Michael soon learned that Caroline was as good as her word. That evening, she spirited him off to a small dinner party at the home of her friends, the Earl and Countess of Tallant.
In Tallant House’s gilt-papered drawing room, Caroline made the introductions. Their young hostess beamed at Michael. “I’ve been eager to make your acquaintance, Your Grace. Though we’ve never met, Caroline has mentioned you many times.”
This was interesting information. “Has she? What has she said?”
Lady Tallant laughed. A woman of about Michael’s and Caroline’s age, she had warm auburn hair, a lovely face, and a mischievous smile. “I probably ought not to have said that. Now you’ll be miffed with me—or with Caroline. Oh, do choose her, because no one is ever offended by her.”
“I find that hard to believe.” Michael shook his head. “No. Pardon. I mean, I find that easy to believe.”
Lady Tallant beamed at him. “Truth and tact? We shall get along famously.”
Caroline pulled a face. “Emily, hush. You will make His Grace uncomfortable.”
“Not at all.” Michael realized he sounded hideously uncomfortable.
“Oh dear.” Lady Tallant looked penitent. “I assure you, Your Grace, I meant only to make Caroline uncomfortable. But she is the most hardheaded creature in the world. I simply cannot discomfit her.”
“That is a marvelous gift.” Michael could not imagine the blessed buoyancy of a life in which nothing discomfited him.
“Indeed it is,” Caroline agreed. “I endeavor to provoke Emily into shocking impropriety for my own amusement, and she tries to do the same to me.”
“I shall never triumph,” sighed their hostess. “Tallant becomes so worried when I am—”
“Worrisome?” Caroline gave her friend a brilliant smile. “Speaking of impropriety, Michael, let us take on its opposite. There is someone you simply must meet.”
Lady Tallant raised her brows. “Michael? Is this a courtesy title or a discourtesy?”
“It is a privilege with which His Grace has honored me, and I am grateful for it. There’s no need to be such a harpy, Emily.”
Their hostess laughed and waved them off as if harpy was the fondest of endearments—which, in Caroline’s buttery voice, it might as well be. Lord and Lady Tallant seemed to be friends of such long standing that they permitted Caroline every trespass, whether a small one like teasing them or a larger social sin such as bringing an extra gentleman to an intimate dinner party with very little notice.
The other guests had clotted, small bunches of stares, blinks, whispers. Were they whispering about him? Or merely reluctant to have a stranger overhear their conversation?
Michael’s throat felt parched.
Caroline spoke low in his ear. “Tonight you’ll meet the first maiden who might suit you, a possible future Her Grace the Duchess of Wyverne. Do come and I’ll introduce you.” Instead of slipping her hand into the crook of his arm, she simply glided away. No touching.
Thoughtful of her.
So the mad duke’s bride hunt began. He followed Caroline to a pair of women, both of whom greeted her as though they knew her well. One was as tall as Caro herself, with steely-colored curls and a gown that seemed to have been ornamented by a lunatic, all flounces and beads and lace and pearls and spangles.
Fortunately, his potential intended was the other lady.
Caroline presented lunatic-gown-woman as Mrs. Weatherby and the young woman at her side as Miss Weatherby; then she stepped on Michael’s foot.
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Weatherby,” Michael began dutifully. “Do you enjoy London?”
Miss Weatherby appeared to be about twenty years of age. A kitten of a maid, she was small and rounded, softly pretty, with a cloud of light brown hair and Wedgwood-blue eyes. Her little hands kneaded the golden handle of her reticule; she looked both delighted and frightened at once. “I do.”
Even Michael, thick though he might be at reading social cues, could not miss the force with which her mother jabbed Miss Weatherby in the ribs.
She squeaked, then looked wide-eyed at her mother. Mrs. Weatherby cleared her throat, then flashed a dazzling smile in Michael’s direction.
“I. Um.” Miss Weatherby made another squeaking sound.
Meow, thought Michael. He wondered if he ought to offer her a bowl of milk or a herring.
No, that was unkind. She had already managed to speak four words to him, which was more than most women he’d encountered at Lady Applewood’s recent ball.
He tried to look solicitous. Some sort of trick with raised eyebrows—that was what people usually did when they were interested.
“I, um, live here the year round,” managed Miss Weatherby. “My father is a banker, so he always has business to attend to in London.”
Weatherby. Like a gear, the name clicked in Michael’s head.
Clever Caroline. He had not made the connection before, but Weatherby was one of the creditors who held Michael’s estate in his golden grip. He would certainly relax it if Michael married his daughter.
What was the fair rate of exchange to transform a cit into a duchess? Was the price affected by the supposed madness of the duke?
He rather thought it was. Mrs. Weatherby was scrutinizing him, probably wondering if he was going to gibber and froth at the mouth. Though she prodded her daughter to speak more, he still had to impress the matron of the family. He must act rigidly, predictably, undeniably sane.
“How nice for you.” He smiled. Both Weatherby women recoiled.
Ah. Perhaps he had displayed too many teeth. He closed his lips; Miss Weatherby still looked wary.
For the life of him, he could not think what to say to her next. He only knew that he must not offer her a herring. It would be a disaster.
“His Grace,” chimed in Caroline, “has not been in London for quite some years. Miss Weatherby, perhaps you might tell him of some of your favorite shops and sites to visit.”
“I would be pleased to hear it.” Michael could not mistake a cue handed to him with such plainness.
“Oh, you must begin with Bond Street, then,” began Miss Weatherby. Slowly at first, then with increasing breathlessness, she recited a list of milliners and modistes and mantua makers.
Surely the girl did not really think he cared who made her dresses, but just as his jaw tightened, he caught sight of Mrs. Weatherby’s gimlet eye again.
He must smile. Not too many teeth. No teeth; yes. And nod every few sentences to show her how interested he was.
This choreography was sufficiently complex that he lost the thread of conversation. When the three women stared at him, he realized he was nodding into silence and had evidently missed some question.
The too-familiar headache gave a gleeful chuckle and made itself at home.
Michael squared his shoulders, then looked down his nose as he had at Caroline’s house. Reminding Mrs. Weatherby that he was a duke, and rumors of madness or no, he had the right to cease attending to an inane conversation if he chose to. “I beg your pardon, Miss Weatherby. What were you saying?”
She flushed, cast her eyes down. “I asked if you intended to stay in London long, Your Grace.”
“Yes.” His voice sounded hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yes, I imagine I’ll be here for a while. Circumstances require my presence here for the time being.”
“Do they, Your Grace? And what are those circumstances?” Mrs. Weatherby spoke in a voice of slate: hard and flat and carefully expensive. Michael felt each word like a blow against his skull, and again he lost the thread of conversation.
“His Grace is most dedicated to the management of his estates,” Caroline replied. “As you are no doubt aware, Mrs. Weatherby, some matters of business can best be transacted in London, which is truly the financial heart of England.”
She beamed at Mrs. Weatherby, and the older woman’s mouth opened, closed, and then slitted open again to allow the words, “Of course, my lady,” to spill forth.
Clever, clever Caroline. A subtle compliment at just the right time. Michael was having more difficulty than he had expected placing himself on the auction block, allowing himself to be judged and priced and judged again.
At least he did not have to do it alone.
Gratefully, his fingers found Caroline’s where they wrapped around the handle of her fan, and he brushed them with his. Just a slight touch. A thanks.
She shivered, perhaps because of the wispiness of her red gown’s bodice. Not warm enough for the cool evening. Summer had passed London by, just as it had Lancashire.
“How many estates have you, Wyverne?” Caroline asked idly, turning to him. “I know they occupy much of your time. Are there five?”
“Six properties.” The floor seemed steadier beneath his feet at the very thought. “That is, five estates besides the house in Town. Though I spend the bulk of my time at the dukedom’s seat in Lancashire.”
“It is beautiful in the north of England,” Caroline said. “Miss Weatherby, have you traveled much in that area?”
“I went to, um, Cumberland as a girl,” replied the maiden. “Never Lancashire, though. What is it like?”
A question Michael could answer, at small or great length. His aching head was soothed; his tongue unlocked, free and glib, for the first time this evening. “It is like no other part of the world that I have seen. It is quiet and stark, and a man’s living must be broken from the moorland. It’s an honor to set one’s will against the earth, then negotiate a peace with it.”
As he spoke, Caroline excused herself and slipped from his side.
Well, Michael could not reasonably hope that she would stand six inches away from him all evening. So, clearly, he was being unreasonable in his disappointment.
For he realized: her work was done. She had built the foundation of this conversation, and now it remained only for Michael to complete the structure. She had created it in a form she knew he would like—reminding the Weatherby women of the grandeur of his title, settling on a topic of conversation he would enjoy.
And then she had gone to the side of a tall, fashionably dressed young man. Now she was laughing, putting a hand on his arm, and he was grinning back at her with a knowing smile—the smile of a man who enjoyed touching.
Michael could not help but remember how Caroline had rested her fingers on his arm, how the caress had tested him to distraction. Or today, how he had brushed her fingers with his, then pulled away. Such was the limit of his intimacy.
Life would be so much easier if he were someone else. Someone who always knew what to say. How to flirt and persuade people. Who didn’t have a dukedom to take care of.
Easier, but to what end? He was Michael John Wythe Layward, Duke of Wyverne, Marquess of Vaughan, Earl of Beaumont, Baron Lumley, responsible for the well-being of thousands. With his weighty titles came responsibilities just as heavy.
So be it. There was only one thing to say.
“May I see you in to dinner, Miss Weatherby?”
***
By the time the men finished consuming their port and tobacco, Michael thought enough time must have passed for a journey to the moon by ox cart.
Two courses had been served—a rich array to Michael’s eyes, since left to his own devices, he ignored mealtimes. When his stomach’s rumblings grew too distracting, he simply grabbed for whatever food was available. But Lady Tallant set forth for her guests a soup, fish, and roasted beef, then removed them for creamed vegetables and fowls. Everything was perfectly cooked, beautifully seasoned, artfully presented—and this was but a small party of friends. The effort and expense involved in larger entertainments must be staggering.
Michael struggled through conversation with Miss Weatherby and her mother, returning to Lancashire whenever topics flagged. He could not tell whether they were truly interested or just being polite. It didn’t matter; it was a comfort to talk of the land he loved so well, where he seemed to have left such a large part of himself.
When dessert was served, Lady Tallant apologized over the fare. “Our cook couldn’t find any fruit today for love or money, and she assured me she tried both. At least the cold weather permits the transport of ices, or we should have to content ourselves with chewing on the candles.”
Lady Tallant atoned for the lack of fruits by offering her guests an assortment of sweetened ices from the ever-fashionable Gunter’s, located not far from Tallant House in Berkeley Square. Her husband at once took a large serving and spooned the frozen confection into his mouth with the glee of a child.
Michael accepted a delicate pink ice, which he realized to his dismay was flavored with rosewater. He consumed it in small bites, nodding in response to whatever Miss Weatherby happened to exclaim over in her kittenish voice. And thinking.
So, there was no fruit for a countess in London. A subtle reminder of the famine wracking so much of Europe in this cold year. England had been more lightly gripped by hunger, but it was a small solace—and a small agony—to know that even the richest nobles in the nation’s greatest city felt the chill of unnatural winter too.
The meal at last completed, Michael endured another round of distracted nodding as the men chatted over port until Lord Tallant deemed it appropriate to rejoin the ladies. Michael followed the other men into the drawing room, wondering if he could pen a letter to his steward. Surely Tallant had a writing desk somewhere. Michael hadn’t written to Sanders for an entire day, and he kept thinking of new things he wanted to tell the man. Sanders might not remember which tenants’ roofs needed repair, and he would have no idea from where to order materials.
Michael’s fault, perhaps. Over the years, he had tugged charge after charge from his steward’s control. But it was necessary to make sure everything went perfectly, as he sought to undo the damage his father had wrought. Michael trusted no one as much as he trusted himself.
“Your Grace? Would you care to make up a hand of whist?” Lady Tallant asked. “Do say yes, or I shall have to partner my husband, and he has the most abominable memory. I shall be impoverished if I am forced to rely on him.”
Lord Tallant’s mild countenance looked wounded. “Em, I always replace the pin money you lose.”
“True, and that’s very dear of you, Jemmy. Though as there are only four suits, one would think you could recall which was trump.”
“We could try writing it down,” the earl suggested. “I’m sure I could remember it if I could only look at a note.”
Michael seized the opening. “Do you have paper and pen here? Allow me, Tallant.”
“But, Your Grace, surely you would prefer a game?”
“Call me Wyverne, please,” Michael said. “There is no need for greater ceremony. And I would be delighted to encourage harmony between husband and wife. You might write down the suit; then there’s a letter I’d like to dash off.”
That sounded almost carefree. In truth, he felt almost carefree. The prospect of disgorging a list of responsibilities onto paper was calming him. His fingers twitched not from tension but from eagerness to hold a pen.
After giving Lady Tallant pen and paper, which she used to inscribe the word hearts and slide it in front of her husband’s fistful of cards, Michael retrieved the writing implements and returned to a desk at one side of the capacious drawing room.
At once, his tangled thoughts began to flow as smoothly as ink from his pen.
First, there were the tenants’ roofs to mind; then he wanted a report on the weather: temperature, snowfall, rainfall, everything. And on the state of the harvest, such as it was. Ordinarily the flax would be stretching tall in the fields now; this year, the plants were stunted by frost and starved for sun. With few crops to harvest and sell, Michael would have to buy food to help his tenants through the lean months. Unless, miraculously, the winter relaxed its grip.
Michael was past hoping for a miracle, which meant he had yet another reason to strike up a flirtation with Miss Weatherby.
He bent over his paper, shutting out that thought, the other guests, the room, London. He thought only of what needed to be done in his absence from Lancashire, scribbling lists and questions and reminders. Since Michael had come to London, he had heard from Sanders distressingly seldom. Only often enough to be told that, since Michael had come to London, Sanders was no longer dogged by the dukedom’s creditors.
If Michael had lost their faith through his supposed madness, he was regaining it now by joining in the season. Incontrovertible evidence in favor of his sanity.
He signed his name with more than usual force.
The letter done, his awareness expanded again—out from the paper before him, back to the drawing room of Tallant House, lamplit against the night, its gilt wallpaper burnished and quietly rich. The soft carpet and furnishings blunted the laughter of the card players.
And then there was Caroline, who stood near a wide fireplace with a painted glass screen. She was talking to that tall young man again. A Baron Hart, if Michael remembered correctly. Hart had fashionably tousled dark hair and a languid, confident bearing. He looked at ease. He looked like he belonged with Caroline.
And apparently Michael belonged by himself. Letter complete, there was nothing for him to do but meander around the edges of the drawing room.
He ought to make his way toward Miss Weatherby to advance his suit. Though how much more the young lady ought to be expected to hear about Lancashire, he couldn’t guess.
For the moment, she was still playing cards. Her soft features looked gentle and pliant in the forgiving lamplight. Once she chose her next card, her eyes found Michael, and her lips trembled before her gaze returned to her cards again.
Was that a look of excitement or of apprehension? Was the offer of a dukedom not enough when it came tied to a duke’s hand in marriage? To his hand?
His head pounded in the rhythm of these words. His dinner became uneasy in his stomach. The chicken fricassee pecked and fluttered at his insides; the beef pounded at him with heavy hooves. He swallowed hard.
He needed a trick to distract himself. He could master his body by waking his mind. Pulling in deep breaths through his nose, he looked around the room. The usual litter of amusements: books, newspapers, periodicals, a pianoforte.
And on it, a lamp.
A Carcel lamp.
He squinted at it to make sure he was not mistaken. Yes, so it was: the glass globe sat atop a sturdy bronze base, its reservoir of fuel tucked away, hidden.
His dinner became food again, and his head ceased its pounding meter. A Carcel lamp. Marvelous.
He had wanted one for years, but they were hard to come by. Lancashire shops refused to carry them because they were so delicate and complex, and every lamp Michael had ordered from London had arrived broken. They had an ingenious clockwork mechanism in the base, a pump that forced oil up into the wick. A great improvement over the old Argands that still cast their shadow-marred, top-heavy lights in every room of Callows, his Lancashire seat.
He could have fixed the shipments of Carcels, of course, if he had ever examined an unbroken one and understood how their delicate inner workings fit together.
Hmm.
Like a moth, he was pulled to the light of the lamp. He removed its globe-shaped shade, forgetting everything except the hot little flame at his fingertips.