said. “Welcome. I’m as delighted as ever to see you.”
“These are for you.” Stratton tumbled his heavy burden into Caroline’s lap. A spike of gladiolus slapped her cheek.
“How lovely.” She craned her neck over the lapful of flowers. “Hambleton, if you would ring for a maid? I think these must go in one of the great urns in the corridor.”
Obligingly, one of the bookend dandies jangled the silver bell, and Caroline handed the armful to a wide-eyed maid. Stratton frowned as his flowers were marched out of the room.
So she did hold the earl in disfavor. Michael felt as gratified as if he’d done something far more heroic for her than stand under a lantern and allow her to grab his arm. “The peace offering declined,” he murmured.
“Indeed,” Everett said, equally low. “The villain, such as he is, vanquished. Poor fellow.”
Michael’s mouth twitched. Everett was turning out to be amusing company, especially when he directed his observations away from Michael.
This desire to observe seemed to be what had split Everett from the remainder of the callers—whether by his doing or theirs, Michael knew not. But it made sense to Michael to do the same. He could search for clues about Caroline: why she had offered to help him; what she thought of him.
His eyes needed training in the subtle rules of society, just as they had once learned to interpret an engineer’s mechanical drawings. Already, Michael had forgotten an essential component: a bouquet. And the fact that one ought not to flip the furniture upside down.
But people had fewer moving parts than the simplest of machines. It should be possible to understand them, inscrutable though they seemed now. Trevithick’s steam engines had seemed mysterious too, until Michael familiarized himself with their inner workings.
“Gracious,” said Caroline as Stratton began to nudge himself onto her settee. “Can it really be quarter of four?”
A dozen hands reached for fobs, drew out pocket watches. Unnecessary. A mantel clock squatted within sight.
“Yes, it can be,” Michael said. “As of five minutes ago, it was forty past the hour.”
Caroline shot him a look, though he thought she smiled faintly. Then she began a flurry of graceful fidgeting, nudging dainty embroidered cushions, and smoothing her gown. “I am dreadfully sorry, you dear men, but I’ve an appointment I simply can’t miss. I do hate to end our time together.”
Her mouth was not a pout, but something much better. It showed not childish disappointment, but regret. And promise.
Michael had not known a mouth could say so much without uttering a word.
The other men obeyed the command to depart, bowing, babbling their promises of invitation, jostling one another as they tried for one last look at their queen.
Michael waited, and when the eddy of departing callers began to trickle away, he aimed a bow in Caroline’s direction and trod toward the door. Wondering why he had come only to lie about a foolishly named flower, then make a fool of himself in turn. He understood no more about Caroline’s offer than when he’d come.
Whap. Something heavy and soft struck him between the shoulder blades.
Michael turned. Caroline smiled at him and tossed a small embroidered cushion from hand to hand. Its twin lay on the floor at Michael’s feet.
“So sorry, Wyverne,” she said. “It must have slipped from my grasp. Do stay and I shall have a maid brush your coat.”
To Michael’s right, the last of the candied callers was thundering down the stairs to the ground floor.
He was left alone with Caro, then. “You did that on purpose.”
“Of course I did. Don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to hit a duke with a pillow.”
He considered. The only other duke he had known well was his father. “Not with a pillow, no.”
Caroline retrieved her embroidered missile from the floor, then pounded it into place among a litter of similar cushions on her long settee. “Did you enjoy mingling with society again, Wyverne? I am honored—or maybe you should be honored—to have you encounter the cream of London’s bachelor society in my drawing room.”
“They remind me of tame animals, actually. Puppies.” Michael wanted to pace and shake out his feet. Instead, he lifted each booted heel and planted them firmly on the patterned carpet.
Rather than look insulted, Caroline grinned. “There is nothing at all wrong in playing with puppies.” Michael snorted, and Caroline laughed. “You’re not the first to call them puppies. The other was my cousin and companion, on whose judgment I always relied.”
“Past tense?”
“Not exactly. I still love her dearly, but she married and ran off to a quiet little town outside London. It is the one decision she made that I could ever fault—not her marriage, which was wonderful, but her decision to leave the City.” A rueful expression crossed her face. “Anyway, it’s strange that you should use the same word for my callers. If I am not careful, I may find myself asking you for advice, as I did Frances.”
Michael’s mind tumbled with silks and slippers and lacy unmentionables. “It would hardly be appropriate for me to advise you as your lady’s companion did.”
“Honestly, Wyverne. I wouldn’t ask you which bonnet went best with a certain frock, as I did my dear cousin. But if I wanted to know which shipping company was the most likely to guarantee me a return on my investment—”
“East India has locked up the trade in tea for the time being. The company is England’s most certain investment right now, outside of the Funds.” He blinked. “Oh. Is that what you meant? The manly sort of advice?”
“Well said. Yes. No one expects you to know how a woman lives in a man’s world, Wyverne, only how a man lives. Knowledge such as yours could make you a leader in society if you wished.”
“God forbid.”
“It needn’t go that far. But if you don’t know the answer to a question, you can always act offended that the question was put to you in the first place. No one will think less of a duke for having a poker up his backside. In fact, it’s almost expected.”
Michael’s head reared back. “I beg your pardon.”
“Perfect.” Caroline looked delighted. “That is exactly the tone of voice I meant. Now, if you could contrive to look down your nose slightly?”
Michael tilted his chin up thirty degrees. His eyes crossing over the bridge of his nose, he located Caroline’s smiling face. It was hard not to smile back, to keep his voice chilly as he repeated, “I beg your pardon.”
She shrugged. “Fair, fair. It’ll take practice. It’s only a shield, anyway. One of those things to say when you can’t think of anything to say.”
“Do you have such shields too?”
She considered. “I’m as delighted as ever to see you?”
The words she had used to greet Stratton. How had she greeted Michael himself? He couldn’t remember right now. Nor was he sure why she had offered to help him, or kept him after her other callers departed—or when they might talk about his impending marriage.
So he barked, as he always did when his thoughts began to spiral fruitlessly. “What, pray tell, is a coquelicot carnation? Is it some joke upon me?”
“It is not a joke, but an excuse,” Caroline said. “So that my callers would envy your foresight, rather than feeling superior to you for its lack.”
“Do you require blooms as payment for your company? What is the significance of a gift if it is required?”
Caroline’s eyes went glass-hard. “I require nothing, Wyverne. What flowers my callers choose to bring are just that: their choice. But there is an unspoken rule in society that a gentleman brings a gift when he calls on a lady. If you dislike the idea of flowers, sweetmeats are also acceptable.” She paused, then softened. “Such gifts are for the sake of appearances, like changing one’s clothing before dinner. In themselves, these acts may have little meaning, but they prove that one knows the rules of society.”
Ah. Those unspoken rules. They had been beaten into him throughout his youth, but they wouldn’t stay. His mind sieved them out like tiny herrings, holding fast to the meatier subjects of engineering, accounting, agriculture.
She did not deserve his harshness; she was only following the rules. And he should too, until he had captured a wife. “I will bring a gift next time I call.”
Caroline waved a careless hand. “There is no need, Wyverne. Simply tell everyone how well your coquelicot carnation is growing and postpone its delivery date, and I believe you will skate by on its uniqueness.”
She meant to help him. Had helped him in a tiny way. His mouth opened and closed, not wanting to grant a thank you for something as small as falsifying a flower.
“Please call me Michael,” was what came out instead.
She popped up from her recline. “May I? How extraordinary.”
Michael splayed his fingers as he’d seen other gentlemen do and studied the buff on his fingernails. To the smallest detail, his valet had turned him out properly for a man of high society. Now his hands looked strangely decorative, as if they were no longer meant to be used.
“I would not have thought you would be surprised by this type of familiarity, since you grant it so often yourself.” He tried to speak lightly. He was not successful.
“The world has trimmed us from very different cloth. I do not expect you to tailor your behavior to mine, Michael.” A pause, as she tasted his name on her lips for the first time. He wondered if she recognized that such familiarity from him was a gift far more significant than a bouquet.
“We might not be so different, Caro,” he replied. “We made a pact together, after all. We must want the same things.”
“For you to find a rich wife? Truly, it has been my ambition in life this past decade.” She toyed with a silken cushion tassel, her ripe mouth curved.
Michael frowned. “I didn’t ask for your assistance. You offered it, which you needn’t have.”
“I did. I mustn’t tease you, Michael. I know you don’t like it.” Caroline looked contrite.
“You may act in the manner of your choosing.”
“Of course I may, you dratted duke. You needn’t give me permission to speak my mind in my own home. I’m trying to be gracious, that’s all.”
He drew a chair near the settee and seated himself facing Caroline. “It is hardly gracious to call me a dratted duke, you know.”
She grinned. “There’s that ducal voice again. Well done. And you’re right, I shouldn’t have said that. In the privacy of my own home, I do tend to, ah, relax the proprieties.”
Michael could not imagine why her cheeks flushed, but the effect was lovely against her golden hair and the grass-green of her gown. Heat shuddered through his body, and he folded his arms tightly against it.
“To return to the matter at hand,” Caroline said, “propriety is exactly what we are concerned with. Namely, finding you a wife. A respectable one with pots of money. Need she be pretty as well?”
Michael only stared at fair hair, translucent skin, the curve of pink lips.
His mouth felt dry, his throat scratchy. A warning tap began in his head: answer. But he didn’t know the answer. His hands fell to his sides, then found the frail arms of his chair and clasped at them as if they were oars on a lifeboat.
Caroline spoke on. “We can but try for it. I’ve thought of three possibilities. None of them titled, of course.”
“Why of course?”
Caroline dropped the silk tassel she had been marring. “Because the ton thinks you mad. Despite the lure of your title, they’ll be reluctant to ally their blue-blooded daughters to a line that might be tainted. You will do better seeking a wife in a family that wants to move up in the polite world. They’re more willing to overlook eccentricity.”
“Of course,” Michael echoed.
So, it was just as Sanders had warned him. As his own father had predicted so long ago. Now he must find a wife who would marry him despite.
Caro tapped his arm. “Michael, I don’t mean to offend you.”
“You have not.” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “I know that you are quite right.”
“Money is what you need, not blue blood. If blood alone would answer your creditors’ demands, you could tap yours and sell it by the tablespoon.”
“That is gruesome.”
“Merely practical,” Caroline said. “I know you’re here for the sake of your dukedom and your tenants. And I am guessing you would rather bleed yourself dry than fritter about London unnecessarily.”
“Perhaps not entirely dry.” He tried to smile. To his surprise, he was successful.
“I believe by the time your courtship is completed, no one will think you anything but sane. More than sane, even. Brilliant. There’s a fine line between genius and madness, you know, and the line can be easily bridged by coin.”
The same notion had once occurred to him. “You think I can buy my sanity, then?”
“I have no doubt that you have always had it. The polite world has simply misinterpreted it. Having a full purse will encourage the ton to reevaluate you more generously. It made all the difference for me.”
He huffed. “You were never scorned by society.”
“As you have been away for eleven years, you cannot know what my life has been.” She gave him a cool smile. “Now, are you ready to hear about the young women I have identified?”
Again, Michael’s grip on the arms of his chair tightened. If Caroline’s voice had taken on the slightest tinge of pity or relish as she referred to his speckled character, he would have left her house at once. But she simply shrugged it off, as though a reputation for madness mattered little more than a reputation for overspending one’s quarterly allowance. She thought him sane; she offered her aid; she was confident of success.
She did not view him as someone damaged, after all.
The realization was freeing: he felt light and grounded at once, ready to do what was required of him not only as a duty, but with pleasure.
Though his duty and his pleasure had nothing to do with flaxen hair, with scandalous offers and floral figments. This was a matter of business.
The idea of trusting anyone, especially Caroline, was… unprecedented. But Michael was not averse to the unprecedented. If he had been, he would not have dredged his money into canals and boiled it away with steam power. And she certainly knew the business of society much better than he. It was quite logical to consult an expert.
His hands relaxed. “Very well. I would be grateful for your help. When shall we start?”
Her cool smile turned warm. “As soon as possible, Michael. Tonight.”